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Sun 7/27


Tuesday night at the industry panel sponsored by the American Academy of Dramatic Arts: "How To Break Into Commercials" is the topic at hand. A couple of agents, a personal manager, and a casting director are enlightening us on the finer points on how to create a successful audition. Something rings a bell with me as panelists keep repeating the mantra, Know who you are. They're not talking about self knowledge, rather it's about homo sapiens as a product. What is your package, honey?

True. It's not about who I am, but about how the public perceives me. After the discussion is over we are asked to leave headshots and resumes. I haven't brought any with me so once I get home I check the panelists up on the internet and send my info with a note telling them my type is on the model of Kristen Scott Thomas (the lead actor abandoned to die in a cave in the movie, "The English Patient.) I've always liked her elegance, and since casting people always label me, upscale, that's obviously my niche.

Later in the week, I am called to appear on the set of "Lipstick Jungle" the next morning. I'm to take part in two scenes, one at a wine and cheese restaurant gathering for employees of a smart NY magazine, and the other at a TGI Friday joint. I'm to bring one chi-chi, but bright summery colors, outfit and a casual one.

I arrive at St. Bart's Church, our holding area (churches pick up spare change housing actors and crew in their vacant meeting rooms) at nine feeling more at ease in my newly applied Kristen Scott Thomas persona. Our handler, I don't know her job's title, the one in charge of all background actors, SAG or non, on set is at the door checking assigned numbers and handing out vouchers. Since this is my fourth time on this set, a rarity, I sing to this charming 200 lb girl, "Getting to know you, Getting to know all about you . . ." She is delighted and joins in with me. Someone in back tries to rush it and calls out his number to be checked off the list.

"One at a time!" says the fat girl with the green cargo knee pants and grungy tee-shirt, as she crosses me off the list. Crew members, as a rule, go for the faded tee shirts with concert logos, rumpled jeans and shabby cap. The slacker look.

We've been told not to wear red, white or black, they even object to blue as this is what Rosie Perez will be wearing. I've brought a tan girly silk dress, the only color approved dress in my wardrobe, not quite what I imagine is a wine and cheese chi-chi look.

Great! say the wardrobe people when they see it.

Once we've (about 50 of us) had our outfits approved we traipse off to a restaurant five blocks from holding especially requisitioned for the wine and cheese party. Some male and females have been assigned roles as waiters and came prepared in white cotton shirt, black pants and tie.

I am seated at a table with three other women, handed a wine glass with red grape juice and told to silently mouthe conversation with my tablemates. Facing me is Depressed Woman. I remember her from the church funeral scene of a few weeks ago. The guy she was paired with took to talking dirty to shake her up. I am feeling bubbly and cheerful, smiling and miming at her. We supposedly are at a party, but nothing will keep her from hitting her low notes.

The assistant director comes over and brings me to another table where I am seated across from an older gent, Pakistani, Trinidadian, olive brown complexion, black hair streaked with grey, stodgy with a air of self-importance. It is beneath him to mouthe conversation, rather with his legs stretched out under the table, leaning back in his chair, he considers his cell phone. A man of such consequence does not chit chat with the ladies at a wine a cheese party. He is all business. When the camera comes our way, rather than sit there like a dummy, I pull out a notebook and pen as I consider myself executive editor of our NY magazine. The man sees this and copies me. I change positions and my foot taps his stretched out legs. He gives me a swift hard kick in the shins. I'm about to do the same when I stop myself. To do that would be just what he wants.

Unh-unh!

The assistant director walks by and sees the man stretched out on his chair and he says, "This is the fourth time I tell you to pull your chair in." That kind of rebellious behavior is not condoned on set. Self- importance will get you in trouble, every time. It's that kind of day. Although I am in a great good mood, it is not reflected back to me. The assistant director keeps moving me out of camera range when we are gathered at the bar. Not that the director seems to mind my being there, but his assistant prefers a twenties crowd and so he sends me back to holding. I agree with him; Kristen Scott Thomas in her frilly silk dress does not hang around the bar chatting with the girls looking to pick up men. In the pouring rain with garment bag and large carrying bag in hand, I make my way to the subway at 11 o'clock at night, the end of my workday.

I have a dream that night in which a woman, a kid and I have snuck into what looks like an industrial kitchen where we find freshly baked cookies on the counter, big fat ones, little ones. We've all taken some, but the kid wants more. The woman says no, she is leading us to another door.