[Note: So I wrote some of this at home and some away from wireless and some was cut and pasted from another blog, and now I can't seem to get all the fonts looking the same and all purty-like. Sorry. Deal.]Wrote this last night:
I auditioned for a play tonight.
That's not like me. Here's how not like me that is: Last time I auditioned for a play, Bobby Ewing was on his deathbed. David Lee Roth was the lead singer of Van Halen. Girls were wearing rugby shirts and leggings. Klaus von Kiltzing had not yet won the Nobel prize for his discovery of the quantization of electrical resistance.
That means that I was sitting in a backstage room of the Riffe theaters tonight, surrounded by people who looked like they knew what they were doing more than I did. I was filling out a form. And on the form, when it asked for previous roles played, and at what theater, I had to write the name of my high school. I am forty-three year old balding man leaning on my high school credentials.
Let me be clear that I don't anticipate a role in this play. Maybe - maybe - oddly tall townsperson number 3. Truly, I was in it for the audition. I was in it for the fear and nervousness, the newness of it.
Continued writing this afternoon:
The stars were aligned. I have been thinking a lot about my middle-aged brain, how much it benefits from new and novel experiences. I’ve been thinking about my creative life, and how isn’t it is of late.
Then, one Facebook evening, Artie Isaac posted an audition call. Artie is a board member of Available Light Theater. More importantly, he’s a guy who decided in mid-life that damn it, he loved acting in high school, so he started staging shows so that he could get back on stage. And on Facebook, he posted this audition call. It hits all the right notes for my “what the hell” chorus:
The following comes from here
Your Invitation to Act
I'm on a mission.
I'm looking for people who want to try doing what I'm doing. I am acting on stage as a way to raise money for a worthy not-for-profit theatre company.
Why I'm Doing It It's for a lot of reasons. Mainly, I enjoy it.But that's too self-serving to admit. So here's my public reason...
This not-for-profit theatre company — let's just call it "Available Light" — has a do-gooder attitude about serving everyone in the community, without regard to anyone's ability to pay for fancy theatre tickets. So all their shows offer tickets at the awkward price of Pay What You Want.
The shows I am in, however, are designed to generate funds for the otherwise risky Pay What You Want offer. So — for these shows only — we charge a minimum price ($15) and swoon whenever anyone pays more than that.
Selling Out
We call these shows "sell outs." We mean that in both senses of the word:
Economically, we seek to sell out at the box office. So far, we've sold approximately 3,000 tickets to the shows wherein I have tripped dangerously close to "acting." We actually sold out twice during the most recent run.
Artistically, we recognize that we are (somewhat) selling out by choosing plays that are more popular than the more challenging and original fare of Available Light's regular season. It's not a real soul-sucking artistic sell out: we manage to find plays that are deeply meaningful and satisfying. They're just popular — is that so wrong?
Who I'm Looking For
I seek:
1. People who want to try acting. The ideal candidate has not been on stage as an actor in many years — or ever. This person feels like a ham, but canned and ready to come off the shelf.
2. People who seek a self-actualizing experience. This might feel (in the ideal candidate) like a gnawing hunger for a new creative risk and — hey! — maybe acting is the right risk.
3. People who want to be immersed in a worthy text. The next show is To Kill A Mockingbird, arguably the best novel ever written. There is no better way to read a book — than to read it with friends learning how to act the book.
4. People who are willing to work on this. The ideal candidate will come to rehearsals, ready to work. Some roles are smaller than others. For those who want dip a toe in the water: townspeople. For those who want to jump in: there are lines to be memorized.
5. People who are willing to audition with Ian Short. (See details below.) At the audition, the ideal candidate will have some natural presence and will respond to direction — and be a person that Ian can see filling one of the roles. You don't have to be a pro. Amateurs encouraged and trained!
6. People who have a large social network. The ideal candidate will attract a couple hundred people to buy tickets. Perhaps those so-called friends just want to see what the heck is [Louie] doing. That's OK. These are fundraisers, so selling of tickets is important.
Can you think of this person? If so, let me know.
Even if this person is you.
Not that I felt I had a shot at Atticus. First of all, Artie stages shows so he can be in them, so the Atticus role was filled, I was sure. Plus, frankly, I didn’t think I had much of a shot at all. An open call for what is basically a community theater show, but with a highly respected theater company – I figured every between-jobs actor and up-and-coming theater student would show up. People who’ve been working at acting. Really, I was in it for the audition.
So I found a monologue on-line, something appropriate to my age and the tone of the show. It was a near miss. (Isben? Seriously?) And I spent some time prepping it; certainly not memorizing, but finding beats and marking it up in the way I’ve taught students over the years. And I got pretty nervous, especially on the drive downtown. Nervous is a lousy feeling, but I remembered that being nervous was a big reason I was doing this, fighting brain calcification and all. But the nervousness faded – mostly – when I walked into the room. I made it a point to be friendly, I concentrated on the loved one, and I had the pleasant if somewhat awkward distraction of an old friend in the room, a former rival, of sorts. He was there with his son.
“So, are you auditioning?” I asked.
“No. No no no.” He gestured to his boy.
“Oh, you should.”
“To be in a show? With what time?” he asked, grinning.
“Well, what? You’re going to drive him to practices anyway, right? You’ll just be sitting in the car.”
Small talk, and I found a seat. A couple minutes later he got up and signed the sheet. We grinned, I made some joke, he joked back. I felt kinda good about that.
I got called into the room, I did my monologue. I ended up having a really good time with it. It felt good. I didn’t embarrass myself, and that was gratifying. They said they’d email the callback list that evening. I wished them luck and told them I looked forward to the show, either way it worked out.
Then I went home and stayed up late watching Brazil with my kid. Love that movie. But I got mad at him for constantly checking his text messages – “Look, if we’re going spend time together, spend the time here, okay?” – a common anti-iPod and cell phone refrain for me. But after scolding him I realized it meant I couldn’t check my email either, which sort of messed me up. Cuz, okay, I was in it for the audition – really, I was. But it would be nice to be called back, you know?
And, surprise surprise, today I’m still in the game. I’m back in that room today, right now, with a larger group of strangers, and one old friend-slash-rival, (and, sigh, no loved one) all of us mumbling over stapled pages we’ve been handed to prepare. I’ve been called back for Mr. Gilmer, defense attorney. That’d be fun. As far as stage time and number of lines, that would be more fun that this other part I’ve been thinking about today. But you know what would be awesome?
Boo Radley.
Iconic character. Only one line.
Reading the lines for Mr. Gilmer, it was fun to imagine: the anti-Atticus. But Boo Radley? That sure would make these conversations more fun at school:
“Hey. I’m in a play. To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Really? What part?”
See?
So, as I sit here, here’s the score, honest and for true:
“Mr. Gilmer.” Seriously? Awesome. Wow. Thanks.
“Boo Radley.” Oh, great. Awesome. Much less stressful, far fewer rehearsals, great name part. (and then it occurs to me that I’m probably way to old for that part.)
“We’re sorry, maybe next time.” Oh, thank god. I really have no idea how I would have found the time to do a show.
So, s’all good. I’m really here for the audition. I can feel my frontal cortex de-calcifying as I sit here.
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