As a relative newcomer to the directing profession, I pay a lot of attention to people auditioning these days. Too often, people think they deserve parts. They went to a small school where they got the lead roles every time, where they were always cast. They go to a bigger place, and they cry when they don’t get cast. They throw hissy fits and temper tantrums and they just want that part. They deserve that part. They deserve to be on Broadway.

What they don’t understand is that in the “real world”, there are hundreds of people who look, act, walk, talk, sing and dance just like them. Just like them. There is no difference.

Next time Hairspray holds auditions, go to NYC and you’ll see a line ten miles long of short, round girls with big 80’s style brunette hair. Each and every one of them always got the lead at their school or community theatres. Each and every one of them sings perfectly, some even have Perfect Pitch. Each one of them has had ten years of dance lessons and training. Ultimately, it comes down to which one of them makes the biggest impression on the casting directors.

So, how does one Tracy out of a million make that kind of impression? It’s simple.

Be different.
Be bold.
Be unique.

A friend of mine who has performed with me for years complained the other day that people don’t remember her on stage. The reason? She doesn’t take risks. She’s perfectly bland in every way. The only reason she gets the parts is because she looks the part of a beautiful female lead. There’s potential there, tons of it. She just needs to step outside of her comfort zone, take risks, be bold, be different and be unique. Then she’ll have dozens of fans who track her every performance.Here’s an example:

A couple of years ago, back when my hair was down to my shoulders, I took an auditioning class at school. The instructor had us all memorize one line:

“I hate you. I hate you, and I never want to see you again.”

That’s it. Memorize that line.

“Now, you have five minutes. Practice that line. In five minutes, you’re going to perform it for the rest of the class.” Each and every person threw temper tantrums, screaming those lines at the top of their lungs.

Finally, it was my turn. I sat on the table upstage, I pulled my hair down in front of my face, so you could see my eyes and mouth, but little else. I stared intently into the eyes of a girl in the class. I hated her guts, really, but that’s another story for another blog. I stared into her eyes, and I said in a deep, gravelly voice — perfectly calm — I said, “I hate you. I hate you. And I never want to see you again.”

The girl screamed, the professor’s jaw dropped, and the room was silent. He looks at me and says, “Holy shit.” He paused for a second and looked at the class. “He gets the part.”

You see, the reason I got the hypothetical part wasn’t because I was angry “correctly”, but because I delivered my lines in a way that was different from everyone else. I made a lasting impression on each and every person in that room. The rest of their performances? Very, very forgettable.

I ate lunch with my professor recently, and he brought that assignment up. It’s been four or five years since that class.

That’s what I’m talking about.

Be bold.
Be different.
Be unique.

And the part is yours.

“Hey, Mr. Director!”

“Hey, Mike,” I reply. It is Mike, a kid I know from the school where I taught last year. He’s a freshman at the college. We are both at auditions for the first upcoming play, And Then There Were None (or Ten Little Indians) by Agatha Christie.

Someone snickers. Actually, a few someones snicker. They’re laughing because Mike calls me Mr. Director, instead of my first name, like my friends do. I understand. It’s a hard habit to break, especially when you start seeing a figure of authority hanging out like one of your friends. It’s even weirder when that figure of authority actually becomes your friend.

Since he really doesn’t know anyone at auditions, he sits with me. I decide to help him out.

I don’t really expect to get a part. The first show of the season always has at least thirty people auditioning, and there are usually only ten to twelve parts. This audition is no exception. My true purpose tonight is to check out the new talent and refresh my memories on the old talent. After all, I am directing a play later in the semester. Best to start thinking ahead.

I’ve been in this department for a little over five years now. I know all of the veterans. The new people, not so great.

Doc calls the first group up. I give a running commentary to Mike throughout the auditions. I offer suggestions as to why this person is a better auditionee than that person.

“What do you think of him?” Mike whispers. I look at who he meant. The guy is tall, thin, dark-haired and well-dressed.

“He’s my competition,” I reply. I explain to Mike how — unfortunately — looks count a lot in any audition. Most directors have a preconceived notion as to how each character should look. In addition, you want different body types on stage so the audience can easily tell which character is which. If you have two characters who have extremely similar body types, they blur together and audiences have a hard time telling the difference. This particular man looks very similar to me, so I know he is one of my competitors. There’s another man at auditions with a similar build, too.

I point out the groups of people attending. “One of us is going to get cast,” I say, pointing at the two men who are similar to me in build. “Your competition are those two guys.”

Mike is short and scrawny. He has a messy mop of hair on his head, and he wears thick-rimmed black glasses. He always wears denim and he’s a nervous wreck sometimes. The other two guys were similar. One had crazy hair, the other wore glasses. Both were the same general build — short, thin, young. One of them was going to get the role of the Doctor, I thought. They had the mad scientist look going for them.

“Rob is going to get cast,” I say. There is no one else who fit his build, and Rob is a perfect character actor for one of the characters in the play. Then I point to two other girls, “Both of them will get cast. There are three female parts, and these two are different enough physically from the other girls that they’re definitely in. They’re solid actresses and Doc has seen them perform before. They’ll get cast.”

I look around at the other girls. I have no clue which is going to get cast in the third female role. Why am I so uncertain? It’s simple. They all look the same. They’re all about 5′6″, long blonde hair, thin, athletic bodies, and nice chests. They’re all beautiful. Doc was probably going to eeny-meeny-miney-mo to pick. In fact, he probably did.

“And those two guys are competitors,” I whisper to Mike while pointing at two black guys who showed up. “Alex will probably get the part, because Demetrius isn’t such a great actor. He’s not trying at all to break out of the ‘hood’ mentality.” Demetrius still walks and talks like your stereotypical black guy. Alex, on the other hand, had altered his behavior to fit the role.

There are a few other groups of people, and I point them out to Mike. This whole whispered conversation occurrs while the first group went up to audition.

As auditions progress, I point out other things I notice about the auditionees.

“See how he keeps shifting his weight? That’s annoying. See how that other guy keeps walking around? It’s unnecessary. Just plant your feet and don’t move unless you have a good reason to move.”

Mike nods. He understands. He makes some excuses about his own nervousness. That’s perfectly normal, I assure him. Part of learning to be an actor is to control those nervous behaviors. It’s normal to be nervous — it’s better to be nervous but not show it.

“See that girl?” I ask. “She’s too hyper. This character is supposed to be an old woman, and this girl is pretty much bouncing around like a bouncy-ball. She’d be a perfect Puck in Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Mike chuckles. I do, too.

In the end, I am spot on about who was going to get cast. The only category in which I am wrong is the one with all the blonde petite girls. I’m positive Doc flipped a coin on that one.

Mike is impressed. I shrug.

“Like I said, man,” I explain. “Looks matter in this business. Acting talent is what sets you apart from everyone else who looks just like you. Whenever those other guys who look like you go up there, watch what they do and do something different. Set yourself apart from them. You aren’t competing against me. You’re competing against them. Do something different from them.”

Mike nods again. We chat for a few more minutes and then I leave.

As I drive home, I ponder what I had told Mike. I don’t really think it’s fair that looks matter. After all, you can’t control some things about your looks. But I decide I was right. In theatre, the beauty myth is true, to an extent.

Looks matter — talent matters more.