I love an audition.
There's something delightfully liberating about pitching up to do your thing after one (albeit attentive) reading of a script with no idea what the director hopes to do with it and no fankley practicalities about where to stand and how to say things knocking around in your head.
For one night only, the "actor" (and pay close attention to the inverted commas - I am under no illusions or delusions about my capabilities) can skip about, footloose and fancy-free, unencumbered by anyone's burden of expectations. It's great fun.
Having said that, for these particular auditions - Six Degrees of Separation, spring show - I had not taken into account the peculiar terror of having to deliver this aforementioned skipping in front of one of your oldest and dearest friends. Hats off to all of you that have done said gambolling for me over these years.
To add to the paralysis, oh, there's trained actor sitting at his right hand (well, left hand actually, but you get the picture) watching watching you with oh such a sweet attentive face. And suddenly, your two dear friends - Ross of a thousand late night collective inanities and Caroline of a thousand snorting when we shouldn't on and off stage (in her pre-pro days) are transformed into the arbiters of your fate.
Take this already horror and ladle on - for good entertaining measure - The Accent. American. Well, I felt I should step in there and represent The Common Man (well, woman) so my "accent" (as before) was a glorious patchwork of states, nations and continents. In my head, I was Blanche Dubois. But from my forays into Irish ("are we gathered?" still haunts me. Losing Venice. Jo Clifford / B S Neill / 1998 I think), I am all too aware of my vocal limitations. Bless them all, they sat deadpan as I skated and skeetered through my mongrel rendition of (glamourous, poised, elegant no more) Kitty's lines.
But see these things principally as a social occasion - for there were bundles of nice people waiting alongside me - and the night is saved. It's an odd hobby that we have. But I would not change it for the world.
There's something delightfully liberating about pitching up to do your thing after one (albeit attentive) reading of a script with no idea what the director hopes to do with it and no fankley practicalities about where to stand and how to say things knocking around in your head.
For one night only, the "actor" (and pay close attention to the inverted commas - I am under no illusions or delusions about my capabilities) can skip about, footloose and fancy-free, unencumbered by anyone's burden of expectations. It's great fun.
Having said that, for these particular auditions - Six Degrees of Separation, spring show - I had not taken into account the peculiar terror of having to deliver this aforementioned skipping in front of one of your oldest and dearest friends. Hats off to all of you that have done said gambolling for me over these years.
To add to the paralysis, oh, there's trained actor sitting at his right hand (well, left hand actually, but you get the picture) watching watching you with oh such a sweet attentive face. And suddenly, your two dear friends - Ross of a thousand late night collective inanities and Caroline of a thousand snorting when we shouldn't on and off stage (in her pre-pro days) are transformed into the arbiters of your fate.
Take this already horror and ladle on - for good entertaining measure - The Accent. American. Well, I felt I should step in there and represent The Common Man (well, woman) so my "accent" (as before) was a glorious patchwork of states, nations and continents. In my head, I was Blanche Dubois. But from my forays into Irish ("are we gathered?" still haunts me. Losing Venice. Jo Clifford / B S Neill / 1998 I think), I am all too aware of my vocal limitations. Bless them all, they sat deadpan as I skated and skeetered through my mongrel rendition of (glamourous, poised, elegant no more) Kitty's lines.
But see these things principally as a social occasion - for there were bundles of nice people waiting alongside me - and the night is saved. It's an odd hobby that we have. But I would not change it for the world.
posted by Claire at 8:21 am
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