Actor beware! Indie film auditions aren’t always what they seem: The Informers Part II

January 22, 1:37 PMLA Actor's Life ExaminerSuzanne Ford

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SPOILER ALERT!  If you haven’t read Part I, do it now by clicking HERE. Then Part II will make more sense. Thanks!

You know when you hear about people who live through big events unaware that they are occurring even when there are obvious signs? Like some 17-year-old high school girl who actually doesn’t know she’s pregnant until she gives birth in the girls’ locker room? OK, bad example.

Anyway, I was blithely oblivious to what, in retrospect, were obvious signs that this job was not what I had assumed it was. Looking back, I was incredibly naïve. (I guess my youth is really not over yet. Hooray!) But in my defense, the casting process had been so easy, so pressure-free, so … inconsequential that it had reinforced my initial assumption to the point where the blinders were permanently pasted on. It’s a lesson, in more ways than one.

So here are the signs I missed, and how:

1. The wardrobe fitting is at Universal Studios on the top floor of that cavernous beehive of sartorial activity known as the Edith Head Building. I am met by the assistant to the assistant (!) costume designer and led to a private dressing room. They have pulled several gorgeous vintage dresses and some amazing shoes. We try them all and pick the most flattering. She carefully pins the alterations. No condescending attitude, no rushing to the next fitting, no treating me like caca.

I figured: somebody at Universal owed the small indie production company a favor, or the producers had connections, or whatever. I don’t know how complex these relationships are; I was just happy to have a fabulous costume. And … some people are just nice, right?

2. The day of the shoot, which is at the Beverly Hilton Hotel – not shabby, I know – I arrive at the parking lot and follow the signs. The specially designated parking attendant (!) directs me to the movie’s parking area, which looks as big as a football field and is dotted with what seems like hundreds of trailers. I am whisked to mine by a gracious and efficient 2^nd AD who asks what I take in my coffee. My trailer is small but cozy and spotless, and includes a bathroom, a couch, a television and a microwave. My costume is carefully laid out with jewelry and hosiery.

I figured: “OK, they are just being agreeable and they like actors.”  I know, I’m an idiot. What was I thinking?

3. I arrive at the make up and hair trailer and am greeted warmly. (!) These folks turn out to be pure joy: smart, funny, extremely talented and THEY LISTEN TO ME. You may not realize how amazing this is. You want to hear blood curdling screams? Ask women of a certain age about make up and hair people. That’s a whole other article, or three.

I figured: I got lucky. All these years of suffering with hair and makeup egomaniacs who insist on making me look like Rita Moreno with lupus, and I WASN’T crazy to expect better. Turns out there ARE some great ones. (To be fair: I’ve also had positive makeup/hair experiences on other films and several TV shows, most notably “Friends.” But I’m exaggerating to make a point here.)

4. I arrive on the set, which is in one of the vast ballrooms of the hotel, and it’s absolutely swarming with activity. It occurs to me that there are a lot of people here for a small indie horror movie. Hmm. Another obliging AD shows me to the spot where I will do my scene, alone on the stage behind a podium. I will be facing a crowd of about 300 extras sitting in gilt chairs, who are now milling around waiting. There are billboard-size photos of my “son” hung from the ceiling around the ballroom. As the crew bustles to finish the set-up and my awesome make up woman powders my forehead, I notice some director's chairs at the dimly-lit back of the room. Am I seeing correctly? Yes. They bear the names Winona Ryder, Kim Basinger, Billy Bob Thornton, Brad Renfroe and Mickey Rourke.

I figured: "What a funny gag. They've got chairs with famous peoples' names on them! Somebody has a sense of humor."  I know, I know. I’m an idiot.

5. The director, Gregor Jordan, comes up to me in the midst of the hubbub, takes the time to shake my hand and welcome me to the set, and explains that we are going to start with a wide shot and get progressively closer. He asks how I’m feeling and we exchange a little small talk before he returns to discussing the set-up with the cinematographer. This sort of behavior is, sadly, not typical. But it’s the height of professionalism, if you ask me. Paying some kind attention to an actor who is not a star but who is faced with a big responsibility is not coddling, nor is it unnecessary. It’s the shrewd thing to do. It creates a sense of security, comfort and freedom that can only add to the quality of the entire scene. Smart guy.

I figured: He likes me! He really likes me.

6. We do the first take – the long shot from the back of the room. It goes well, but I get some unwanted laughs from the extras and we have to do several takes before the rhythm kicks in and everyone is on the joke. Then it starts to get fun. Each different shot is lit and set up swiftly. Each time I do the speech for comedy. We’re all having a ball.

I figured: I didn’t figure anything. I was having too much fun.

7. About halfway through Gregor comes up to me and gently suggests something new. He says to try it dead serious. He wants some real grief. I trust him by now, so I can go there. From here on it gets progressively more emotional, until I am sobbing uncontrollably for the close up.

I figured: wow.

When we’ve done the last take, everyone applauds. My amazing hair guy hugs me and says, “Marvelous, honey. They’re all asking who you are.”

Now we’re going to shoot the other angles, away from me, from my POV. I will just speak off camera for cuing purposes. Basically, my job is done. I can even take my shoes off and perch on a stool to say the lines. Whew.

That’s when I see Kim Basinger sitting amid the crowd. I hadn’t even noticed her arrival. Then Billy Bob Thornton walks through the ballroom door. We shoot a series of their reaction shots to my speech. Then, after a break, there’s an improvised reception line scene with Billy Bob in which he hugs me and we talk for a few minutes, he leaves me and the scene continues between him and Kim. 

That’s it. My day with a supposedly low budget indie film.

 How was this possible, you ask? To be in the dark so long? Never to realize that it was a multi-star vehicle? A high profile, high class, high concept horror/comedy flick that would turn out to be, by the way, Brad Renfroe’s last movie, and an element in Mickey Rourke’s vaunted comeback? Well, I just wasn’t told. Nobody mentioned it. And the money was, as it is these days for the lowly working actor, the minimum for a one-day "modified low budget" gig. So I went happily along in my delusion.

The truth? If I had not been oblivious the whole time there would have been so much pressure I'm not sure how it would have gone. As it happened, people were coming up afterward and telling me how extraordinary it was. 

Go figure.