Mumbai immediately came to mind. Mumbai (formerly called Bombay) is India’s most populous city and the home of Bollywood, which is the catch-all name given both to a type of large-scale, commercial movie the city is famous for and the industry scene itself. While at Minerva we focus on energizing and evolving the conversation of the LA acting life, I’ve always hoped we’d have the opportunity to explore acting in Bollywood.  When Mark Bennington, one of LA’s busiest headshot photographers, sent me an email about an on-going project in which he’s juxtaposing images of the Hollywood actor and the Bollywood actor, I knew I’d found our man.

While the term ‘Bollywood movie’ is likely to evoke images of the family-oriented musical romances that are the industry’s economic powerhouses, Mumbai is also home to a rich tradition of independent filmmaking that began with the Parallel Cinema movement of the 1950s. In the 1970s, Bollywood films began to take an ever-increasing share of the international box office, with particularly large audiences in the US and Russia. And of course, with the attention brought by the recent success of Slumdog Millionaire, a new crop of international producers and investors is exploring the city’s film community.  Last month, Mark and I sat down to discuss his January 2010 trip to Mumbai to document the lives of its actors. He was immediately struck by how much the city felt like LA – the beaches, the population, the big dreams, and, of course, “the Starbucks where all the aspiring actors hang out.” Here are a selection of photos from this work-in-progress and the stories behind the images.

Ashwin Mushran

One enormous difference between Hollywood and Bollywood is the absence of acting unions in India. As such, residuals payments for actors don’t exist, and the industry functions relatively agent-less; actors negotiate their own deals, and actors at all levels find auditions through their personal networks and word-of-mouth. Ashwin Mushran, a Mumbai native, attended drama school at The Drama Studio in London. Ashwin’s career is exceptional because he works in several areas of the industry (voice over, movies, television) at once. Explains Mark, “There’s far less cross-over between media for the actor in Mumbai than in the States.” Ashwin is also one of the few to have a manager. Many of his opportunities come from his three years of starring on The Great Indian Comedy Show, a popular television series. His current bread-and-butter, like many American actors’, is commercials. Though booking a couple of ‘nationals’ a year isn’t going to cut it for the Mumbai actor; with a day rate of 7,000 rupees ($150.00) and no residuals, there’s no downtime from the hustle.

Puja Verma

In this photo, Puja Verma prepares in her dressing room of Bhagya Vidhata, a popular soap opera. Puja comes to acting after attending college in the US and working a corporate job in Minneapolis. Upon her return to India, she took an acting class as a hobby and saw an audition posting for the soap at her acting studio. She won the part and now spends on average 25 days a month shooting.

Neetu Chandra

Neetu Chandra is in her prime as a Bollywood starlet. She works only in features and is recognized as one of the country’s most exciting up-and-comers, “Comparable to Charlize Theron, 10 years ago,” says Mark. Neetu is from Northern India and began working after a year-and-a-half of struggling in Mumbai. One of Neetu’s particular talents is using the press to keep her image in front of the public and producers. At the time of this shoot, Neetu was in the news for appearing in a newspaper in risque, Sapphic photographs with another actress. Mark was struck at how assertively she managed their session, coming to set – entourage in tow – with tons of ideas for

Neetu Yogas

set-ups. Yet despite the star trappings, Mark said she was “sweet as can be” throughout the shoot and ended the day by extending an invitation to tea with her and her brother.

Mussasir Zafar at Whistling Woods Film School

Whistling Woods International is an established film school in Mumbai that offers a two-year acting program. In this photo, student Muddasir Zafar participates in an emotional recall exercise. With a $29,000 price tag, the program is in the reach of only the most privileged students. One of the organizing structures of Indian society is its caste-system, a Hindu social stratification system in which social classes are defined by hereditary groups. Though caste-based discrimination was outlawed by India’s Constitution in 1949, the system is still prevalent and certain professions are dominated, controlled, and/or accessed only by certain castes and sub-castes. As such, Mark explained, “It’s likely that you have to be pretty well-off, to have a lot of support from home, to come to the big city and try to make it acting. Survival jobs don’t really exist. Maybe here and there, but – because of the caste system – you can’t just go out and get a job waiting tables.”

Naved Aslam

“Mumbai is India’s film city, Delhi is its theater capital – much like the LA/New York split here,” explains Mark. Naved Aslam spent the 80s in Delhi as a theater actor and then began working behind the scenes in Mumbai’s film industry in the 90s. As an actor, he started working steadily in films in 2000. Naved still works in the theater, though, including a turn in an Indian production of Threepenny Opera that toured the states in 2004. He also teaches acting. What stood out about Naved during the shoot? “He has so much integrity in the way he talked about acting, theater, the whole process,” says Mark.  “He’s seriously dedicated.”

Shashi Kapoor

Shashi Kapoor is the proprietor of The Prithibi Theater in Mumbai, one of Mumbai’s most established theaters, “Like the CTG, The Taper in LA,” says Mark. Shashi is a member of the Kapoor family, a huge theater dynasty in India (comparable to the Barrymores or Lunts back in the day) and was a “megastar” in films in the 1960s and 70s.

Deepak Dobriyal has been in the business for ten years. He too started in the theater in Delhi and moved to Mumbai in 2002. He recently won a Special Performance Filmfare Award (India’s equivalent of the Oscar) for an adaptation of Othello called Omkara. He now gets offers for parts, but he still auditions frequently, estimating that he’s booked 25 jobs out of 1,000 auditions. Here, Deepak sits in producer Guneet Monga’s office. “The movie industry in Mumbai feels like a giant campus,” says Mark. “When they’re not working, between appointments, everyone just hangs out in each others offices, playing ping pong, hatching ideas and plans.”

Deepak Dobriyal

Gaurav Gera spent three years acting with Ashwin in The Great Indian Comedy Show and now appears on another comedy series for Sony in which he plays a woman (which, he says, happens often). He began his career as a dancer and then got his break on India’s version of Ugly Betty (playing a man). He works 4-7 days a month at $3,000 a day, much of it earned hosting award shows and charity functions. “He was so relaxed,” said Mark. “See his shirt? ‘Cheers to Being Single’? That’s Gaurav.”

Gaurev Gera

Mark recalled that, in each of his conversations, the actors said it would be the “will of God” that would ultimately determine the height of their careers. The decision to come to Mumbai to pursue their dreams was a way of embracing their destiny, whereas so many of us come to Hollywood in order to transcend what we perceive as ours. Bollywood’s ethos is to “dream bigger” at the same time that one’s opportunity to even play the game is deeply influenced by one’s place in the caste system. Yet India’s biggest star is Sharukh Khan, whose working class Muslim origins placed him far outside the Hindu establishment. “They love him,” explains Mark, “because his is such a Hollywood story.” As with any vibrant artistic community, Bollywood’s creative lifeblood, like Los Angeles’, may lie in its contradictions.

Mark will return to Mumbai later this year to continue documenting its actors. To see more images of this project and others (including his headshot work), visit his website.

Post Title Image – Puja Verma on the set of Bhagya Vidhata

All images copyright Mark Bennington Photography

Risa has cast over 65 movies including Desperately Seeking Susan, Wall Street, Something Wild, Angel Heart, Fatal Attraction, Born on the Fourth of July, Talk Radio, JFK, Sneakers, The Joy Luck Club, True Romance, Speed, How To Make An American Quilt, Dead Presidents, Twister, and Flirting with Disaster and numerous television shows, including Roseanne, CSI:NY, and the recent Universal/NBC pilot, The Cape, which was picked up for 2011. Risa was a Producer on Oliver Stone’s films Heaven and Earth and Natural Born Killers, movies she also cast. Risa’s developed a passion for teaching. She holds Master Classes in acting and auditioning in Los Angeles & throughout the US and Canada. She coaches actors on an individual basis as well. Visit her Facebook Page for more on her class schedule and her blog with audition advice and career perspective.

What is it about what we do that we love? What makes us do this thing? This acting thing. How much is it artistry? How much is it salesmanship? How much of it is just the grind in pursuit of the chance to be who we really are?

We knock on the door of possibility, hoping that someone inside will throw it open, embrace us, and take us in out of the storm. Sit us by the roaring fire of desired success and tell us how safe we are now, how wonderful we are, how fine it’s all going to be. Well here’s the truth of it – When that door opens, the storm rages on. It’s like the door of a standing set on a sound stage – there’s nothing there but more sound stage.

Once the opportunity presents itself, it’s most likely filled with more pressure, more compromise, more disappointment. It’s never what we expected, what we set up for ourselves. The stakes are higher. Everything’s on the line.

I recently cast a TV pilot – The Cape – and I have to say, as difficult as these experiences always are (pilots are excruciating births), this one was pretty pain-free. I worked on a good project with really good people and I was able to maintain my sanity and my dignity (no easy task for me.) And then the show was picked up for series. And I, knowing better, imagined a paradise of success and happiness. Not so fast… The storm clouds have gathered. As Margo Channing said: “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.”

And while the people are good, and it’s good to have the work, the nature of the beast is that once we get to the other side of that door, the magic is gone and it’s time to get real. In this case, the daily grind of putting out a show and juggling the many new egos that have shown up for the party. The honeymoon’s over.  Grab the last lifeboat. Don’t look back. And the only person who will determine our success – creative and otherwise, our peace of mind and heart… is each of us.

We have so much stuff we have to deal with that’s outside of the real work – the joy of acting, directing, writing, creating.  We have to hustle, to train, to work out, to rehearse, to prepare, to drive long distances in hot cars and immovable traffic just to get to a place where we can have a chance, a moment, to leap into the unknown for 3 minutes, which really only means 20 seconds before they start to twitch, itching to check their iPhones. The suspended instant when we pray that our 10 – 40 years of work will manifest themselves before the crucible closes. We have to work our managers and agents and friends who we dare to ask for favors – if we have managers and agents and friends who will even email us back. We have to find the time for “meaningful self-exploration” and shrink appointments and coaches and hair dying and pilates and… life. And if we don’t get the job, we have to do it again and again and again.

And we see the shows and the movies and know we can do as well, most likely better. Eventually we get angry, tired, disheartened, depressed. We tell ourselves it’s not personal, it’s not about us. But it breaks our hearts. And we start to shut down, to protect that wonderful, open, vulnerable part of ourselves that made us the pure, innocent, devoted artist we know ourselves to be. We don’t recognize ourselves anymore. We stop even wanting to approach the door. We can’t imagine the roaring fire. The only thing roaring is our resentment.

Here’s the thing. That’s all normal. Reasonable. It’s real. It’s human. But we cannot give up our souls to the process of getting work. We can’t weaken. We can’t retreat. We have to find ways to protect ourselves from the rejection and from the heartlessness. We have to protect our artist selves – the fragile and pure creators in us. While at the same time embracing the transaction of our talent for hire. It’s part of what we have to do. And we can actually find a way to welcome, even love it… It’s possible. If we open our hearts and remember the joy of the creative flow that called to us long ago and demanded that we show up every day to do this thing, this intangible, unwrangle-able, scary thing. And then bring ourselves to the door, armored and intrepid.

Do we have to love it all? Of course not. Some of it is incredibly stupid and horrible. And none of that belongs to us. But we do have to love the part of it that we can claim. Our artistry. And there’s artistry in every phase of it. In managing people, in navigating the industry, in preparing ourselves for the moment the door opens, in handling the meetings and auditions and time on the set, and… in letting it go.

There’s an absolute need for artistry in all parts of our lives, enhancing and infusing the work with the passion of our families, our homes, our friends, our other creative endeavors. When Rebecca Romijn had her twins, she became a better actor. I directed her in a film last year and she was more joyful, free, and truly deep in her work. It can be our kids or our rock band or our blog writing or our inward journey, but we all need a place, a way to get purely connected to the expression of our artist selves.

Recently, when I was teaching in Chicago, an actress who had been sitting quietly in the corner for hours, almost invisibly, came down to do a scene. She seemed sort of plain at first, hunched over, not aware of her power and her beauty. But her work was gorgeous. The kind of work that’s free of self-awareness, free of judgment. It’s the kind of work that’s undeniable. She took my breath away. Along with the entire class. It even caught her by surprise. She was so fully inside the “want” of the character. So connected to the other actor. So in the moment. Specific, truthful, willing, available, emotionally present…  And I realized that this is what we have to strive for every day. Focusing on that moment of pure connection, abandoning all expectation, believing absolutely in the creative gods who transport us.

My 13 year-old daughter has been singing in a small kids’ choir, backing up Dead Man’s Bones, Ryan Gosling and Zach Shields’ band. Raw, soulful, eerie, with the sweet humor of this quirky kids’ chorus. Watching them on stage (as I seem to have become a rock ’n roll stage mom) I understand that even someone with infinite “success” finds his liberation in creating something personal and meaningful, on his own terms, and outside the industry that celebrates ambition, celebrity and fast cash. This solidifies for me the core truth that we must each find the divine creation that guides us. We must believe in the spirit of our inspiration and make it our practice to serve our artistry. Every day. Sounds a little religious. Well, in many ways this is our faith. This is our divinity. And that belief, that connection, frees us, and then, somehow, everything else works. It puts it all in perspective. It relieves the pressure. It flows good energy into those places that are artificial and stuck. It makes it easier to love the rest of it. It keeps us true to our artistry, to our humanity, to ourselves. And in fact, it removes the door altogether.

An Insider’s Look at Booking and Shooting TV Guest Stars by Neil Hopkins

Emmy Winning CD Holly Powell on the 4 Steps to Casting a Series Regular

Jason Pugatch on Getting Dropped by Your Agent

Love, Work and Documentaries by Claire Winters

The Actor as Translator: Miki Yamashita on Industry Expectations of Bilingual Actors

Video Interview with Silas Weir Mitchell from Prison Break Parts One and Two by Sarah Sido

Video Interview with Dileep Rao, Star of Avatar and Drag Me to Hell by Claire Winters and Kristina Klebe

How to Set Up a Home Recording Studio by Yuri Lowenthal & Tara Platt

Building a Project with The Artist’s Way by Claire Winters

Grants for Actors by Claire Winters

Photo By The Alieness Gisela Giordano

Using Facebook and Twitter to Grow Your Acting Career By Puja Mohindra

Interview with Celebrity Publicist Joy Donnell: Parts One and Two By Sarah Sido

Know Your Target Audience to Market Like a Pro! By Dallas Travers

Do Less More Often to Change Your Career: Parts One and Two By Dallas Travers

Holiday Party Networking Tips By Betsy Capes

Stagetribes.com: a New Social Network for Actors By Justin Waggle

Photo By Luc Legay

It was my first day ever on the set of a network primetime series, having been cast in a principal role on an episode of Law & Order. Veteran director Jace Alexander had a giant camera pointed at me, and the three people next to me: Jerry Orbach, Jesse L. Martin, and action star Will Yun Lee. They all waited. A massive crew of over 70 people on that day’s set, the lobby of the Tribeca Grand Hotel, all waited. For me. To translate into Japanese a new line that had been given to me moments earlier, by the showrunner. As soon as I could translate this line, this army of people, including the two series leads, would be mobilized, and this scene could be shot.

Are you crapping your pants yet? Well, don’t.

If you’re a bilingual actor, this could be you on any given day that you are hired to perform in a second language. This is the Actor as Translator.

Being bilingual is a skill that can help give you an edge in any profession. Even in the seemingly random roulette wheel of the acting business, a special skill is just that: it makes you special— at least at the moment there is a need for the skill you possess. Being able to speak another language can mean the difference between sitting on your couch watching Law & Order, and being on the set as a working principal actor. “Special talents, skills, languages, etc., will always be another tool to help get an actor in the door for a specific role,” says Annie Schwartz, commercial and theatrical agent and co-owner of Origin Talent in Los Angeles (full disclosure: Annie represents me commercially).

But first, let’s clarify a few vital matters. The bilingual actor often finds herself wading in murky waters. What exactly are her responsibilities? I’ve learned over the years through trial, error, and near pants-crapping experiences, that most television, film, and commercial production staff hold the following assumption: if you are an actor who is bilingual, you are also a professional-level interpreter.

Got that? That’s number one. In other industries, it is understood that translation is an extremely specialized profession that is entirely separate from an individual who simply speaks a second language. But this is showbiz. So translate you must. “When a specific breakdown from a casting director requests actors who speak a specific language, they are very specific on the needs of their client,” relates Annie. “If you are well represented, your agent should be aware or find out your qualifications and abilities, so that he can become a trusted source for the casting community.”

Communication of this information from CD to agent to actor is key. You’d be surprised how often this doesn’t happen. I once had a co-star audition for Heroes and my theatrical agent (not the above-mentioned Annie Schwartz), haphazardly read me a section of the breakdown over the phone: “Must be Japanese.” Well, I downloaded the English sides, and prepared to read with a Japanese accent, and without. I got there and found out that the breakdown actually specified “Must speak Japanese.” I had a total of ten minutes to translate the lines, rehearse them in my mind, and perform them on camera.

If you’re lucky, the sides you download will specify the language in the scene description prior to your character’s first line. For example, it will look like this:

INT. IMMIGRATION OFFICE – DAY

JUNKO YAMADA, immigration attorney, sits across from her client. In Japanese:

JUNKO YAMADA

The judge will not hear your case for quite some time.

You could be detained up to a year.

Okay, so even if your agent drops the ball, the sides will hopefully let you know that you are expected to translate and perform in the second language.

First, divide your workload. Focus on translation first, then rehearsal. As with any audition, try to get as much information as possible about the character, their economic class, their profession, and whom they are speaking to and in what setting. Ewan Chung, a Los Angeles actor who is fluent in both Mandarin and French, says that about 25 percent of his audition opportunities require his language skills. “Find the most succinct way to express the same things as in English. Then tweak it to fit the character. Idiomatic expressions will always throw you off, so sometimes you have to get creative and approach lines from a different angle. Anything that’s slang-riddled will be much more challenging. And profession-specific terminology can be the most daunting.”

Unlike English, foreign languages tend to have many distinct layers of formality that are accounted for, depending on who is speaking, and to whom. If you can’t get all the information you need, do the best with what you have, and then remain flexible. I like to write down in the margin next to the English lines the translation, in the level of Japanese that I can easily read. Sometimes I don’t have enough space, in which case I scrap the original copy and rewrite the entire scene by hand. If you can’t read or write in the second language, you will have to find another way that works for you. “I don’t write Korean,” says Rose Bae, an L.A. actress. “So I read the line silently in English, and say the line in Korean, and practice that way.” The diverse levels of ability amongst actors can make things pretty hairy. “I often get anxious when asked to audition for a Korean-speaking role, because sometimes there is a disparity between what facility level is expected of me, and what I can actually do. And frankly, if you don’t have the goods, it can be humiliating.” Annie Schwartz stresses that the client and agent really need to be on the same page: “Be honest about how well or proficient you are in a language or any skill for that matter. This is what will give your agent and the casting company the confidence that you don’t waste anyone’s time and that when they do call you in you deliver.”

Keep in mind while rehearsing for the audition that in most cases, no one in the audition room will know what the heck you are saying! So naturally, this can cause a few issues. Be prepared for the fact that the reader is going to respond to your foreign language lines in English. Unless you remain aware of that while rehearsing, it can be jarring in the audition room. Another problem is that they may cut you off before you are finished with your line, because they don’t know that you aren’t finished! Be aware that all pauses between sentences need to be briefer than when you perform in English; anticipate the next portion of your line, or jump the pause by just a hair so the reader does not cut you off. But of course, stay true to the intention of your character and what is appropriate for the scene.

So. Figuring out what level of language skill the role requires, how your character would speak (given their history, status, the other character in the scene), rewriting entire scenes by hand, rehearsing with the audition environment in mind; all of this can be extremely time consuming. But here’s the thing. Like with most auditions, you will almost never have as much time as you need. “One-day turnarounds are the worst,” says Ewan. “I wish production would be aware of that and allow as much prep time as possible.” Rose describes the worst time-crunch she ever faced: “I got the sides in English at 6pm for a 10am audition the following day. Let’s just say it was a long night.”

Know that your job might not be over after the audition. If you book the job, you’ll be wishing you were lucky enough to have a 16-hour translation turnaround. Once you’re on-set, anything goes. Remember, I personally had Jerry Orbach and 70 crew members at a standstill (albeit briefly, because I got the job done, and fast). “Be good at translating quickly, or have access to people who can help you. Bring a dictionary to the audition, and to the set. And have your mom readily available,” Ewan says, half-jokingly. But seriously. I was lucky that the line I was given on the Law & Order set was simple enough for me to translate on the spot without help. But it’s best to have on hand someone who has a higher level of fluency than you do. Because my parents are both bilingual, and are also teachers by trade, their help and expertise make it possible for me to seek top-level counsel before an audition in Japanese. And they would have been reachable by cell phone had I needed immediate advice between takes.

It’s not always a stress-fest. Estella Perez is an L.A. actress who constantly auditions for market-specific commercials that are entirely in Spanish. Because Spanish is a more widely used alternate language in the United States, Estella says that even though she has more facility in English, she speaks Spanish almost every day, so she is accustomed to switching gears quickly. “Fifty percent of the time, the sides are provided in Spanish for commercial auditions,” she says, “but I show up ready to translate on the spot.” Annie Schwartz constantly fields requests for Hispanic actors: “If it’s a Spanish speaking commercial, a casting person will highlight the parameters to the agent on the breakdown exactly what they need.”

Compared to commercial auditions, however, Estella finds that when her translation skills are called upon in theatrical auditions, there is often a missing link. “Latinos are so broad-based, and there are different dialects. Is the character from Central America? From Spain? There are so many possibilities if the information is not provided.” Again, communicate with your agent and get as much information as possible.

Pulling double-duty as translator and actor is both a blessing and a curse. Estella struggles with being pigeon-holed in the Hispanic category when she could easily play other ethnicities. “Because of my surname being ‘Perez,’ I can get lumped in with other Hispanics, but I would love to be able to read for more roles that are ‘ethnicity open.’”

Still, she says, “if I have a special skill that gets me an audition, the point is, I got the audition.”

For the bilingual actor, regardless of the additional responsibility of translation, some factors will remain constant. You are portraying a character with specific circumstances, history, and a specific objective in the scene. In fact, it can be liberating to look into the eyes of a reader who hears your utterances as gibberish, and having to use the rest of your being to communicate your character’s intention. It’s almost a classic acting exercise. “Just be a good actor,” says Rose. “The camera and the casting director will see that, even if they don’t understand the language. If you are a good actor, the challenge can be met.”

Today we continue excerpting interviews from the Acting in Horror documentary I’m directing with Kristina Klebe (whose credits include Rod Zombie’s Halloween & Zone of the Dead, for which she just won Italy’s Fantasy Horror Award for Best Actress).

As we work, I’m continually struck by how many of our most established stars and filmmakers got their start in the horror genre. On the Academy Awards telecast this year, Ron Howard toasted horror producer extraordinaire Roger Corman, who received the Academy’s Governors Award for his contributions to filmmaking.  He recalled Corman’s tough love during his first directing gig (on the Corman-produced Grand Theft Auto): “Ron, I have to tell you two things: 1) you’re going to have to make this (huge crowd) scene work with 47 extras, and 2) and I can promise you this – if you continue to do a good job on this picture, you’ll never have to work for me again!”

With its technical demands, tight schedules, and expectation of profitability, it seems that horror is a proving ground for those of us breaking into features, and particularly for those of us not born into the Hollywood system. If you can deliver truth and entertainment in this structure, under these conditions, you’ve got some goods.

I met Dileep Rao when I was a student at American Conservatory Theater. Dileep had graduated and had returned to the theater to appear in the American premier of Tom Stoppard’s Indian Ink. After several more years of regional theater and pounding the pavement in LA (during which the one-time science major found time for a winning stint on Jeopardy), he was cast in his first feature film in 2007. My first film was Calico’s Tale, a SUNY-Purchase student short in which I got ‘hit’ by a car in the parking lot of a Yonkers A & P Supermarket. Dileep’s was Avatar. Avatar. Shortly after filming what would become the world’s highest- grossing movie ever, he was cast in a leading role in Sam Raimi’s Drag Me to Hell.

Despite these recent high-profile gigs (a streak he continues with a role in Christopher Nolan’s upcoming film Inception), Dileep remains the journeyman’s journeyman, always quick to come out to support colleagues and offer newcomers encouragement and advice. Today he shares his perspective on the particulars of auditioning in LA, the relationship to one’s fans in the horror genre, and staying present while filming special effects-laden scenes.

To view more of this series, check out these earlier posts in which director Paul Solet discusses acting in horror and the making of his feature Grace.

Photo of Alison Lohman and Dileep Rao in Drag Me to Hell. Courtesy of Universal Pictures.
Video Intro by Ryan Kravetz

A few years ago, as I was leaving the ingenue phase of my casting, I began searching for parts of the business that offered the chance to play “act-able” roles (ie, characters pursuing strong objectives rather than functioning as ornamentation or glorified set-dressing) to women of all ages, and I kept coming back to the horror genre. When Sarah and I began Brains, I knew I’d want to find a way to help our readers pursue this work with intelligence, dignity, fun & adventure.

Last fall, serendipity arrived in the form of a Facebook message from actor Kristina Klebe. Kristina and I met years ago in New York acting in a production of Caryl Churchill’s (ghoulish) play The Skriker. Kristina found Brains through Seth Michael May’s post on audition anxiety and offered her services as a contributor.  In the years since we met, Kristina has gone on to recurring and guest starring roles in several television shows (Criminal Minds, CSI: Miami, Rescue Me) and independent and studio films (She Hate Me, Peter and Vandy, and a recent comedic turn in the upcoming 6 Month Rule, opposite Martin Starr). Her career gained significant momentum when she was cast as Lynda in Rob Zombie’s remake of  Halloween. Kristina also plays the lead in the upcoming horror movie Zone of the Dead. Who better, I thought, to collaborate with on an exploration of working in horror? Two months ago, Kristina and I began working on a documentary short about acting in the genre. We’ll be excerpting  sections of it here in the upcoming months, and we are thrilled to kick things off with an interview with Grace director Paul Solet.

When I arrived in LA I met with manager who said to me, “You have to decide whether you want to be in a horror movie or go to Sundance.” I replied, “I want to be in a horror movie that goes to Sundance.” Mr. Manager laughed. Mr. Manager hadn’t met Mr. Solet. Paul is a wonderfully articulate director and has many great things to say about working in horror and acting and movie industry in general. Paul’s first feature Grace, starring Cabin Fever’s Jordan Ladd and Canadian actor Gabrielle Rose, screened at Sundance in 2009 and is currently available on DVD.

Video Intro by Ryan Kravetz

I’ve been auditioning for professional acting jobs for (cue scream of horror) thirty years. Auditioning is, indeed, a micro-art unto itself. It is an art within a presumably artistic business, an art fraught with frustration, futility, humiliation, anxiety, hidden crafts, and on very rare occasion, magic — magic that isn’t necessarily contingent upon getting the job. The magic happens when preparation and skill mix with the receptivity of the people for whom you’re auditioning — in spite of the pressures that would seem to preclude that possibility — and all within the room are transported, for a moment, beyond the rather unappealing business at hand.

A few of my general premises:

1) Show business is a mad, mad, mad, mad world.  Mediocrity is all too often the cream that rises; why does so much talent go nowhere, why does so much crap go everywhere? Don’t ask.  Literally.  To maintain a steady sanity, it is essential to accept, again and again, the fact of a systemic, smiling insanity and inanity. One must let go of finding a Why in so very many instances.  Particularly for the analytical amongst us, “But why?” leads to tortured madness.  Best to cultivate many warm, wise touchstones in your “real” life.  Best to learn to laugh.  Best to develop a philosophical, practical view of the landscape.

2) There is a greater, albeit hidden acting skill called forth in an audition equal to and often greater than importance of the actual acting skill required to make the given material shine: the subtle but impenetrable pretense that one has automatic respect for and takes delight in the talent, the taste, and the company of the people for whom one’s auditioning.  So often, we’re walking into rooms seething with invisible, toxic tension. I guess I always figured it was a rather masochistic, but necessary, part of the gig to appear grounded and spontaneous and happy and confident – and then start acting.

Back in New York, I was so used to being dissed that I could perform as if the folks auditioning me were paying full attention, even if they were talking throughout, at a desk six feet in front of me. The saving of my dignity, again, at such times, was to, say, directly stare at them while they were talking, as I vocally and physically pretended to be fully invested in what I was doing. Yet, I must say, I’m sad that I had no idea how not to stand for such unkindness and disrespect.  Perhaps that’s why I became so diligent at finding ways to recover my dignity after auditions, as it has been so often compromised.

3) My audition credo has been, “Give ‘em trouble.” In other words, make such a memorable, exciting impression, that when they can’t cast you, for whatever reason, they feel torn; they can’t cast the Name, the friend, the sister-in-law, or the prettier woman, with a completely clear conscience. That means go in prepared, looking swell, and reading fabulously. Leave them confused, at the very least, as to what to do about you. That aggression shouldn’t show (yes, one more layer of acting required), one embodies that dynamism in the preparation. It won’t remotely guarantee a job, but I’ve found that it bolsters my inner strength. Particularly when I’m going in for the ones I really, really want, it helps me to leave feeling myself to be a person of craft, whatever the result. I find it’s a far more powerful trajectory than to go in, hat in hand, hoping to be approved of.

4) The control/lack of control thing: As I have found to be true over and over and over and over again, from casting directors, actors, producers, directors, the grapevine — there are infinitely variable elements that result in a person getting cast.  All you can do is control your turf; you can’t begin to control anything else.

5) When I first started out in New York, whether I was up at three a.m. to wait in a line that wrapped twice around the block to hand in my picture, whether I walked 70 blocks in the transit strike, or sang some song for the hundredth time, I poured every molecule of concentration and energy and hope into every single audition. I realized, eventually, that if — on top of all that, on top of all the pay the rent gigs — every time I walked into one of these things, I said to myself, “Is this It? This could be It!”, and it wasn’t even remotely ever It, the cumulative disappointment would kill me.  I began to realize that the very lifestyle itself was the embodiment of hope, and that any more hope than that would break my heart and spirit. So, I began to develop a healthy cynicism to protect my optimism.  It helped me to make it a discipline to Let Go, to Move On, after each audition.  (See number 4.  Then,1.) Yes, much, much easier said than done, you bet.

6) The audition performance itself is not, I have found, contingent upon my acting choices alone. I only get to be as funny or as moving or as interesting as the audience at hand, the chemistry of the collective, is willing for me to be.

Out of the now, yes, yikes, thousands of auditions (including voiceovers), a few pop out in this moment as good, bad, and ugly.

Theatre auditions have always been my favorite.  The sweeping, very generalized truth of this being that the material is better, the directors are smarter, the atmosphere is more conducive to Art. I suppose, too, I enjoy them because much of the theatre for which I’ve auditioned has given me stylistic room to spread my wings, vocally and visually.

When I auditioned for La Bete on Broadway (which I subsequently got), I wore high-necked ruffles and buckled shoes and felt perfectly at home, and not the least over-dressed. The accent was English, the play was in highly literate rhyme, the style was delicious to play. I read the script into dust, though always held the book, so as not to give the impression that this was a complete, static performance.  The audition was in a theatre; this, in and of itself, can lend a potent dash of delight to the endeavor. Now, these folks were aiming to put on a great production; so things were planned expertly, the reader was a fine actor, the director was articulate and imaginative during the audition.
There was a Neil Simon play at the Taper: True, this audition was already an exercise in near pointlessness, as most of the characters were already cast with TV names. But Neil himself would be there, so I was seriously excited.  The play (in my opinion) was not good, actually, and very pretentious, meaning to be dark and faux French, with black, bleak, I-hate-marriage humor.

Sadly, the man himself was as dour a person as I’d ever seen behind an audition desk.  His eyes were dead, his energy was unfriendly and even unkind. The reader was pleasant enough, tried hard, but was an average, dull, dramatic TV actor, who had no sense of the sharpness required to make such material cut into the air, and anything that might’ve been funny, might’ve been theatrical, was just mushed into mediocrity.  I left, praying I wouldn’t have a chance (I’ve done that a lot, when the audition has been so full of oppression and unhappiness), and knowing full well that there was nothing I could’ve done to shift the energy in that room.

I sang and read for Bob Fosse, and he was (which I believe he was for every single person that walked onto that stage), absolutely rapt. He was leaning on the seat in front of him, with his face in his hands, looking up at me onstage, as if he were falling in love. He was divine, and it was a heavenly, moving experience.  Auditioning for a gentle genius who completely wants you to be wonderful — well, all you have to do is bring your best stuff, and show up.  The chemistry does the rest, and if the show’s yours, it’s yours, and if it ain’t, you’ve given and been given a golden little gift, and a sweet, eternal memory has been made. Makes my heart sing even now, remembering.

Now, film auditions vary wildly according to the director, of course.  Most, I have found, tend to like the feeling that you Are the character, and wouldn’t have to waste anybody’s time actually acting.  So, once again, the acting on top of the acting: in this case, acting like you’re not acting.  Also, the embracing of spontaneaity is key: it took some time for perfectionist me to understand the value of a flub-up; mistakes allow personality and vulnerability to come through, and, on a good day, wit.  And then there’s just plain pretending; I got cast once just having a long, rather dull conversation, never reading a line, acting like I was interested.

Carl Reiner’s audition for That Old Feeling was a rare joy.  I’d gone in to read for one role — one of the second leads for whom I was not remotely beautiful enough, but for which my agent had miraculously elbowed me in anyway.  Mr. Reiner had me read for three other roles, all with different accents, and was full of praise and fun. I had dressed (purposefully, knowing that I had zero chance at the lead) as someone sort of sexily eccentric and unique, and the choice worked in my favor; he loved my outfit, I made a few cracks, and the scene was set for the spirit of improvisation from the start, so that when he threw the other roles at me, and I read them cold, I was a happy fish in clear water.  But he set the tone — welcoming, encouraging, and fun-loving. I didn’t get cast, but I left feeling validated.  Again, though, I could only be as funny and clever and dexterous as he was willing for me to be.

I once auditioned for Woody Allen.  It was quite a moment.  I’d flown into New York especially, and it symbolized the closure of a very long road for me; I had visions of waking up at 3:00 A.M. twenty years prior, to camp out in line on the sidewalk for his cattle calls, only to stand for fifteen seconds — no kidding — in front of a camera, and be pushed out of frame by some PA.  The only possible preparation for this present audition was to get as calm as was humanly possible. I just hung out in the hotel room, ate, watched movies, and didn’t call any of my New York friends, whom I knew would get too excited for me, and I’d “catch” their well-meaning nerves.

The man himself was quite warm and very shy. He’d set up his office in such a way that the very comfortable chair the actor was to sit in was lit beautifully. This was so clever, because when you sat down, you immediately felt like you were actually being filmed, not by some horrible videotape, but by the real thing — thus that elusive sparkle would be that much more likely to spark. So smart, I thought.

At a Woody Allen audition, one gets handed a few pages of dialogue, having no clue as to character or context, a few minutes to study it, then you go in and have at it. I loved the challenge, and found it great fun. I also thought he did something very brilliant, which other actors, from what I’ve heard since, have hated; he hid himself almost entirely, peeking out from behind some partition, or pillar. It sounds odd, I know, but the effect, for me, was significant — freedom from watching Woody Allen watch you.

My only impediment during that audition was the casting director, who was obviously burned out and moving too fast. When a casting director reads with an actor, they always — with the exception of this one time — wait to see if the actor’s ready to start. Not her. The nano-second my ass hit that chair she was off and reading. I covered and caught up, the scene went well, but I wanted her dead.  Acting, though, like…I didn’t want to rip her head off and thought she was just a peach of a gal.

To Television. The most frustration I have experienced as an actor — by leaps, bounds, and light years — has been being caught in the wheels of the creation of the “fill” in between those car commercials.  The people have been generally more self-important, more insecure, more pressured, more panicked, less intelligent, less artistic.  Also, they tend to travel in great packs — rooms full of writer/producers, rooms full of executives, everyone terrified to act alone.

My first audition for a series television was a sampling of the feelings of, by no means all, but so very many others that were to follow.  I left feeling thoroughly humiliated, and wanting to bathe in Comet.

I was in Orange County touring with a revival of Stop the World, I Want To Get Off in 1988, playing the lead — four different lady loves — opposite Anthony Newley. A writer/producer had seen me and come backstage, asking me if I would like to audition for a Jim Henson live-action TV sitcom. Why, sure, who wouldn’t?! He tells me it’ll be such a “nice, relaxed room,” and we’ll all have “so much fun,” that it’s a “love project.” Ah, the smell of bullshit in the air.  Having never smelled it before, it smelled like roses to me.

I get the script in my hotel room. I am appalled. It is so wretched, so stupid and so completely unfunny.  I try to wrench this and that wooden line this way and that, but I can only just barely make it speakable.  I was used to auditioning with great material, how…did…this…work…?  Why…?  Wow…

I drive to wherever the audition is, I walk into my first TV audition room full of, say, ten to fifteen people, and there sits Jim Henson in the middle, looking miserable, absolutely miserable. He is furiously glaring out from under his eyebrows.  No one else looks happy either, but they’re smiling.  I’m sad that Jim Henson appears to hate me and I haven’t even spoken.

But I am not particularly cowed by all this misery, (though it was mystifying), as I’m onstage every night, getting a strong response, sometimes playing to barely filled matinees, so I just buck up and do the scenes.  They fall horribly flat. They should. They are horribly written.  But what happens next that sprains my brain is this:

The writer/producer who’d brought me in, who was so adoring of me backstage, looks at me, in front of everyone, as if he’s been betrayed, and says, “No, no, what are you doing — do what you did onstage the other night.” I’m, like, wh — ??? “Yeah, you know, you’re doing all the accents and all the mime schtick, and — “  I’m looking at the script and saying, “But where — there isn’t…” and he rather roughly shepherds me out of the room by the elbow, takes me outside and starts frantically telling me to do what I did on stage the other night, over and over, as if he says it enough times it will make sense, and I’m trying to explain to him that the script has nothing whatsoever to do what I was doing on st –”Forget the script!” he says, “Fuck the script! Fuck the script! Go in there and throw in all the accents wherever, and when you get to the song — “ “…the…song?” “yeah — oh, they crossed it out, yeah, well, you can see the words, just make up a melody!”

I go back in, a somnambulist.  I try, with conviction, to do what he says. I feel more idiotic than I’d ever felt in my life.  They thank me, they hate me, I hate them, we smile, I leave, wanting only to scrub the rotten egg off of me.  The show never got anywhere.  But from that day on, I Understood, viscerally and experientially, the dysfunctional idiocy that can reign supreme in television.

I auditioned for The West Wing twice — it was a favorite show of mine, and both times I was very edgy, and so excited. The first time was a pretty exquisite audition experience.  Ken Olin was directing and he was so gracious, so smart, so very, very nurturing. Loved it, left it feeling proud to be an actor.  Wow.

A year later, I get a call at nearly eight o’clock the night before, for an audition early the next morning.  The role is huge, and beyond fabulous; she is a sort of pleasantly disheveled poet laureate, and I am madly in love with it, ah, yes, dangerously in love with it.

The next morning, having spent the whole night perfecting, choosing clothes, hair, you name it — I am…wait,  – completely alone in the hallway lined with chairs. …Huh? No one else is auditioning for this?  Did someone get fired? But, wait, why me? Did they like me that much last time?  What’s happening?  It’s thrilling, it’s weird, it’s confusing. Red alert.  Houston, we’ve got a problem.

I walk in and, sure enough, I get the silent, but potent hit in the gut.  Three people — one writer, one casting director, and one Aaron Sorkin.  Something’s up, and though I can’t place what or why, I just know this is a crock of some kind, though I automatically pretended not to, because what would one say, “What’s…going on? Something’s going on, right?”  No, so — I’m acting as if everything’s…just fine.  And then I start acting.

The casting director was looking really guilty, sympathetic and apologetic, I could see it in his face, though who the hell knew what to make of it.  Aaron Sorkin was reading with me; an executive TV producer/writer reading with the actor?! What?!  A never-before, never-since event.  And a thoroughly deflating one; he never, and I mean never, not once, not even for a glance, looked up at me.  He read one scene, at breakneck speed; there were three scenes, the others wouldn’t get read, obviously, and he left no air at all for playing any of the moments, and the performance and character I’d worked on all night and all morning evaporated, just evaporated.  It had all meant nothing.  I left, sad, confused, embarrassed as hell, and you bet, pretty heartbroken.  But laughing.  That’s my thing.  “Suckerpunched again.” Intellectually, of course, I was absolutely certain it wasn’t about me, but yet, I’d just been so humiliated, lifted so high, dropped so hard, so it haunted me for weeks.

Well, I watched the episode, a few weeks later, and Laura Dern was playing the role (and she was swell, as usual).  Who knows, they’d probably just closed the deal with her when I walked in, but maybe thought they couldn’t the night before.  Who knows.  No one.  And this is true of the lion’s share of these things: your agent won’t know, no one will know, there will be no explanation.  See number 1, 2, 4, 5 and 6.

Then there are the roles that come out of the blue: my agent sent a tape to Mad About You for a strong recurring role (while I was a regular on another show, mind you), told them they had to cast me from the tape and that I wouldn’t audition?! — (sadly, he left the agency and went into real estate) — and, well, they did! Huh?! Years later, I auditioned for Redeye, so completely annoyed to be wasting my time going because I knew that no one would ever cast me as a stewardess, for God’s sake, and so I didn’t prepare, didn’t do my hair, didn’t care, and got the part.  No, I repeat, no — I would never in a million years recommend that as a habit; that’s what’s known as fate, or fluke.  Point is, there ain’t no explaining some things.

Maybe the toughest thing to accept, and to have to keep on accepting every time something happens that makes no sense, which is really quite often in this business, goes back to number 1: it’s a mad world where there are really no rules and often no sense or much justice.

I have found, upon horrible and wonderful, long and winding adventure, that no matter what I bring to the audition table preparation-wise, presence-wise, power-wise — the chemistry of the room, the collective, is what determines a fabulous audition or an I-hate-this-business audition or all the auditions in between.  The fact is that the audition is a team sport, not a solo show.  I may, as I’m auditioning, have the most focus in the room for the moment, but the least amount of control.  And, of course, having a great audition just isn’t, alas, necessarily about getting the job.  My measurement of a good audition is if I can leave feeling a little bit appreciated for what it is that I do well, having just done it well.

Allison (not her real name) just explained to me how it came that she was dropped by her agent. After five years of representation, two of which were spent as a series regular on a network television show, her manager gave her the bad news. It came as does most bad news in this industry: as a fleeting aside while the real world, and its real rules, keep turning.

At a certain point in an actor’s career, one moves past the anxious, desperate question of “How can I find an agent?” to the new-found paranoia of “How can I keep my agent from dropping me?” This feeling, much like a heartbeat, thumps harder after a blown callback or, worse, weeks on end without an audition. But, in the experience of being dropped lies the greatest lesson of all in this business. Ready for it?

Be a human being.

Why is this business of ours a dirty business? It’s not the cliché of casting couch sessions that make some of us feel the need to take a Silkwood shower after a day of auditioning. It’s the subtext that runs through every “business” interaction we as actors have. You are a property, a stock on the Dow; your worth is determined in an ever-changing market. Many of the people who are judging your “acting” are not doing anything of the kind. Instead, they are judging your “type” or your “look” and your “naturalism” and placing a value on it. Even if they are convinced that they know what they are talking about, you have to remember (politely, please) that you know more about acting than most of the people you are dealing with on a day-to-day basis. Some of them will admit this, some of them will not.

This includes your agent, whose only notion of your ability and success as an actor is determined by the commissions he or she takes. Which translates to are you booking jobs, which comes full circle to whether or not you are meeting the current “tastes” of the industry.

One aspect of the “be a human being theory” is realizing that there are things outside of your control that you cannot do a thing about. Being dropped is one of those things. Instead, look back to those moments where you did have control and chose not to exercise it. You do have control in signing with an agent. You do have control of accepting or rejecting the material you go out for. Some of the most successful actors I know have declined auditions for material they didn’t care for and it has served them very well over time. Believe it or not, there are small parts, and it’s the better actors who decline them.

With my first agent, who later dropped me, our signing was the equivalent of a whirlwind tete-a-tete—the girl you bring home from a bar, sleep with, fall in love with at breakfast and have your heart broken by before lunch. In hindsight, was it really love? Was this the stuff of a relationship? No, it was two people getting what they needed, one getting fooled by the other, and me landing hard at the end.

Sure, I could have refused to sign with this agent, but I like doing things like auditioning during pilot season. I could, however, have had my antennae up a bit higher. I could have called them if I had concerns and spoken about them, like I would with other humans in my life. I could have done things to cement the relationship in some actuality (getting feedback, maintaining contact), and if I wasn’t met halfway, I would certainly have been more prepared for the dumping I was about to undergo. The point is, as is so often the case, the problem started well before it turned bad with the agency. The problem was there all along.

Now, I take a different tack with my agent. The other day, I was sent on a third call (2nd callback) for a commercial audition. I got a phone call at 3, saying get to Santa Monica ASAP. I was at my day job in Downtown LA. I left work, changed my shirt, and drove across town.  As I pulled into my parking space about an hour later I got a phone call. The audition was cancelled.

I was livid. Can casting do this? I just wasted my time, the time of those in my office, got myself all psyched up and now—cancelled? Earlier in my career I could have swallowed this whole, a bitter pill bound to pop up later. This time, I called my agent, told them exactly how I felt about the experience, and asked them to relay that to the casting director. When my agent did, I received an amazing response. Heartfelt apologies, huge kudos on my audition, a promise to bring me in for many more auditions, and an explanation about what had happened (the client wanted someone of a different race). There was nothing I could do, but I reacted like a human being, and lo and behold, I was treated like one. Also, I’ve had more auditions this past month than I have in a very long time.

I can’t advise you how not to get dropped by your agent anymore that I can tell you how to book a role, or have a huge film career. No one can. That’s the point. There’s no magic wand anyone can wave. There is, however, knowledge and empowerment. If you deal with everyone in this business like you would other human beings in your day-to-day life; if you try to discern who actually cares about you the person, not you the product; if you put the same values of compassion and integrity onto the people you audition for and meet with, then you actually have a chance at survival.

That’s the point of this blog, and it’s the point of any advice, if you can call it that, I would ever give to an actor.

Be a human being.

You can purchase Jason’s book, Acting is a Job: Real Life Lessons about the Acting Business, in the Minerva Shop. Broadway producer Roger Berlind calls the book “an indispensable guide to the business of acting. Pugatch pulls no punches in describing what it takes to succeed in this difficult, demanding profession. His book is a blast of reality for starry-eyed novices and seasoned pros alike.”

I was in a waiting room the other day and noticed a woman, seemingly mid- thirties, speaking with a man who looked about fifty.  In her hand was a book, titled, in big letters, “Having the RIGHT AGENT can mean the DIFFERENCE between SUCCESS and FAILURE as an actor.” I overheard the woman nervously ask the man how she should contact agencies.  She wondered what to tell them, if she should come in “in character,” and most importantly, what she should wear.  The man, surprised and flattered to be considered an authority, stammered to give her satisfaction.  Finally, after her fifth or sixth expectant question, he managed to comfort her with a very gentle “just be yourself.”

After I left the audition the title of the woman’s book stuck in my head, and I thought about what success and failure have meant for me, and how I’ve experienced them both- from winning awards to missing rent payments- sometimes in the same day.  That this book claimed to use these ciphers as some sort of yardstick seemed ridiculous.  Even more ridiculous was that this book claimed that the answer for the actor was something over which the actor had little control.  I wanted to go back to the room, rip her book in half, point at her heart and tell her that the only success or failure she will ever find is in there.  That her book was sucking her dry of her individuality and personal agency, keeping her a slave to forces she could never control, and would destroy her ability to be anything more than a meat puppet parroting back whatever she’s told.

As this seemed a bit intense for a commercial waiting room, I kept walking to my car.

Defining success is not easy, and we all want answers.  I still search fervently for answers to many things, often, like the woman, at the expense of what it is I hope to find.

Fortunately, my definition of success is not one of them.

I’ve found that creating my own definition of success based on a personal mission statement has been the key for checking my ego when times are good and lifting my spirits when times are bad, keeping me on a steady course no matter what chaos is happening around me.  By using my work as an actor to serve a mission larger than myself I’m able to make stronger artistic choices, lose myself in the moment, and keep my ego out of the scene.

Because it’s not about me anymore, I am free to do better work, becoming more attractive to the agents, directors, and casting directors whose decisions I rely on to continue my career.  And because I know why I do this work, material success can come and go freely without knocking me sideways.

I began in Chicago, where hundreds of small non-profit theater companies produce constantly in every storefront, community center, and church in the city.  A big source of pride for me is that I was able to be a part of the incredible community of artists that work in every nook and cranny of the city.  In this community being a successful actor isn’t about how much money you make, it’s about whether or not you’re doing interesting work that is valued by your peers.

These non-profit companies operate around a mission statement.  A good mission statement is driven by action, and defines what success looks like for each organization.  If a non-profit’s mission is to provide coats for homeless people, then as long as the non-profit provides the coats they are a success, no matter what their bottom line.  And many non-profits actually do make money, which is then distributed back into the organization to help further their mission.

I could write an entire essay on why I believe the non-profit corporate structure is the only way to save the soul of American capitalism.  A traditional corporation is run by a board, which represents the interests of its investors.  These investors have one mission: profit.  If anything (including common sense) interferes with the ability of the corporation to make a profit it is thrown out of the 32^nd floor boardroom window.  Their definition of success is singular, even if a company lowers a people’s quality of life or destroys the environment, as long as it posts profit it is “succeeding.”

This profit-driven model more closely resembles the accepted definition of success I’ve seen here in Los Angeles.  It doesn’t seem to matter what the actual substance of the work is, as long as an actor is paid, the job is a winning situation.  And there’s nothing wrong with that- I left Chicago to come here because LA seems to be the only city where actors can make much more than a decent living.  But in my first year here I found that without something concrete to stick to it was easy to get lost in this city, chasing opportunities not because I wanted them but simply because they felt attainable.

I needed something to help guide my actions that would let me continue to be diverse in my work opportunities but singular in my focus.

I remembered my time in Chicago, where I worked closely with several non-profit theater companies as they developed new mission statements. It occurred to me that a mission statement was a very powerful tool to adapt now that I was an actor in a city with hundreds of people who look exactly like me.

In creating a mission statement a non-profit not only sets out what its version of success looks like, it is able to clearly and specifically express what it is they do to both their employees and their benefactors.

A strong mission statement gives these organizations backbone.  And perhaps more importantly, it carves out a place for them in the cultural marketplace, identifying their brand to potential customers and setting them apart in a sea of competitors.

I took the lessons I had learned during many hours of meetings and applied them to crafting personal mission statements for artists.

The two most important aspects to any mission statement are:

1. The mission must be phrased as an action.  “My mission is to do something.”  It is not a list of ideals nor a list of desired achievements.
2. The mission must be something you already do naturally, so that you can wear it comfortably every day.  If you pick a mission statement that is foreign to you, you’ll simply have to work that much harder to fulfill it.  Your mission should provide clarity and ease, not another chore for your to-do list.

This is the exercise that I did:

1)    I wrote down a list of every part I had ever played, and next to it listed each character’s central action.  It was very important that I wrote actively, keeping the character alive and in motion.

2)    I looked at this list of actions, and picked the two most significant characters and the two most opposite characters.  For me the two most significant were Warren from This Is Our Youth (central action- to find someone who cares about him) and Jonathan from In Memoriam (central action- to find out how to make a genuine human connection).  The two most opposite were Gary from Cadillac (central action- to protect what is rightfully his) and Todd from The Intelligent Design of Jenny Chow (central action- to learn how to fit into the world).

I paired the actions accordingly to make two lists:

- to find someone who cares about me.

- to find out how to make a genuine human connection.

And,

- to protect what is rightfully mine.

- to learn how to fit into the world.

1)    For each pair, I came up with a sentence that described them both through a statement of what I wanted.

For the first pair I came up with a few before I settled on something- I want love, I want to feel cared for, I want a fresh start, and I want to not be alone.

I did the same with the second pair- I want a secure place in the world, I want to know where I stand, I want boundaries, I want to get what I deserve.

2)    For the last step, I took one “want” each from the lists, and found a new central action that encapsulated those wants.  So say I picked “I want to feel cared for” and “I want to know where I stand.”  My personal mission might read something like, “Ian Forester’s mission is to nurture personal connection in order to achieve a respectable and recognizable place in the world around him.”

Why didn’t I write, “Ian Forester’s mission is to find someone who cares for him and will let him know where he stands”?

While this statement bears a lot of truth (and would be helpful in a scene or audition), it’s the same as that awful book title, only in this case, the RIGHT AGENT who will make all my dreams come true is replaced by the elusive “someone.”

It’s very important in this last step that your mission statement stays strong, active, and is not dependent on anyone but yourself for success.  I can’t control whether “someone” will care for me and let me know where I stand.  I can, however, actively nurture personal connection among others and between others and myself, and through this allow myself to achieve standing in a community.

If you rely on someone else for success you give up your own agency and become co-dependent.  And while co-dependency can lead to incredible performances on stage, it is usually unnervingly heartbreaking and destructive in the wider world.

Maybe you don’t have enough credits to do this with the roles you’ve played, or you haven’t yet felt any personal connection to the parts you’ve been able to land.  If that’s the case, rather than making a list of characters and their central actions make a list of everything you do in a given day- from holding a door for someone to screaming at a stranger to move faster through a crosswalk to buying groceries to insulting your lover- and use this as your action list.  It’s important to incorporate everything you are as a person, even the parts you’re not proud of, because that’s where your individual power lies as an actor.

And if you try it one day and what you end up with doesn’t feel like a fit, try it tomorrow.  Try it with a list of everything anyone has ever said about you.  Hell, try it with a list of what’s in your purse or glove compartment.  What’s important is that you start from something truthful and personal that encompasses as much of your experience as possible.  Eventually you’ll find a fit.

Once I had a mission statement that felt right, I started using it as a dowsing rod when looking through the breakdowns.  I read the character descriptions to see which characters lined up with my mission.  Small businesses do this all the time when evaluating opportunities.  Certain choices are within the bounds and scope of the business, certain others are not.  Now that I had a brand that was more specific than the category of “late 20’s, Caucasian, male,” I could more easily pick and choose projects that would line up with what I already had to offer, rather than trying to change my product to fit each new opportunity.

Another advantage of building my brand around a personal mission statement as opposed to a category is that I can carry that mission through every decade of my life, thereby building a consistent and sustainable brand that is as recognizable in my late twenties as it is in my early fifties.  And because I’m building this brand from a strong sense of personal mission I’m making choices about my career that I’ll be able to live with the rest of my life, no matter what the outcome.

And living with your choices is what real success looks like.