During the audition process, I’ve treated actors worse than I’ve treated my dog. Sometimes much worse. If they can take it in the casting and the callback, then they will do fine on set, when a camera is 24 inches from their faces and behind the camera are 50 hard-working crew members. Actors need to perform with lights in their eyes, makeup brushes on their cheeks, marks to be hit and commercials scripts that change at least 45 times after final legal approval.
Once the actor is awarded the part, I magically become his best friend and biggest fan. I encourage actors, applaud them, hug them and sometimes yell at them. After all, the actor is what the camera sees and what the boom records. If I feel an actor is not giving me his best performance, I’ll use whatever method is needed to get him to deliver. At that moment all I care about is that the actor lives up to my unreasonable standards.
I have quite a bit of dialogue work under my belt, and more on the way. But it’s time to raise the bar. I want to become a better and stronger director. I want to learn alternative methods for working with the talent. A couple of months ago I had this idea: By walking in an actor’s shoes, I would learn to understand and appreciate actors’ process. Would that change my communication with the actors and, subsequently, give me better performances? It was time to find out, so I enrolled in a professional acting class.
I called O’Connor Casting in Chicago; casting director David O’Connor recommended The Audition Studio and a few other groups. The Audition Studio seemed to have the best reputation in town for training professional film, commercial and theatrical actors. I explained to the Studio that I happened to be a commercial director interested in taking an acting class. Shortly after faxing them my bio and other information, I received a call from Studio co-director Kurt Naebig. He supported my rationale and told me that I could audition.
"Audition for what?" I asked. "Audition for the class," he replied. I felt like telling Kurt to just read my bio and screen my reel. However, there was no getting around the audition; this was the only way in. It was a terrifying experience. My arrival at the Studio was the first time I was ever in an environment with actors who didn’t raise their heads or smile to greet me. I was given a bad photocopy of a copy of a copy of a scene I’d never heard of. My reading partner, Steve, was a "real" actor. He seemed more comfortable with the process, so I just went along.
Once inside the audition room, Steve and I began to read. Within seconds Kurt yelled, "Stop," and offered an adjustment. "What the hell, I was just getting warmed up," I thought. We began again and Kurt stopped us. I didn’t like this at all. Our next reading seemed to take an eternity before we finished. Afterward we sat with Kurt for a few minutes. He glanced over at me and asked my age, then a few other personal questions. I was taken aback by this. It really was none of his business. But, then again, this is what I myself do to actors. I ask all sorts of personal and informal questions about them. It’s the fuel that I use on set to motivate and manipulate them. Depending on the scene, I’ll make the actor feel uncomfortable and slightly out of control. I also stop and start during an audition, whenever I feel like it. I have never really cared about or understood the performer’s internal process.
The class that I enrolled in at the Studio was for cold readings—"how to improve your ability to audition." At the beginning of each session, eight teams of actors received their scenes for the evening. As a director, when I receive a storyboard, usually via fax, my mantra is, "Thank God. What’s the budget, and who are we bidding against?" The actor’s mantra is intimate and meaningful. I cringed with horror at the thought of all the times I had been nasty to actors in auditions. I never stopped to think about how much a single audition means to them.
For the first time I was able to imagine myself as the actor. As an actor, you spend most of your time hoping for an opportunity to get yourself in front of a camera or live audience. Finally, in the middle of waiting tables, your pager goes off and you have an audition. You run down to the casting facility and get the script. Then you step into a room with harsh lighting, cold people who drink hot cappuccinos and some director like me. At the moment of insight, I wanted to call every actor I was ever rude to, and apologize. I was beginning to feel like a terrible monster.
In class, the teacher and actors discussed things like why the producer, director, client and casting director speak on their cell phones while eating over-stuffed deli sandwiches during the audition. Kurt also explained to the class that the people auditioning them will often say things like, "Oh, that was good," or a condescending, "Very nice," or a hearty, "Excellent." All of which have the same meaning: "Fat chance getting the part." After laughing out loud (I was the only one laughing), I began to get that "I’m-a-terrible-monster" feeling again.
Once we got through more actor holocaust realities, it was time to begin reading scenes. I watched as five teams went before me. It was an incredible learning experience to witness seasoned actors developing a scene, being adjusted (by Kurt) with kindness and compassion, learning from the criticism and going at it again, only to deliver stronger performances. Chicago has an incredible pool of talent.
Finally, the moment of truth. I entered the stage area and looked out into the faces of 16 professional actors. They had no idea that in real life I am a director—someone who makes decisions to hire, reject and abuse their kind. If they knew what actor crimes I was guilty of, they would feed me to the lions.
Walking on stage, I was a stranger in a strange place. Now I can imagine what an actor feels when he’s auditioning for a part in one of my commercials. The only difference was that the 16 faces staring back at me were not drinking a Starbucks no-whip Mocha Grande. This was a safe and loving environment, a place for exploration and creativity where it was OK to make a fool of myself.
I looked down at the copy of a copy of a copy of the scene. I felt like I was sky-diving without any prior instruction, and it was my turn to jump. At that moment I began to realize how difficult and intimidating the cold-reading process is. I made it halfway through the scene before Kurt yelled, "Stop." Kurt and the rest of the class began delivering notes. Since I’m usually the one doing the delivering, this was a good lesson for me. I tried not to take the comments personally. I reminded myself that this was not reality. It was an acting class and I am a director. I decided to look past my ego. Compared to my director tone, Kurt was a saint. The class was kind and considerate. (If they only knew.) These were really nice people. They didn’t use fear or intimidation as a tool for manipulation. They cared about each other and strove to be successful at their craft. I started to feel like George Bailey standing on the bridge just before he was sent back to Bedford Falls.
Because of my commitment to this class and to my craft, I am a better director. I’ve learned how to treat and work with talent in ways I never could have imagined. Just like directors, actors are creative, sensitive people. Our needs are identical. The difference is that I’m behind the camera and they are in front of the camera. The quality of our craft and our careers depends on each person exceeding his creative limits. By providing a safe haven where actors can perform, I am guaranteed a better commercial. This makes for a happier client, a stronger reel—and a more confident, compassionate director.
