Big Smile No Teeth

In other cities, going to a casting with only a handful of people ahead of you was a blessing.  In Bangkok, a handful of people meant you’d sit in the waiting room for hours watching movies you had forgotten existed on Cinemax.

            Casting took hours because they did full makeup and wardrobe for every model.  It was no touch up either.  They straightened curled hair and curled straight hair.  They caked makeup on hapless models until it felt like Halloween and looked like a KISS reunion show.  I always tried to get to castings early so I could get out sooner, but sometimes that was worse.

            “Ok.  Who first?” The casting director unfolded a black and white storyboard. 

            “That’s me.” I’d gotten there half an hour early.  A half hour wait now was better than a four hour wait later and was happy to get in first, but not so happy that the waiting room was a row of chairs facing the audition set.  I stood in the center of the lights waiting as a handful of models filled the chairs facing the set.

            Auditioning in front of strangers you were competing against wasn’t ideal.  There was nothing worse than being so nervous in an audition that you could barely perform.  Granted the stuff I auditioned for wasn’t Shakespeare, but a bad audition for a role in a toilet cleanser ad is still a bad audition.  They always asked you to do crazy stuff like pretending to get sucked into a vending machine or the like.  Which always looked ridiculous minus the special effects and an actual vending machine.  I watched more models crowd in behind the camera and hoped I wouldn’t have to do anything too stupid.

            “Commercial go like this.” the casting director said.  “You like a prince having big party. Very classy.  You saying hi to your friends, waving, making talk.  Then you see beautiful girl from across room.  She very beautiful, have nice hair, beautiful hair.  You look at her and flirt, she see you and you get shy, then look at her more, and more flirt.  Then you go and ask her to dance.  Then you dancing with her.  Ballroom style.  You can dance ballroom?  She dance so well, and you think she very beautiful.  Then you take her outside to balcony and look stars.  Very pretty!  Then look her and she very pretty.  You put arm around her and hold her and both look up and – finish!”

            It was a lot to remember.

            “You ready?” the casting director hunched behind the camera.

            “Wait.  What part do you want me to do?”

            “Everything.”

            This was horrible but I wasn’t surprised.  This was the other reason casting took so long.  Auditions in Bangkok always had the talent act out the entire script.  I knew that if I sucked the casting director would make me run the scene until I collapsed.  It was another Bangkok casting quirk, and this time by quirk I mean cruel debacle.  Suck at an audition and they didn’t thank you and show you the door.  Instead, they made you do the scene again and again until you didn’t suck—which rarely happened—usually the level of suckage increased exponentially. 

            “You understand?”

            I understood.  I understood that without any props and with an entire screenplay to badly mime, I was going to make a complete fool out of myself in front of everyone there.  I had to throw myself into the audition—not so I could get the part—but so I wouldn’t have to repeat this humiliation too many times. 

            “Action!”      

            I mimed a drink and pretended I was at my party greeting nobody with friendly waves and smiles.  When I saw the pretend girl I did a double take and acted shy, then suave, then shy.  I was having a hard time remembering what I was supposed to do so I flirted with nothing.  Then I leaned in and asked the fake girl to dance.  I badly mimed my make believe princess as I spun her in arcs, tripping over her imaginary feet while I faked ballroom dance as best I could.  I grasped nothing pretending to take her hand and led her out to my fantasy balcony.  We stood on the balcony gazing up at the 9-foot warehouse ceiling and the yellow water stains that were our dreamy cosmos.  I wrapped my arms around her gazing into her eyes.  Content, I looked back up at the watermarks on the roof where the stars were supposed to be.

            “Cut!” 

            The pain was over—for now.  Beyond the lights, the waiting models were snickering.  Bastards.  They’d be next. 

            “Please don’t make me do that again.”

            “One more.  Only one more time.”

            Some of the models waiting were girls.

            “Can I at least have a girl so I don’t have to dance with nothing?  It’s hard to act with nothing.”

            “Hmm.” the casting director turned to the girls.  Then he turned to a corner with a mop and a bucket.   “No girl.  But you can use mop.”

            “You want me to dance with a mop?”

            “Yes.” He said, carrying the mop and bucket to the side of the camera.  “You take when you start dancing.”

            I wasn’t sure who should be more offended, the girls for being displaced for a mop—or me for not being worth having a real girl.  There was no point in protesting—my dignity was gone.  I did the whole thing over, but this time my ballroom partner was a cleaning utensil.