"Hello."
"Hi, Shirley?"
"Yes..."
"Shirley, this is Niki Naeve. You called me yesterday evening to offer me the role of mrs. Linton in Wuthering heights."
"Yes, Niki. You didn't call me back."
'Well, I got your message late last night and I left you an email; then I called you this morning."
"Yes, and what were your questions?"
"Well, I wanted to say I'm very interested, and where can I get a script and a score to take a look at at the role?"
"Oh, we don't give those out in a workshop. No, no, you get those on the first day of rehearsal."
"It's not available electronically? Or I'm happy to pick up a copy somewhere?'
"No. No we don't give that out. You'll get it the first day of rehearsal."
Long pause.
"OK...I'm sorry, it's just very unusual to not be able to look at a script and score before acceptaing a role."
"No, that's the way it always is." (It's not; that I can say with certainty.)
"Uh, well, can you give me some details about the rehearsal schedule?"
"What's there to know, dear? It's six days a week 4 hours per day, 10-2 for three weeks. We'll let you know when you have your days off."
We'll let you know?
"And the stipend?"
"What?"
"The stipend?"
"Oh, there's no stipend. This is a workshop" (Later I learned there is a REIMBURSEMENT in the order of 200 bucks, but I get ahead of myself.)
"And how many performances? Oh what dates?"
"It sounds like you have doubts, dear. You should get involved with the company if you have doubts...."
Now that I've joined the Actors' Union I'm filled with trepidation and hope. Trepidation, because for so many getting their equity Card seems to be the kiss of death to previously booming careers - suddenly, they are never cast in anything again. Hope, because from now on, in theory, every job I take will have a regimented and sane rehearsal schedule, minimum rest times, maximum travel miles per day, relatively clean and safe conditions, more visibility, higher quality, and better pay. And more upward mobility.
Not to mention much more civilized auditions. I'm in.
So I've been auditioning for several months now, for companies all over the map. I was considered for Irene Malloy in Hello Dolly for a company in Maine (Irene Malloy! I thought. Can it be possible I'm old enough to play Irene Malloy? oh well i'll do anything for a summer in Maine!) and also considered for the elder Andrews sister in a musical about their lives. (Note: Elder.) I auditioned for Fontine in Les Mis... aware that I am, alas, no no longer eligible for the innocent Cosette, but managed instead, I hope, to belt out a convincing downtrodden, older, heroine.
As it turned out, other choices were made, and I continued my life as a professional auditioner.
Thus it is that as I make my transition into Unionized life, it it also true that I have perhaps officially outgrown my ingenueity. Ingenueism? The role of the ingenue. Some people would be saddened; I'm relieved. I can't WAIT to play somebody with some brains, and somebody with something else to say besides, "oh, dear me! If I don't get this man to marry me I'll simply DIE!!!" Like tonight I'm performing in a reading where I get to play a nurse at a women's health clinic where protesters get violent over the issue of abortion rights. Now, THAT'S a role! Whew!
But I get ahead of myself. My first Equity gig. I showed up to the audition at the Equity office bright and early one morning. The notice read, "a musical version of Wuthering Heights," and I thought that might make nice use of my legit singing skills. An educated guess. I mean, would it be a rhythm and blues version? As I made my appointment with the monitor, a by-stander asked her a question.
"I don't know," she answered, "I've worked for this company a couple of times, and they've always been a little strange." Around nine thirty we saw an older woman, short hair died red, seeming a little lost but determined, wander about the entrance to the room. Eventually she popped in, along with a half dozen other people, of varying shapes and sizes. Then auditions began.
I sang my song, they asked me for another, I sang it, the director asked me how I knew Harry Silverstein and said he know him, too, and that was that. The monitor seemed surprised they were running on time. Always a good sign, and noted. I went home.
A few days later I got a phone call - it could only have been the older lady speaking. "Niki, I left you a message once already. We want to call you back for Wuthering Heights. Tuesday morning, 11am." I had received no previous message, but chalked it up to Verizon's stellar voicemail service. And nice to know I had no choice of audition times.
People milled about at the callback. No holding room had been arranged, (though in truth one down the hall was secured somehow for a couple hours) and they were running an hour behind when I arrived. Reading the list of characters, I figured I was a shoe in for Nellie, the maid who tells the story. I'm too old for the younger and too young for the older characters. After I sang, (and was cut off near the end of my cut,) I was surprised when they called me back into the room to read a bit of music. No, dialogue. Dialogue which looked like music, because it was printed in little poetic stanzas and in capital letters. And the character? Isabella. (A girl in her teens.) Go figure. Maybe I'm NOT too old! Ha-ha! I feel my inner ingenue humming.
"Niki and Dominick, in the room NOW!" demanded the older lady as she struggled to find us among the remaining bodies in the hallway. I knew they must be serious about Dominick, because I'd seen him reading the same scene with a few other women. They would eventually cast him as Heathcliff. (The women were generally acting horribly, I thought snarkily.) We read the scene twice for the group in the room - an interesting cast, themselves: The batty old lady - Shirley - now clearly the producer, her equally elderly husband - the composer, a middle aged, plump man with a jolly sense of irony who was giggling when we walked in the room - the director, and a thin young woman with blonde hair swinging about the piano keys - music director. Where oh where had the stage manager gone, who handled the original auditions so smoothly? Alas, she was gone, and as Isabella I put on my best, sincere imitation of a female being flattered at being proposed to. I thought I did well.
"YOU'RE ANGELINA, RIGHT???" the old lady said much too loudly as I left the room. The director was still discussing things with Dominick.
"No, I'm Niki."
"OHHHH." She looked confused, and not entirely convinced.
"Niki NAEVE." I spoke as directly into her ear as I could politely.
She looked down at her notes. "OK." She put down her pen. I felt believed. And so I left.
I actually rode the elevator down with the REAL Angelina - a heavily accented Brazilian woman with long, flowing dark hair. Understandable, I look JUST like her. (?!?) Clearly they called me in by mistake. This wan an interesting waste of time.
So imagine my surprise when a few days later I get a voice message from the same woman who called me before. "NIKI. THIS IS SHIRLEY. We WANT TO OFFER YOU THE ROLE OF...uhhh. MRS. LINTON." Mrs. Linton. Isabella's MOTHER. Character description 45-50 years old, and proper. Ah well. "You'll have one song, and -ah- sing with the CHOrus. I'M WAITING FOR YOUR CALL *TONIGHT* TO ACCEPT THE ROLE. GOODBYE."
I got the message at 11:30pm. Now, you don't call anybody over 80 back after 9 o'clock, everyone knows that, so I crawled around on the web and tried to find an email address for the company. In so doing I learned that the musical had been workshopped before, in 1999, and the reviewer, though not liking any of the composer's other works, did like this one. Encouraging. But I will not accept a role until I've seen a script and a score.
Made that mistake once. Colin sat in the back row of the worst show I have EVER had the misfortune to get involved with, his hand in his head, trying desperately to make it go, go away. The same man wrote, choregraphed, directed, produced and starred in his show. Tap dancing, and this man who was a judge who wanted to be a dancer, and then he gets called up for the supreme court. Then more self-indulgent singing and dancing for the worst sort. he cast his mother, who had never acted before, as his mother in the show, and didn't rehearse her until the day before we opened.
Meanwhile I was compelled to do some of my first "serious" straight acting of my life, trying desperately to produce an honest depiction of a woman who has lost her only child. In the context of a script so absurdly bad it was like a carousel gone tilted - funny and sad and so horrible you almost had to watch it go down - this was not my best performance. Then I was called into the cast of the Music Man (who would try to fire me for my health conditions a week later, but that's another tale) and some poor, poor wretch had to take my place.
No one picked up the press packages at the door. But Colin did pick up his head every once and a while when the poor, young, inexperienced but talented and very cute dancers came out for a number.
No I do not wish a repeat performance.
Then again, I review my cast of chracters. Everyone in the room EXCEPT the producer seemed relatively competent and sane. It's not unheard of for the crazy lady to have the money, and could she also have insisted she make the phone calls? Could it be that if I accept, this experience could be a good one? The director has some decent credits. And, well, a life without risk...
"All right, I'll accept the role."
"What?"
"I'll play Mrs. Linton. Sure. Thanks. That's great."
""Are you sure? We can't have you showing up for the first rehearsal, deciding you don't like it, and walking out on us, you know! You PROMISE to do this." Well, they could go a long way toward preventing this if they'd give me a script and a score. And what, does she think I'm 8 years old?
"Yes, I'm committed. I understand. Thank you. Will I be getting a call from the stage manager? can I get an email address?" I can only hope I'll talk to someone reasonable before the first rehearsal. Maybe I can even get a script from them.
"No, you just show up for rehearsal on the 17th at 10am."
So much for standards.
Niki
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