by Ruth Kaufman
The copy awaits on a carpeted music stand. This is the first time I’ve seen it, so I couldn’t mark where to breathe or which words and phrases to emphasize. I barely have time to imagine who I am and who I’ll be talking to, all things I’ve read one should do before a VO audition.
“Please slate and say ‘Take 1’ before you read.”
I comply, and say, “Hey Chicagoland, need a sweet treat? Smooth, rich chocolate from Delicious can make your day. Try our sea salt caramels and peanut butter cups...today.”
The producer presses the intercom button so I can hear him in the booth. “That was good, but can you sound like you’re talking to your best friend? And can you slow down a bit? And be more lyrical, please?”
Here we go again. I thought I already was talking to my best friend. How much is a bit? I know what lyrical means, but how do I incorporate that into my voice?
“Take 2. Whenever you’re ready.”
I read the spot again.
“Thank you.”
Was I friendly, slow and lyrical enough?
A week after my commercial shoot, I get a call to be a commuter in the movie Friends with a Bully. This is a busy month. I’m running out of vacation days fast.
I should say no. No more extra work.
I say yes.
We’re to meet at a parking lot in Evanston, about a half hour north of me. At 5:AM. Which means I have to get up at 4:15.
I’m thrilled to find the place on the first try; I must’ve checked MapQuest a dozen times. Upon arrival, a group of us are led to a van. The van drives us back to the city, ending up two miles from where I live. Argh. If they’d told me where we were going I could have slept longer. And not gotten carsick.
They walk us to a covered, steep staircase leading up to the “L” train. You may have gathered that many filmmakers come to Chicago to take advantage of our elevated train system.
Nary a star is in sight. I hear none are expected. Oh, well.
We wear coats, carry briefcases, Dunkin’ Donuts cups for product placement, I guess, cell phones and other commuter paraphernalia.
They pack most of us into the staircase like sardines, so when the director says, “Action,” we’ll burst forth from the opening at the bottom to simulate a rush hour crowd. I’m midway up the stairs, but some people are all the way at the top. A few are stationed on the sidewalk.
“ACTION!”
We race down the stairs, determined commuters in a big hurry to get to the office.
“Cut. Reset. Back to one.”
Again and again we climb the stairs and race down. I love counting, but I lose track at 183 stairs up. Fortunately, no one trips. An older woman asks if she can join the sidewalk group because her knees can’t take all the climbing. I’m a bit out of breath, but at least I’m getting some steps.
There are two intriguing elements to being an extra, also known as atmosphere or background, I’ve not yet mentioned.
First, even a lowly extra has some power...the power to screw up the shot and anger the crew by walking the wrong way or at the wrong time or bumping into someone or the camera. Second, even an extra has a certain level of cool. At most shoots, a production assistant has the job of keeping the general populace out of the scene. Often we’re positioned a good distance away from the actual shot, so we can walk into and out of it when the director calls, “Background action.” Thinking we’re gawking, too, instead of preparing to do our job, random citizens crowd around us and get in our way. This is because the sight of a movie camera still enthralls every single person in the world.
The PAs constantly ask, “Are you with us?” or, “Are you with the movie?”
Bystanders sheepishly answer ‘no’ and move away. But I can stay. I belong.
We pile back into the vans and return to Evanston, where our new holding area is a restaurant near the Metra station, a commuter train line that branches out to the farthest suburbs. We enjoy a tasty buffet lunch. A huge benefit of being an extra is the food. Especially fine since I don’t have to shop or pay for it, cook, or clean up after it.
After lunch, I’m taken to the train platform and told to walk along by the fence, then go down the stairs. Some extras are in the plaza below. The shot will be very wide, encompassing the plaza and the platform, so I’ll probably be about the size of a Barbie doll.
After an hour so of that combined with waiting for the trains to come and go, my group goes to the street across from the plaza. We walk back and forth. I can’t see the camera, which is not a good sign. I should know better than to accept a commuter “role.”
This is like my real life. I often feel I tread the same path again and again, going nowhere, but I haven’t known how to get off and do something different. How to change. How to improve. I’m working on it.
The next day, my thighs hurt from all the stair climbing.
Chapter 10
“Hello, Marla. Come in.”
I step into the spectacular office of Mark Sachs, media director of a major ad agency. He’s in his late thirties and always has a tan. Maybe he thinks being tan makes up for his receding hairline and wimpy chin. Sleek black and frosted glass furniture surrounds him.
Visiting ad agencies is my favorite part of my job. Not the presentations or meetings, but seeing the offices, which often have the most striking lobbies and amazing art. My all-time favorite agency is built around an indoor park with a brick walking path and a glass roof. Every office has a view of the trees. A huge, extra-long antique wood table imported from Europe dominates the conference room. The air was rife with creativity.
“Hello, Mark.” I sit in a slanted black chair, promptly sliding on the slippery leather to the back. My feet dangle awkwardly. I battle the steep angle and push myself to the front, which now pokes uncomfortably into my butt. “Before we discuss new business, I want to be sure Zippy Z’s Car Wash was satisfied with their last schedule.”
“I want to talk to you about that,” Mark begins. He looks past me to the door, and smiles. “Oh, hello Steve. Come on in.”
My schedule is packed. I don’t have time for interruptions.
A short man in a suit with close-cropped hair comes in carrying a garment bag and wheeling a small suitcase.
“This is Edward Braxton,” Mark says. “My personal shopper.”
His personal shopper? In the middle of my meeting?
“If you’re busy, I can come back later,” Edward offers. Nice English accent. Could be fake.
“No, no. Now’s good. Let’s see what you’ve got for me today.”
Edward wheels closer to Mark’s desk. He unzips the garment bag and displays a herringbone coat. “Our finest cashmere, as you requested. Hand-combed from goats. You can add a velvet collar if you wish.”
Edward pulls a small mirror from the front pocket of the suitcase.
Mark tries on the coat. Holding up his arms to test the fit, he preens before the mirror. “I like it. Marla, what do you think? Velvet collar or plain?”
I’m appalled. I put my finger to my chin as if I’m thinking about his stupid collar instead of the choice words I’d rather say.
“Velvet,” comes out through clenched teeth. “Adds another touch of class.”
“So true,” Mark agrees. “Velvet it is.”
Can we get back to business? Radio business, that is.
Apparently not. Mark proceeds to talk ad nauseum about an order of custom shirts with monograms on the cuffs. Wasting my time, making me late for my next appointment.
I’d rather have vendors and reps call on me than run myself ragged purveying my wares. I want to afford a personal shopper. How do I get to his side of the desk?
I’m almost as miserable as Renee Zellweger playing Bridget in Bridget Jones’s Diary when she’s in her bathtub flicking her false eyelash into the distance after finding her boss/boyfriend with another woman.
On days like today, I wonder what the point is. Why do I bother to care about my dreams? It’d be so much easier, s
o much less frustrating and stressful, to sit back, watch TV, and read other people’s books instead of being annoyed that I’m not acting in or writing my own.
What’s so wrong with enjoying other people’s creative output? I don’t know why I feel such drive to produce my own...and make money from my efforts. But this need to be recognized, appreciated and valued by external sources is as much a part of me as my greenish eyes. Both influence how I see my world.
If I give up my quest, will I be failure? Or am I merely making a different, simpler life choice?
You might wonder what sent me spiraling into this bout of despair: a “good” rejection after an audition for a corporate video I thought I’d rocked. The client took the time to tell Audrey how close I’d come and that they’d use me for something in the future. So I should be happy about being rejected, right?
Chapter 11
How do you stop wanting what you want? There’s no switch in your brain you can simply flip off and cheerfully go about your day. Wanting is ingrained, deep within your soul, and usually refuses to dissipate until satisfied. Or it morphs into something new to desire.
I’m with WZRJ’s morning DJ, Snake Eyes Marino, broadcasting live from my client O’Malley Toyota. We’ve decorated the dealership with so many red and yellow WZRJ helium balloons it might float away. Car salespeople wear WZRJ buttons and encourage people to sign up for a free Corolla raffle.
Part of my job is coming up with ideas, procuring prizes and attending station promotional events. They range from small, such as a remote broadcast like this at some advertiser’s, to large, sponsorship of, say, a major music or street festival or concert series.
Snake Eyes is a beefy, bearded, buoyant fellow who jiggles when he laughs. A huge tattoo of a green and gold snake curls around and up his right arm. His wrinkled, untucked t-shirt and messy hair present as unkempt, not the best for a “Z”-lightful rock personality. As if to make up for his less than favorable appearance, he has the most amazing, deep, rich voice and a clever way with words. Snake Eyes is a station favorite, as the number of people in line and every Arbitron ratings report attest.
Scratch that, I mean Nielsen Audio measurement. I still think of the research tools advertisers and agencies rely on for radio ratings as being from Arbitron despite the 2014 merger, just like many Chicagoans still think of Macy’s as Field’s.
“Hey there, Chicagoland, this is Snake Eyes Marino live at O’Malley Toyota in Chicago.” He’s required to mention the Toyota dealer’s name six times every hour, and Seamus O’Malley himself gets three minutes on the air. So much for his fifteen minutes of fame. “Come on down, I’d love to meet you. And...anyone who stops by can register to win a brand new Corolla! More about that coming up. Now, here’s a Mariah Carey fav.” With a smile, he turns to the first person in line and starts taking selfies and signing autographs.
I smile, too, at Seamus. My job is to keep the client happy. To do that, I need to get as many people as possible to show up. Like I can control whether Ms. or Mr. Listener will be motivated to leave wherever they are, make their way here and then look at cars. I’m lucky Snake Eyes was available. One DJ, who I will not name, is a complete jerk and hardly talks to anyone during a remote. Says he needs to concentrate on his work, i.e., the broadcast. Well, part of his work is mingling with the visitors and convincing them to participate and even listen to WZRJ.
These events grate on my nerves. Big time. I do my best to stay away from on air talent. Not because I don’t like them, but because it’s hard for me to be near them.
I am jealous. Jealous, jealous, jealous. I want to be on the radio. I want to have an awesome, announcery voice. But I’m not and I don’t. My voiceover demo has only led to one in person and a few self-submitted auditions so far, and no bookings. The green monster, a looming Godzilla replete with sharp white teeth and beady red eyes, breathes flames of sinful envy through my veins until my blood boils.
I only visit the studios, aka the land of denied opportunity that exists one floor below the sales office, when I absolutely have to. As you may recall, they won’t even let me read commercial copy. I can’t stop wanting to be the talent, and resent being stuck behind the scenes.
What if being in your industry of choice isn’t enough, as so many experts preach? What if it’s worse, because you’re constantly reminded of what you couldn’t have but still want?
What if you just love what you love?
Another Wednesday night. Linda, Brad and I are at Lilac Bistro. Kind of far north for us. It’s cozy, with pictures of lilacs hanging on the brick walls. Most of the other diners are the dark, huge, plastic framed glasses dressed in black type. They’re all skinny.
My sister looks amazing as always, in a pale blue silk sweater set and black pants, sizeable but not showy diamond studs her only jewelry. She always has a French manicure, which I’ve never been fond of. Those creamy, white-tipped nails cry too loudly, “See how sophisticated I am.”
She and Brad have been bickering since I got to their house. Trouble in paradise?
“You said you wanted to go to Hawaii for our anniversary next month,” Brad says.
You might not think a guy would care about anniversaries as much as a woman, but Brad is into holidays, birthdays and sundry special events. He notes them in his iPhone. On the last anniversary of their first date, he surprised Linda and took her to the same place they went for dinner all those years ago. How sweet is that.
“You said we could go at Christmas,” Linda shoots back.
“Why would I say that? We go to my mom’s to see my sisters and their kids at Christmas. We always drive to Minnesota.”
“Maybe I’m tired of always. Maybe for once it would be nice to be somewhere warm for the holidays.” Linda blinks in the slow, deliberate way that tells me she’s trying to stay calm.
Brad sets down his glass of Chardonnay from some vintage he specifically requested that I’ve already forgotten. He’s silent for a moment. “You went ahead and planned a work trip, didn’t you? When you knew I’d already asked for time off from the bank.”
Linda doesn’t answer. She stares at her fork.
“You did that on purpose.”
I’ve never heard Brad sound so hurt. This Hawaii trip must’ve meant a lot to him. Or represent some deeper issue between them.
Tiny pink spots highlight Linda’s cheeks. She gets them whenever she fudges the truth. “I couldn’t help it. I’ve got to finish this deal now or it’ll fall apart.”
I wonder what Linda hasn’t said. Doesn’t she want to go? Who wouldn’t want to go to Hawaii with her considerate, caring, attractive, intelligent, interesting, wealthy boyfriend?
“You could help it. You just don’t want to. And you didn’t even tell me.” I can barely hear Brad. When he gets upset, his voice gets very soft.
Linda gets shrill, like our parents. Like me. “I see. Just because you can get time off for once, I’m supposed to drop everything.”
My stomach clenches the way it does when my parents go at it. I tune Brad and Linda out and sip my Pinot Grigio, savoring the fruity flavor. It hurts to see them fight, for I think them the happiest of couples, but they’re driving me crazy.
“Why does no one teach us about relationships in school?” I wonder.
“What?” Linda asks, clearly glad for a change of subject.
“We have to study algebra and calculus, things ninety-nine percent of us never use in our daily lives. Why?”
I pick up piece number three of crusty bread and butter it. I’d told myself I wouldn’t have any, but it’s so tasty and fresh. Linda has impressive “no bread or carbs” discipline. Despite my best intentions, I don’t. Which makes me annoyed and guilty, neither of which keep me from eating my buttered bread but hindering my enjoyment.
I continue, “I found my calculus notes when I moved. I couldn’t understand what all those funny looking symbols and squiggles meant, and they’re in my handwriting. Somehow I got a B+.” I’m warming
up to my theory. “Nowhere, at any time, is a course required, or even offered that I remember, where we’d learn how to communicate better with our significant others and our families. Even our co-workers. Why can’t we learn ways to help us work through difficult times with those who are close to us? How to deal with and better express our feelings?”
Linda glares at Brad before poking at her salad, dressing on the side. “Good point. Why is that?”
“Maybe when you’ve been around someone too long there’s simply nothing left to say.” Brad cuts a small piece off his steak and puts it on his bread plate. A treat for their dog Bubbles.
“I didn’t hear that.” Linda stabs a grape tomato. “Because no one’s good enough at communicating to teach it.”
“Very funny. I’m serious,” I say. “Maybe that’s why the divorce rate is so high...and why so many families are dysfunctional. Because no one knows how to talk, really talk to each other about difficult topics.”
“Isn’t there some book about that, about men and women and planets?” Brad asks.
“Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus by John Gray,” Linda answers so fast I wonder if she’s read it. If she has, its tenets don’t seem to be working for her tonight. Anyone caught between the glares flying between the two of them would surely incinerate.
I thought they were fortunate to have found each other. They seem to get along well, and share interests and tastes. Now I wonder if I’m the lucky one. I receive no kisses, sex, romance or companionship, but experience no stress or disappointment, either.
I don’t have to work to keep a relationship alive or worry about being betrayed or abandoned.
As usual, I check my e-mail with trepidation. Have I been rejected or not? Are new auditions coming my way? No and no, but the advertising agency sent my Smithson’s commercial!
I click play. There I am. Looking and sounding great.