The Director Sector

“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.