Shouldn't L.A. be more like Entourage?

Hello blog enthusiasts!

After watching Vince, E, Turtle and Drama scope out the hunnies for the last hour or so, I've decided to put Entourage to rest (educational as it may be) and publish a new post. Jo's out meeting a new headshot client and hitting up two auditions (Go Jo!) while I hold down the fort, working on a couple websites we're designing and picking up some cash wherever I can get it.

Seems to us there's a lot of people here - not just actors, and not just because of the WGA strike, by the by - who feel like they're merely scraping by, check by check, day by day. It's almost as if we're all weathering a storm that won't quit. I won't get into the politics of it - after all, in the global perspective, we're all blessed - but Jo and I have both made the observation. Something we'll keep exploring as we get more acquainted with this still-unfamiliar town...

This week we hit up the ultra-hip monster mash flick, Cloverfield, which I highly recommend (children and women who are expecting might opt for the less chaotic 27 Dresses or perhaps Ratatouille on DVD).

Your MLK festivities may have distracted you from yesterday's Oscar nominations, but be sure to check them out here: http://www.oscar.com. There Will Be Blood, No Country..., Michael Clayton and Juno - all amazing films - earn the most nods.

Last week's blog featured a haunting description of some of Los Angeles' most promising student directors and their bizarre audition techniques (Jo has stopped referring to herself as Lisa now and is feeling much better in general, thank god). Well, this week is MY turn to step up to the podium, adjust the microphone ("can you lower this like six inches maybe?") and tell some not-so-harrowing but no-less interesting audition tales from the West Coast.

SATURDAY A.M.
Jo and I were off to a good start - driving over to the gym at 8AM, ellipticalizing, protein shakes snug in our respective cup holders - and basked in our general optimism. Audition #1 was at 10:15AM, downtown, held in a fenced-in studio rental compound that looked like at times like an overgrown parking lot and at others like an abandoned warehouse depot.

I was running a bit behind, so I floored it down 3rd Street, neglecting the GPS's robotic commands (reminiscent of Josh Brolin's Texan drawl in No Country for Old Men) and going on instinct alone. I pulled up to the building highlighted in the directions, hopped out and paid the meter; the building that served as the primary entryway appeared to be deserted. I ventured past some architectural shrubbery to a second set of glass double doors. Nothing. The building was vacant...

...but ho, a sign! Not from God himself but a sign nonetheless. In chicken-scratched fading blue magic marker, it advised:

"We Closed. Head to Other Side."

Darn! What did it mean? Was "Other Side" a metaphor? Or a clue in a twisted scavenger hunt as on TV's The Amazing Race? Or might it be the other side of this building?

It was 10:14, and I was toasting in this blue button-up shirt/dark blue sweatshirt ensemble from Banana Republic. A jog around the building and I'd be there in four, five minutes tops. But wait, I thought, this is LA. I can drive to the other side of the building! I hopped back into the Chrysler - one quarter lost to the meter maid - and made two quick right turns. The GPS laughed and ridiculed for the extent of our 30-second pilgrimage:

"I knew that buildin' was closed. How 'bout them instincts now, partner."
"Not now, Brolin, I have to focus."
"Focus schmocus. Go back to New York, yankee."

I shoved Brolin into the glove compartment, grabbed the headshot and made a dash for the entrance. I headed down a paved road, ignoring several signs that read, NO PEDESTRIANS - CARS ONLY, concocting a lame excuse about a rare case of choosy dyslexia. The security guard on duty scratched her head and pointed to a large grey building towering overhead, instructing me to veer here, go there, up there and I'm there.

Ten minutes later I had found an elevator and was nearing the 3rd floor. I checked my reflection in the polished silver handrail; I was a mess. Even the headshot was sweating. It was now 10:30.

The doors opened onto a long, hotel-like corridor a la The Shining. A door was ajar near the end of the hall; a speck of fluorescent light seeped out and onto the beige carpeting. Outside the room, a 20-something-year-old guy with a goatee named Hank (we'll call him Hank) set a clump of pencils beside a stack of clipboards and blank forms. This must be the place.

"Hank? I'm Brian, I'm auditioning for - "
"Great! First one here! Go ahead and fill out these forms - skip the medical stuff, we don't need to know that - and we'll get started. Coolio?"

I settled down a bit, eavesdropping on their Kevin Smith conversation and using the sign-up sheet to wipe my face and my armpits. In seconds I was in the room, shaking hands with more 20-something gentlemen who looked like me - except cooler and a bit hungover. Hank, the director, told me about the character I was reading for:

Hank: Scott is hilarious!
Brian: Yeah, he's alright.
Hank: I mean, the other characters are kinda whatever, but we're looking for someone who can make Scott really hilarious. Coolio?

Not coolio at all. On-the-spot doesn't begin to describe how I felt. I delivered the four or five lines a few times with the apathetic reader, never hearing a peep from the hip film schoolers in attendance. I said Thanks a bunch, shook hands with Hank and walked out, bidding farewell to the guard and feeling a bit defeated. Josh Brolin and I didn't exchange one word the whole ride home.

SATURDAY P.M.
The afternoon audition was on Sunset Boulevard in a small, depressing theater. I was reading for a med student who had developed a serum that acts as Cupid's arrow, joining couples not through fate but through a flu shot (a romantic spin to the date rape drug). The script was not without its problems, but the project appeared promising; as part of the audition sides, the casting director had included a note asking actors to "be honest," to "tell the truth," to relax and "have a real conversation" with the reader. How refreshing!

Once I arrived, the director - I forget his name - rushed me down a set of stairs and into a darkened space with 40 or so red velvet seats and a stage with minimal lights. He cut the house lights, leaving me alone onstage, seated in a stark metal chair, a single blinding light bearing down on me from above. He tells me he'll be reading with me himself. He also warns me that he'll be looking down at the script and won't be watching me - that's what the camera's for.

Great. So much for personal interaction. So much for connecting and "being honest."

As promised, the unnamed director didn't glance up from the paper, not for a second. I took a huge pause at one point, testing him, hoping he'd lift his gaze (even for a moment) to see how well I'm connecting, to see how well I'm selling this no-good date rape script - but no such luck. The zombie and I shook hands, and he walked me up the stairs and to the door.

"Good work," he said.
"Sure, how would you know?"

- - -
Jo and I aren't new to acting. We're not fresh fish, in the traditional sense. We love to share these discomforting experiences cause, well, they're entertaining; but we walk out of those studio compounds and darkened theaters with a fresh perspective and a broadened sense of what we do and how well we do it. LA isn't like Entourage, and NY isn't like Sex & the City; but we're learning to take what we can get. For instance - for all of her rough luck last week, Jo thrived in an independent film audition this afternoon, reading and talking with the director for over 30 minutes, which is unheard of....

There's a silver lining out there somewhere, hiding behind those bright stage lights and that dense cloud of California smog. And until we find it, we keep going, we keep auditioning, keep writing, keep sweating through our sweatshirts and hoping that Brolin can get us there in one piece.

love,
b