Still Just a Geek, page 16
It was just awful. There was some forced laughter, almost like a half-hearted laugh track, but that was it. When the first scene was finished, I flipped over the top page of my sides and started the second scene.
“Jenny, I thought—” I said, before I was interrupted by one of the executives behind the table.
“Oh, we’re just doing the first scene today,” he said. “Thank you.”
Boy, it took your hero David over twenty minutes to do “just the first scene today”! He must have been really slow. Or maybe you’re just full of shit.
“Wait,” I said. “I prepared four scenes. I spent three days preparing four scenes, and didn’t go on vacation with my wife and stepkids so I could come in here and give you this audition. I’ve been working my ass off to give you this performance, and even though I can tell that you’re not interested in me at all, I’m going to fucking do this, okay? I have a twenty-five-year career behind me, including a performance in an Academy Award–nominated film, and that counts for something. So why don’t you all just lighten the fuck up, and respect the fact that I came in here to do this stupid song and dance for your noncreative asses!”
Well, that’s not exactly true. I said something more like, “Oh. Well, thanks for seeing me,” and I walked out of the room.
Sean looked up from his sides and asked me how it went.
“Not so good,” I said, grimly. “I’ve set the bar nice and low for you.”
“Sorry, man,” he said.
“Meh. Whatever.”
The office door opened. “Sean? We’re ready for you.”
“Hey, call me next week, okay?” Sean said.
“I will,” I said. “Break a leg!”
“Thanks.”
He walked into the room. “This is Sean Astin,” the casting director said. A chorus of happy voices greeted him as the door closed.
I gave the best audition I could under the circumstances, but I was furious when I left, as much at myself as I was at them. I violently crumpled my sides into a ball, and slammed them into the first trash can I found. By the time I got to my car, I was seething. However, true to form, when I wrote about it, I did my best to focus on the positive, even calling these assholes—who I would have gleefully punched in the nuts if given the chance—“nice people.”*
09 APRIL 2002
STAY GOLD, PONY BOY*
There is no word yet on the auditions, but here is my personal recap:
The 2:30 wasn’t as good as I had hoped. I went in after a guy who clearly did a great job (he was in there for close to twenty minutes), which is the absolute worst time an actor can go into a room . . . I could tell that he had given them exactly what they were looking for and I really felt like they just wanted me to hurry up and get out of the room. They were all really nice people, though . . . people I could totally work with. It was just bad timing for me.
A good thing though, was that I saw Sean Astin while I was there. Now, Sean is one of my absolute favorite people in the world. I’ve known him since forever and I respect him tremendously both as an actor and as a person. It’s funny; every time I tease him about getting roles in Lord of the Rings, or Goonies, or any of the other kick-ass movies he’s been in, he tells me, “Hey, you got Stand by Me. So we’re even.”
So, since I am always looking for the hidden positives in the increasingly shitty world of life as an actor, seeing Sean made that call worthwhile.
The 5:00 call went much better. It was also for a sitcom and it was over at Warner Brothers. It was tough for me to focus, because of the lousy experience I had just had at 2:30, but I was somehow able to leave that behind me and I did a pretty good job. There was only one other person in the room besides the casting director, which means that there is not a ton of laughter where there normally would be if you were in front of an audience. That can really throw someone who isn’t experienced in these things, and I was really glad that I knew how to handle that. I think I’m a little bit too old for that part, but I guess they’re seeing people of all different ages, so I think I’m still in the hunt on that one.
Thank you to everyone who sent me their good wishes. I especially enjoyed cat mojo.conf > /dev/Wil.* I copied that one onto the back of a calendar page and carried it in my pocket.
You know, the thing about both of these calls is, I did everything that I could possibly do to be prepared. I created characters, I learned the lines, I developed the relationships . . . I will never get used to the people on the other side of the table not putting as much effort into their side as I put into my side.
So, now the stupid waiting begins . . . I’ll update when I hear something.
I waited for three days—without my wife, stepkids, or even my dog for company—for the call to come that I hadn’t booked the jobs. When it did, I took a sardonic pleasure in the knowledge that, for once, I didn’t come in second. I had bailed on my family at the last minute, and I hadn’t even cracked the top ten.
12 APRIL 2002
I’M A LONER DOTTIE, A REBEL
I have a partial update from the auditions on Monday.
I’ve heard nothing from the second call. However, not surprisingly, the first call, where they really made me feel unwelcome, is going nowhere.
I talked with my manager about it and he got some feedback from them: they found people they really liked on Friday and I guess lots of actors left that room on Monday feeling shitty, like the producers didn’t even want those actors to be there.
Well, duh. If they found people they really liked on Friday, why even bother to bring us in on Monday?! And why bother to bring in actors if they’re going to make us feel like they don’t even want us there?!
Now, I know I probably shouldn’t say this,* because in the entertainment industry, nobody is supposed to say obvious and truthful things, like Tom Cruise sucks, or James Cameron is an epic A-hole and Michael Bay is a complete hack,* but here’s some information from The Inside™:
This happens all the %$@!^ing time.* Actors prepare their guts out for an audition, only to get there, wait an hour or longer (SAG says they’re supposed to pay us like 30 bucks or something if we’re there longer than an hour, but if an actor actually asks for that he will be blacklisted by that casting director, so nobody ever does) and go into a room where producers are on the phone, or looking through paperwork, or doing just about everything in the world except paying attention to the actor who is auditioning for them.*
Most of the time, the person who is reading with you is so overworked, he or she doesn’t take the time to learn what the scene is about and reads the other lines in the scene with a flat, monotone disinterest that throws off the best of us. I guess what most of them fail to realize is that the best acting is reacting and it’s tough to react to complete and utter disinterest.*
A notable exception to this rule is Tony Sepulveda, who casts at Warner Brothers. He is one of my absolute favorite casting directors to read for, because he ALWAYS makes me feel welcome and comfortable and he ALWAYS knows the material he’s reading. The last time I read for him, he was totally off the script and even improvised with me. Tony is an incredibly busy man, yet he still manages to find the time to make actors feel welcome. It’s a shame that there’s only one of him.*
You know, if I were a producer or director, I would want every actor who comes into my room to feel extremely comfortable. I would want to create an atmosphere where actors are free to feel vulnerable and take chances, where they are able to do their absolute best work. I would want actors to come before me and not worry about anything, at all, except showing me their take on the character.*
Oh, I’m so living in a dream world. That is just not how it is. Four out of five times, I go into an audition and the people I’m reading for don’t even stand up and thank me for coming in. Most of the time, I’m lucky if anyone other than the casting director even says hello, or shows a remote interest in my being there. I have experienced people taking calls on their cell phones and talking during my audition, taking calls on their cell phones and leaving the room while I’m doing my audition, reading the newspaper, reading their schedule for the rest of the day, talking to another person in the room . . . it goes on and on.
Good acting comes from an actor who is not afraid to stand there naked in front of a room and bare their soul to the camera. You’d think that the uncreative philistines who run this bull-shit industry would give a shit about that and try to create an atmosphere where actors can relax and do their best work.
But here’s the truth: these days, most of the people sitting in that room know that their show is going to maybe make it three episodes before the equally insecure and untalented people at the network cancel it before it can find an audience—and put reruns of some shitty reality show in its place. And because they know this, they are scared to death and they don’t trust their instincts and they project all their insecurities onto the actors who are in front of them.*
You know, the audition process for Win Ben Stein’s Money was the most fun I have had in YEARS, and that was entirely because Andrew Golder and the entire group over there told me, from the very beginning, “We want you to feel comfortable and relaxed. We want you to feel free to make mistakes and not worry about looking bad, because when you can do your best work, it makes us look good.” It made me feel like I was playing before the home crowd in The Big Game™.*
So the challenge for me is to somehow get over this terrible environment that pervades auditions these days. I have to be able to walk into a room and not give a shit about them, because they certainly don’t give a shit about me.* But that’s extremely hard! I do care about them. I have put time, energy, and effort into creating this character for them and I want to please them!* It’s really tough to do my best, when I feel like the people in the room don’t care whether I’m there or not.*
Now maybe I’m insane, but wouldn’t it be better, and easier, and more cost-effective, for the studios to put actors at ease and make us feel like they do, in fact, give a shit about us being there? If they’d do that, actors would be able to do much better work, because they wouldn’t feel nervous and overly scrutinized. Shows would be cast much more quickly and everyone would go home happy.
But, as I said, I am so living in a dream world.
Thought for today:
If imagination is not set to the task of building a creative life, it busies itself with weaving a web of inner fears and doubts, blame and excuse.
—LAURENCE G. BOLDT
Sour grapes, right? Sort of. The truth is, I’d put up with that sort of treatment for way too long, and I’d just had it.* I’d rather not ever get hired for acting work again than continue to smile while being punched in the face.*
The year before I wrote this blog, I’d been on the negotiating team for the Screen Actors Guild when we worked out our TV and theatrical contract, and I was horrified to discover how our employers think of us: we’re interchangeable, disposable, and not worthy of any respect. As an actor, I depended on those people to let me support my family and create the art that was such an important part of my life. Because we actors are so dependent on them, they can treat us like shit and we’ll beg for more.*
Well, I had a week to think about that, and I realized I’d treated my family exactly the same way the industry had treated me: I had totally disregarded their feelings and taken them for granted.
When Anne and the boys returned home, I knew what was important to me, I knew what I would fight for, and I knew where my priorities were. I met her in the driveway when they drove up and embraced her before she was even fully out of the car.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t come with you,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“Never again. I’m done with this bullshit.”
Ryan and Nolan came out of the car, and made it a group hug. “I love you guys so much. I’m so happy you’re home,” I said.
I vowed then, for better or for worse, that I would never let my career come before my family again.*
10
“You’re Gonna Be a Great Writer Someday, Gordie”
When I was fourteen and doing publicity for Stand by Me, interviewers often asked me if I was a writer like my character. This question usually went along with such deeply insightful queries as, “What’s your favorite color?” and “Do you have a girlfriend?” (“Purple” and “Samantha Fox hasn’t returned my calls”* were the respective answers.)
So many people asked me if I was a writer, I began to think that I should be a writer. But I wasn’t a writer, right? I was an actor. By the time I was fourteen, I’d been a professional actor for over half my life, and I took it for granted that I would continue to be a professional actor for the rest of it. I can even recall this stupid career test I had to take in tenth grade, where a woman asked me, “What profession would you like to pursue as an adult?”
“Acting,” I said.
She noted this on my permanent record, and said, “Okay . . . now what’s your realistic short-term goal?”
“Acting,” I said.
“Okay . . . and how do you plan to earn money until you go to college?”
“Acting,” I said.
The rest of the class period was pretty much “Who’s on first?” with “acting” filling in at third base.*
This teacher was trying, in her way, to encourage me to think about what I wanted to do, what would challenge and interest me, and how I could prepare myself for life as an adult.
But I had been groomed by my mother to believe acting and being famous were the only things that mattered in my life. I didn’t even question that, as this conversation illustrates, and I was supremely arrogant about it. I didn’t need to think about what I wanted to do, or what my plan B was, because I had been thoroughly manipulated and controlled by my mother, who had me living her dream. I was crushing it with plan A—who needs a backup when plan A is going so well? At this moment in my life, when I was in the second season of TNG, feeling pretty fucking full of myself, and just being a total shit, I was positive I’d worked it all out, and was on a glide path toward fame and fortune, and—most importantly—acceptance from parents who loved me.*
The truth is, I always enjoyed creative writing in school, and English was always my best subject. But the thought of pursuing it as a career never entered my mind until—well, until about six months after Dancing Barefoot was published. As a matter of fact, after the Stand by Me publicity cycle ended, the idea of being a writer didn’t come up again until ten years later, when I ran into my seventh-grade English teacher while I was visiting my parents in my hometown of La Crescenta, California.
She was walking out of the grocery store while I was on my way in, and she nearly ran me over with her cart.
“Mrs. Westerholm!” I said. She was one of my favorite teachers, and I was very happy to see her.*
“Wil Wheaton? How are you!” she said.
My career is in the toilet and shows no signs of ever improving.
Yeah. I don’t want to have that conversation.
“I’m doing great!” I lied. “I’ve been having lots of auditions, and I’m getting closer and closer to a good job all the time.”*
She frowned. “You’re still acting?”
I swallowed and hoped I sounded more convincing to her than I did to myself.
“Uh-huh.”
“Why aren’t you writing?”
I was taken aback by her question, and I was quiet for a second.
I’m acting because it’s what I’ve done my entire life . . . and it’s the only thing I know how to do.*
“I don’t know. Because acting is what I do, I guess.”
She shook her head, and I was right back in seventh grade, getting an after-school talking to.
“You were always such a wonderful writer, Wil,” she said, wagging her finger at me. “We all thought that you’d end up as a screenwriter or novelist.”
Something started to slowly turn in the back of my mind. “Yeah, I always enjoyed it.”
“Remember your ‘Land of the Zombies’ story? All the students loved that.”
I smiled and nodded. As a creative writing assignment around Halloween in 1985, all the seventh graders wrote horror stories. I was inspired by Dawn of the Dead, D&D, and a family trip to San Francisco, so I wrote a story about a man and his wife who flee from the terror of zombies who were slowly taking over the country after escaping from an army research base. My heroes discovered that water can force the zombie-causing chemicals out of the living dead, so they end up on Alcatraz Island, which I had decided was the only safe place left in America.* I remember the story ended with something like:
Alcatraz was once a federal prison for killers. Now it’s the prison that’s saving our lives. We even sleep in the Birdman’s old cell.
As the sun set over the Golden Gate Bridge, I looked out onto America: once, the land of the free. Now, the land of the zombies.
It’s not Hemingway,* but it’s pretty good for a twelve-year-old. It was voted scariest and goriest story by the seventh and eighth graders.* I proudly photocopied it and sent it to all my relatives, who were all horrified and told my parents that I should get professional help.*
“Well, I hope you end up writing someday,” she said. “You definitely have writing talent.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Can I help you put your bags in your car?”
“Oh! I’m not that old,” she said with a chuckle. “Please tell your parents I said hello.”
“I will.” I walked into the store.
I heard her voice frequently for the next few years, though the only writing I ever did was infrequently scrawled in a leather-covered journal that was a gift from one of my friends—my first offline blog, I guess.
