Commercially Desireable

Nice work if you can get it, but the truth about commercials is the audition process is one of the most infuriating of all theatrical endeavors.

First, I have to deal with breakdown. Once over the joy of actually GETTING an appointment, I have to face the grim and often humiliating description of the character for which I will read. Many times, it is a single word, “wife”. I can look past the fact that I am single and unmarried (and happily so) without a furrowed brow to read the sides, but it is the more detailed descriptions that give me pause.

“Mother of twins”. I sigh heavily upon reading this one, as I am 28 and childless and have no concept of the strength and patience it requires to be the mother of twins, even in TV land. The twins are always 10 in these commercials, and it makes me think I either look like I’m 38 or like I gave birth at 13.

“Slightly character”. I actually like this one, because it gives you free reign to be funny or “OFF BEAT” as another breakdown would note. What it really means, though, is “Slightly bad-looking”, which I also don’t mind because it takes the pressure off being “Slightly emaciated”. This way, I can eat a bagel and not wonder if I’m going to starve either because I’m not supposed to eat a bagel or because I can’t get a commercial job.

“TONS of diologue”. One line.

“Must be GREAT at Improv”. No improv allowed.

“Caucasian”. Oh wait, that’s ALL of them.

“Slightly less-than-average looks. Slightly overweight.” Still not over this one, obviously.

Then there’s the actual audition, which usually involves a 45 minute-1 ½ hour drive to Santa Monica. After arriving in the neighborhood and navigating through the “NO ACTOR PARKING” signs that pepper the windows, I park 8 blocks away and with headshot in hand, proceed to the sign-in. There are actors everywhere, muttering and powdering their noses, checking out everyone in the room. Inevitably, there are 6 people in line waiting for one actor to enter pages of information into a computer that will then spit out a barcode, which is to be used by the actor to identify themselves in the audition. Yes, a barcode. While I kind of love this barcode idea, as it certainly does expedite the process, in the line of 6 actors, one of them will be cross-armed and making a pouty remark about a retinal scan and another will agree on how impersonal it is. I ignore them, when what I really want to do is remind them that their one line is about all-in-one turf builder, and does that really require soul-searching to deliver effectively?

I sit down and wait for the moderator to come out and bring us all in for a group explanation, which is basically a lot of common sense and would not be necessary if the clients or casting office would simply SUPPLY the material before we arrive, which they don’t. Instead they ask us to “come early” so we can spend time with the material, which is really easy because we all live in Santa Monica. A young lady rushes in, her heels clicking on the tile floor. The moderator of her session tries “slightly-less-than" hard to conceal a rolling of the eyes, as the young woman harriedly and politely asks to be moved up in the line, due to time. Now it is her fellow actresses who roll their eyes, because, while having no day jobs to return to, will now be late to have their roots done, which, by the way, they desperately need.

I read the material. The mother of twins is speaking from her driveway about the magic of Christmas and the even more globally powerful magic of Wal-Mart, which, by the way, refuses to pay health benefits to employees and suggests they go on welfare. Not Twins Mom, though! She cheerfully explains to the camera that because she has twins, there will be a merry Christmas only if the twin boys each get identical presents, all of which are available at Wal-Mart. Two of everything. Simply put, a passive-aggressive attempt at calming the twins into submission by separating them from their need to share ONE toy and thus be a fully-functioning member of society. One of my lines is actually, “Hey, world peace sounds great and everything, but it’s not happening in MY house unless I get two of everything!”

I suddenly hate myself.

We are all called in to the group explanation, which I’ve always felt is the casting director’s one attempt to show everyone either how insightful they are or what a fantastic personality they have, neither or which are true or brief. The fact that the ad is massively offensive, materialistic, and insulting to all mankind seems to bother no one. The word “like” is dropped approximately 33 times in as many seconds, while actors laugh at the lame jokes and like, and beam smiles that demand “NOTICE ME!" When the explanation has finally reached its scintillating climax, everyone exits but me, and I wait on my mark to slate my name.

And then I get nervous.

With all the bitterness and sarcasm, it turns out I actually do care what people think. I care what this casting director thinks of my ability, I care what my agency will hear from them, I care how I will feel about myself on the 45-minute drive home. I would really like to say it doesn’t matter; that commercials are pointless and degrading marketing tools to fool satisfied people into thinking they are otherwise; that it makes no difference how I prepare because the clients don’t know what they want anyway – and I’d be right about all those things. But somewhere in that little moment between breaths I say my own name, and everything changes.

This, I think, is the most infuriating thing of all.