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.