Hollywood North by Northwest
Sara Bynoe

Shoreline Studios is abuzz with young, thin, stylish people whispering into cell phones in hallways, or checking themselves over in mirrors for the fifth time.  This is the office where dreams come true.  Just by walking in you have the chance to book an American national commercial worth $50,000 in residuals. 

I walk straight into room four, where “Project Laundry” is running their casting session.  The room is cold and charcoal grey, with soundproof walls. 

About eight other women, also auditioning for the role of Young Mom, are dressed in the same jeans and cardigan look I’m wearing.  They are sitting on a bench on one side of the room texting or reading fashion magazines while they wait to be called in to audition. An eerie silence caused by forced politeness permeates the room while I fill out my casting form.

Name: Josie Evans
Agency: Lewis Talent
Agent Name: DJ Lewis
Agent Phone Number: 604-889-8989
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Hazel
Height: 5’7”
Weight: 127 lbs
Shoe Size: 8
Dress Size: 6
Shirt Size: 4/6
Union: Not yet.
Are you available for callbacks June 20: Of course!
Are you available for shooting June 26-29: Heck, yeah!
Are you willing to be an extra: Sure, why not.
          
The casting assistant looks like she’s sixteen and doing work experience for high school.  She takes my form and asks for my headshot and resume.  I hand over a decent 8 X 10 photo of me that cost $300 for the photographer plus $60 for the make-up artist and $1 to print each copy.  Accompanying the photo is a page of my acting credentials.  It lists my three-year training program, where I learnt how to sing, tap dance, sword fight, and speak in several accents (French, British, and various American).  I’ve listed 25 selected theatre credits, including fringe shows like the Vagina Monologues and a period drama I did about the Vancouver punk rock scene in the late 70s.  There’s my favourite role I had as Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Shakespeare in the Park, where I got a review in the Straight calling me ‘a star in the making.’  In the film and television section of my resume are four student short films and one corporate training video for BC Hydro. I also have three commercial credits. It’s a one-page description of my life upon the wicked stage.  What it doesn’t cover are the moments of anticipation in the wings, the euphoria of being onstage living moment by moment, the joy of stepping off stage knowing you held an audience in the palm of your hand, and that strange world between taking off your costume and putting on your own clothes. 

The assistant takes my pages and staples them in this order: info page, headshot, resume.

I sit down amongst the cardigans and look around. There are several familiar faces.   I recognize a blonde girl with short legs standing by the door; maybe I’ve seen her do stand-up before.  A redhead I briefly chatted with at a callback for 100-Calorie Snack Packs gives me a nod and a smile.   

I instantly begin the game of comparing myself to everyone in the room.  She’s prettier.  She’s thinner.  She’s got the look they’re looking for.  As always, I lose.  I try to snap myself out of self-doubt by reviewing my line but I’m distracted by two women in the corner whispering about an acting class they’ve discovered. 

“It’s a Meisner class,” says a blonde girl wearing obviously fake blue contacts.

 “What’s that?” replies her busty friend.

“Oh you’ll love it.  It’s, like, what all the big actors do.  Ya know, De Niro, Pacino and, I think Reese Witherspoon.”

“Legally Blonde is my favourite film!

“Me too!”

“How much are classes?”

“Not much.  About $65 a class.”

“That’s not bad.  My audition class was $70.  Can you write it down?  I’d love to try it.”

“You’ll love it.  Last class we did this exercise where you don’t say your line until you really feel the need to.  I lasted like eight minutes.”

“Wow.  That’s so good.”

I want to go over and repeat what one of my teachers yelled at us on our first day of acting class: “Don’t bastardize my art with your dabbling!”  Instead, I focus on my audition script.  Smell shirt.  Smile.  Look at child.  Shake head while smiling.  “Thank goodness for (Laundry Product Brand Name).”  They’re all the same and I never book them.  At twenty-six I’m already too old to be a Young Mom on TV.  Everyone I know who books Young Mom commercials is twenty-three.  
Eventually my name is called and I walk into a dark little room beside the cardigan holding-pen.

A young guy behind the camera is in one corner and casting director sits at a desk in the back of the room.  I walk over to a blue X taped out on the industrial carpeting. 

“Hi.”  I smile with what I hope reads as confidence.

“Ok, just your name, agent and profile, got that, sweetie?”  I’ve probably auditioned for this casting director fifty times over the last year but she talks to me like a stranger.

“Hi, I’m Josephine Evans and I’m with Lewis Talent.”  Then I turn from side to side, showing off my profile. My least favourite angle. 

The casting director looks up at me, still no recognition.  “So, sweetie, you know what to do?  Smell the shirt.  Smile.  Look at your child.  Use this red X on the table as your child.  Then say the line.  Ok?  When you’re ready.”

I take a moment to collect myself. Then I’m a young, attractive mother who’s got a wonderful husband (a doctor or a lawyer obviously) and a beautiful little boy.  I live in Mystical Commercial land, where cartoon flowers will be swirling around my head as I smell the audition prop shirt.  It smells like dust, like it’s been sitting in a prop cupboard for a decade, but I close my eyes and imagine lavender, sunshine and rose cartoons whirling around me underscored by happy up-tempo music.  I smile softly to myself, then open my eyes and see my child, my dear little love, covered in dirt and mud.  A quick flicker of emotions.  I’m shocked at first.  Oh, no I’m going to have to do the laundry all over again!  Then angry, “Dirt: the bane of my existence!’ My child smiles at me and I melt into an expression which says, ‘Oh, that little troublemaker, how I love him so.’  Finally, I say the big line, “Thank goodness for Nature Soft Tide,” and end with a smile.  Exhale and scene. 

Immediately I get a, “Great.  Thanks, sweetie, that’s all we need,” which tells me, ‘You’re not what we’re looking for, darling.’

Walking back into the waiting room, defeated, I see Jemma, a cow who also went to my drama school.  She’s tall and blonde, with piercing blue eyes.  Her nose is cute and little.  Her pink sweater set screams Young Mom.  I’ve heard she doesn’t like me because I once dated her boyfriend. This was two years ago and we were only ‘together’ for two months.

“Hey girl!”  She stands up gives me the hug all actors give each other, a hug of masked competition. 

“Hey!  How are you?” I ask, putting on an act of sincere friendship.

“Great.  I just got a new agent and I’ve been going out a lot,” she says, flicking her long hair over her thin shoulders.

“Awesome.  Who with?”

“Characters.”

Fuck. Of course, Characters is the best agency in the city.  Six months ago I had a meeting with them, after my Midsummer review came out. This agent brought me in, took one look at me, and said, “You’re not pretty enough for TV.”  Yes, those were his exact words.  Then he figured since I was there he might as well audition me.  He asked me to read a scene and then left the room for three minutes while I sat in shock.  Afterwards he said, “Well, you’re a good actor, but yeah, not pretty enough for TV.  Sorry.”  I cried for three days, then got over it.  Kind of.

“That’s great.” I tell her through a jaw-clamped smile.

“Yeah.  So, anyway, how are you?”  She puts her hand on my arm, trying to convince me she really cares, but she’s not that great an actor.  “Book anything lately?” 

“A couple of short films.  Oh, but Jemma I’m sorry, I have to run.  I have another audition to head to,” I lie.

“What for?”

“Smallville.”

“You too?!  Maybe I’ll see you there later.”

“Yeah.  Well, break a leg.”  I give her another actor hug.  “Oh, and say hi to Kevin for me.”

I walk out the doors of Shoreline Studios, one dollar’s worth of headshots wasted. 

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