The first British Casting Workshops - since 2006

Actress, writer for Backstage West and friend of The Actors Platform (we did a Syfy movie together), Alexis Peters, gives us an insightful and witty look into life as an actress in Los Angeles...

A Deer in Headlights
by Alexis Peters

The audition is in 20 minutes.

I'm thrilled because it's located on the exact same street where I live in Hollywood. I can actually walk to the audition. (What a concept.) For once, I'll avoid sitting in gridlocked traffic doing deep yogic breathing exercises to avoid road rage.

It's a horror film, and I'm up for the lead role. I've always wanted to star in a slasher flick. Since I was a kid, I've had a secret wish to be the girl in [name any scary movie] who slowly climbs the stairs in the dark house full of hacked-up bodies to confront the killer with just a coat hanger, instead of getting the hell out and running to the police. Maybe I'm a closet masochist. (Well, I did move to Los Angeles.)

In the script, my character spends two hours trying to escape from a psycho killer, only to die at the final minutes. Not the most intelligent of scripts, but fun and a great opportunity.

********************

I'm adding last-minute touches to my audition outfit. To create the look of the damsel in distress, I have on a little black dress and my favorite black-stiletto heels. I made my hair messy and played with hairspray and combs and big round brushes until the look was just right.

With my headshot, resume and sides in hand, I hit the streets.

It's hot today, even for California. I'm newly relocated from Chicago, so for me October is supposed to be the fall: Leaves should be falling into beautiful heaps of purple, orange, and gold. A cool breeze should allow me to wear a jacket and boots, walking down Michigan Avenue with a cappuccino. I miss that.

The street slants upward into the Hollywood Hills, and I realize heels were the wrong choice. But I've gone too far now to turn around without being late, so I trek on.

On the street where the audition is, the houses have a grunge unkemptness that gives each one a Hollywood coolness and edge. There's the house number I'm seeking; I think this is the place.

It's a house. Hmm.

The small split-level is dark yellow and covered in vines. There's an overgrown tree out front, shading a broken gate with a sign attached that reads: "BEWARE OF DOG."

This can't be it. My agent would never send me to a private house for an audition, although I've heard this happens. Friends of mine have told me they have done auditions in houses all the time, and it's totally fine. I re-check the address on the email I printed out from my agent, and I'm in the right place.

I've always considered myself a little paranoid, but especially now. My mind races. Maybe some greasy man in his basement wants to meet girls, so he holds an "audition." But that's ridiculous. I'm letting my fears control me. Just because it looks like a scene from a bad movie doesn't mean it is.

So I open the gate.

The gate creaks as I pass through. So far no dogs, but I smell dog poo. The smell is overwhelming, reminding me why I'm more of a cat person. The front yard is tiny and unkempt. The grass is half brown, half gone. Dying plants stick out of plastic pots that never got re-planted. Chewed up dog toys are scattered everywhere.

I'm convinced I'm trespassing, so I turn to leave. A bright white paper attracts the corner of my eye; a small sign on the front door says "Casting Office." apparently I am in the right place.

I walk up the few creaky stairs to the porch where another sign is neatly placed in the middle of a rocking chair. It says to sit and wait to be brought into the house.

This is feeling more like a murder mystery weekend — a find-the-clues kind of thing — than an audition. Maybe I'll find a hidden door and crawl in and find myself in a fairy tale where bees sing and cupcakes talk. The chair squeaks as I rock back and forth. I realize I'm the only girl here. Quite a change from the usual room of fifty blondes and chatter and miniskirts.

A heavy, very happy woman pops her head outside the door. She's forty-ish with a purple bob, combat boots and fishnet stockings. She asks me to come in.

As we enter the living room, she introduces me to the director. He's wearing a freshly pressed black suit and just as black pointy dress shoes. He smokes a cigarette while swinging his foot back and forth at a slow steady pace, a gesture that makes him appear the opposite of nervous. From their body language I guess they are married. She drifts into another room.

He asks me to sit down on the floral couch, way too oversized for a room this small. I plop down thinking my plop would be softened by the pillows; instead, the down feathers prove me wrong, and I sink so I'm lower than the others in the room. I can't help but feel like a five-year-old again, so I adjust my posture a little and sit straight. A stuffed deer head is mounted to the wall in front of me. It's staring right at me like I'm the one being hunted.

"You like that?" The director notices me staring at the poor dead deer on his wall. I nervously agree.

"I did that. The deer. I killed it." He exhales smoke in my direction, then taps the ash of his cigarette into a Styrofoam cup he's using as an ashtray.

I wanted to tell him I hated it, and that he was creeping me out, but all I could say was "nice." I'm not going to insult the director of a film I'd like to be in. Why am I so creeped out anyway? It's just a deer head. This guy is probably not as bad as I'm thinking. I bet he's one of those eccentric, creative directors like Stanley Kubrick. This is nothing but my crazy paranoia.

Itching his goatee, he leans toward me. "Would you say you (a) know your account balance, (b) kind of know your account balance, or (c) have no idea the amount in your bank account?"

"What?" I don't even know what to say. I feel like that deer would if it was staring at an oncoming Toyota.

I ask him why he wants to know that. He laughs it off, taking a last puff on his cigarette. The woman returns with the video camera, quietly sets it up and we begin.

She and I read the scenes together. Her happy personality is transformed and she becomes monotone and nervous — obviously not as actress. Though sitting next to his wife, I can feel the director staring a hole through me. He lights a new cigarette. The woman is still standing next to the camera.

"Please take your top off," she says mildly. I was so caught off guard I don't know what to say. She drones on, unfazed. "We need to see what your breasts look like on camera."

I was stunned. I couldn't believe this was happening. Strangely, at the same moment, my innate sense of professionalism kicked in. I've always felt that now matter how other people acted, I vowed that I would act as professional as I could.

Again, I thought naively, my agents would never send me on something where I'd feel violated. This must be normal. This must be part of the audition process. This has to be professional. This just has to be a normal request. I somehow shifted from utter shock to "If I don't do it, I'll look like a girl who's hard to work with."

I turn around and peel the spaghetti straps of my black dress down revealing my bra. I unsnap the back and hold it in my hand. I turn around to face them. No one said anything for what seemed like an hour. The man stood up and walked out of the room, flicking an ash into the Styrofoam cup, which prompted me to pull the top of my dress up.

I walked away stonefaced. Once I could no longer see the house behind me, I took off my shoes and the floodgates opened. I cried all the way home. I felt taken advantage of. Minutes later I collapsed on my bed and crawled under the covers. What had I just done? Why did I do it? I could have said no, but I didn't.

I've always considered myself smart and somewhat savvy. I can't believe I fell for such a cliché, Coco-from-Fame moment.

I allowed these two people to take advantage of my vulnerability. I wanted so badly not to believe that situations like that really happened. That I was smarter than that. Which is probably exactly what they were counting on.

*********************

This story happened three years ago. I've never told anyone until now. I was embarrassed. But I realize now that I shouldn't be. Sharing stories helps others from falling into the same trap. Trust your instincts. They are usually correct. If you feel uncomfortable, get the FUCK out. No job is worth it.

In retrospect, I am lucky in a way — I learned from this mistake. And let's be honest: The end result could have turned out much, much worse.