Up the elevator of New York Spaces, an 8th Avenue building venture, where studios are rented to prospect for talents, I rose to the occasion of yet another audition. It was a clean and modern, yet cozy professional atmosphere -a direct opposite of the usual fare of dillapidated walk-ups with creaky stairs and dingy hallways. Inside the Ripley/Grier Studios, room 16A, there was a casting for an interesting (read: paying) gig. If you fit the part, you get to go to Nashville, TN and impersonate a big-wig CEO for a day or so. The others waiting outside to be called in, per sign-in-sheet, were of all sizes and shapes, even though the castcall specified 220 pounds and a 6'1" stature. What the heck... I sat down on the cleverly placed park bench next to the cleverly placed sitting stool and waited for my name to be called. There was music wafting from the adjacent studios and in the reflection of some display glass hanging on the wall, I could see a couple of dancers practicing their "Chorus Line" counts of " a-1-2-3-4-...a-5-6-7-8-aaaaand...hitch...aaaand step....aaaand... a-pop..." My reverie was interrupted by a green-skirted young lady passing closely by and turning the corner to perhaps yet another dramatic scenario in the confines of the individual performance cells. Luckily, she sachayed by our bench a number of times during the course of our anticipated loiterings -thereby making our wait rather bearable.
Suddenly, the director's mating call sounded, "NEXT!"... I went in for the adventure of it... after all, how far off could I be, given the variety of my fellow competitors? It was a standard session. A few black-clad PA/DP types, a video camera, a charming female director. Then the usual headshot request, digital/polaroid shot, stand on the line, slate your name, agency, phone number, turn right, read for us, are you claustaphobic, alergic to anything... let's see the back of your head. The back of my head??? Claustraphobic??? (Was that a subtle way to tell me "bye, bye"?). But... no... they actually inspected the "back of my head".
Apparently the chosen actor would have to have a live-cast-mask made (a process of 4 hours of being covered by goop). I started flashing on Star Wars, and Star Trek alien-creation documentaries I'd seen on TV... and heard myself say, "Hey...no problem! " The director asked if I could be available for the casting of the mold this week -IF CHOSEN? "Sure!"
They seemed impressed and very cordial as "Elvis left the stage". To me that's a bad sign. I like it when they want you to do more readings, or monologues or movements. So I kind of knew this wasn't going to happen for me.
As I went back to my bench to bundle up my coat, the green-dressed girl sauntered by again. This time I came face to face with her as she smilingly said "Excures me..." while waiting an inordinately long time (2 seconds) in front of me in order to pass through the narrow isle which I was opportunely blocking with my unnecessary "getting ready to leave movements". Just another performance at the Ripley /Grier Studios.
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