New Talent

(*names have been changed)

There’s a movie scene that’s been stuck in my head this week.  It’s the part from Baz Luhrman’s “Moulin Rouge” when Jim Broadbent’s character is promising Nicole Kidman’s “A real show, in a real theater, with a real audience.  And you'll be...” Kidman looks straight into the camera with her sparkling blue eyes and breathes: “A real actress.”

I have been cast in a professional production at a premier contemporary theater in the DePaul neighborhood.  The director is a SAG member who’s done shows all over the city and has a national ESPN commercial on the air right now.  (He was also my teacher for an acting class I took a few months ago, and that’s how I got invited to his audition.)

Actors get a stipend (not a salary or an hourly wage), but I told my friends and family that the amount of money wasn’t the point.  The fact that, for the next few months, I can say I am a working actress in Chicago is worth more to me than a whole year's salary.

As if that -- and my discounted tickets to see the decade’s biggest new musical with my old roommate on Wednesday -- weren’t enough, my commitment to the idea of “working actress” was tested by an unexpected Thursday-afternoon phone call.

“Hi, Megan.  It’s John.”

“Oh, hey, John.  What’s up?”

 John is another waiter at the restaurant who also works part-time at a talent agency downtown.  He’d told me about the agency a few times and offered to review my headshots and resume, but I never really paid much attention.  My headshots are outdated because (1 I can’t afford new ones and 2) I wanted to wait until my hair grows back a little longer.  And until last week, my resume didn’t include any Chicago work.

 Plus, I knew talent agents were more for people who wanted to do commercials, film, print ads, modeling, stand-ins and bit parts in TV shows, etc.  Since the bulk of my resume is stage work, I figured I’d have enough of a time getting my feet wet with walk-in theatre auditions.  I’d told myself a talent agency was something I might look into once I had a steady job, and had bulked up my resume (and confidence) with some plays/more classes first.  I was never really sure I’d be cut out for film and TV anyway; it’s a totally different, much more superficial animal.  “Maybe someday,” I’d told myself.

In my excitement, I’d told John during our last shift that I’d landed a paying acting job.  John also knew I was hard-up for full time work, and willing to utilize any connection available at this point to get it.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” asked John, over the phone. 

“Not really anything,” I admitted sheepishly.  I wasn’t working, therefore I would probably spend the afternoon doing laundry and convincing myself to stagger through single-digit temperatures to yoga class.

“You’ve got a headshot and resume, right?  And you said you were interested in doing voiceover work?”

“Well, yeah.  I mean, at some point I thought I’d try it.  Like, once I got a more full-time job.”

“Aw, man.  I really could’ve used you a couple days ago.  A casting agency was calling us looking for a female voice like yours for a SeaWorld commercial.  But anyway, if you’ve got your headshots and a resume -- I’ve talked to my boss, the owner of the agency, and she says you can come in around 4 if you want to meet with us.”

“Um,” I said, my brain racing to catch up.  This had come out of nowhere.  “Does your agency charge for a consultation?”

“No, no,” John assured me.  “A legit talent agency does not get paid until you do.  That’s how you know they’ll work hard to send you out for stuff.”

I spent the next two hours scrambling to get my headshots, resume and voiceover samples together and rushing to catch the train, but not before struggling to put together an appropriate outfit that I wouldn’t freeze in. 

“What to Wear to Meet an Agent” was something I’d heard discussed in college, and at the Missouri Fine Arts Academy, but I never really assumed any of it would apply to me, so I’d only half-listened while the triple-threat, model-actress wannabes had furiously taken notes.  A blazer and slacks was too stiff; I had to look natural, I knew.  But jeans didn’t seem nice enough and I’d catch my death in leggings or a skirt.

Only when I got inside the old office building and stood outside the door -- complete with a gold star painted on the glass and signage that read “NEW TALENT BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, NO EXCEPTIONS” – did I begin to wrap my head around the situation.

Was I new talent?  I was going to a meeting at a talent agency. 

A smaller but fairly established one, I thought, as I tentatively walked in the door and stood in a small, cluttered waiting area.  The walls were covered with print ads and movie posters, several of them over 20 years old, signed by actors and models:

“Lou* and Samantha* – Thanks for everything!”

“To ABC Talent*:  You guys rock!”

I barely had time to peel off my multiple pieces of outerwear before John called me into his office.  Hundreds of resumes and headshots of beautiful people littered the floor and the desk.  I almost couldn’t see John over the piles.

He spent the next hour telling me how to re-format and polish my resume, giving feedback on my voiceover samples, and explaining how to sign up for casting directory websites.  Halfway through, we were joined by Samantha, the owner of the agency.

Statuesque and dressed all in shades of silver with head-to-waist amber jewelry, Samantha had a face that looked like she’d seen everything, and could smell a no-talent fake a mile away. Obviously, I was completely intimidated.

“Oh, yeah.  You’ve got a good look,” she sniffed.

“Thank you,” I said, trying to keep the stiffness out of my smile.  John had told me the same thing, and I still had no idea what it meant.

“Where are you from, Megan?”

“Rural southern Missouri.”

Really, Megan?  Was the “rural” part necessary?

Well, to most Chicagoans, southern Missouri = St. Louis!

She grinned.  I wondered how many hundreds of girls had given her the “Small-Town Girl with a Big-City Dream” bit.  I wished for a more original gimmick, but also knew she would see right through it.

Her narrow eyes scanned my resume.  “A lot of stage,” she noted.  She peered over John’s shoulder at my headshots on his computer screen, and commented that they weren’t bad, but I really needed new ones.

She and John piled my arms full with business cards and handbills for reputable, fairly-priced photographers and acting studios.  Samantha went back to her office to continue to try and connect a certain actress with a casting agent before a 5:00 deadline.  John excused himself to get something else out of a file cabinet for me.

Thinking that this was probably the extent of my consultation and that it had at least been a good learning experience, I picked through some of the composite cards on John’s desk.  One featured a bottle blonde who might have passed for a Playboy Bunny had she not been wearing flannel, jeans and a very genuine smile.  Her information was printed at the bottom of the card:  about my age and height, but with a 36D bust and a dress size 2.

Another card featured a handsome kid in different outfits, ranging from boy-next-door to corporate-suit looks.  D.O.B: 1-19-97.

Yeesh.  What was I doing here, with all the models and child actors?

And then John stepped back in and dropped a piece of paper and a pen in my lap.  Samantha wasn’t far behind him.

“That’s no-obligation, and not legally binding,” she said matter-of-factly, leaning against the doorframe and nodding at the paper.  “Do you have any other representation right now?”

“Er, no.  No, ma’am.”  Of course, I didn’t.  What did she mean, “other” representation?

“Great.  Get some new headshots within the next month.  As soon as possible, you need to create profiles on those search directories John showed you.  Have a glass of wine first; they take about an hour to fill out.  But the faster you can get it done, the better, because then we can start sending you up for stuff.  We’re getting into the busy season for TV right now.”

“Yeah, Concordia* Casting is going to be calling us to help with the next season of Chicago Fire soon,” John said to Samantha.

Wait, what?  Chicago Fire?  The NBC show?  “Send me out for stuff” – did that mean commercial and TV auditions?  Me?

I scanned the paper.  There was a form for basic height, weight and contact information at the top.  With my signature, I would agree to pay the agency 10-20% of what I earned from each job, depending on the nature of the job, according to industry standard.  I would agree to notify them if I signed up with another agency.  I had to notify them immediately if I was bumped up from non-union to Taft-Hartley or SAG level work.

“If I don’t see you at work, call every three weeks or so, to check in,” added John.  “Remind us of who you are, and if you’ve added any work or special skills to your resume.”

“So . . if I sign this, I’m signing on with your agency?”  I asked John.

“Yeah.  You’ve got a great look and a really unique voice.”

I fought off the urge to demand that he explain how “A great look” made me any different from the 200 other broads on his desk.  He did, after all, do me a favor by getting me this appointment.  “What is this going to cost me?”

“Nothing.  We don’t get paid unless you do, like I said on the phone.  Headshots will cost you of course, but that’s between you and whatever photographer you choose.  That one guy I mentioned can do a session for under $70.”

I looked at the paper again.  How much work could they possibly send my way, with real-life Glee kids and Barbie Dolls as my competition?  By industry standard, I’m a little old to only now be getting into this.  But I’d landed a paying stage show within my first year in Chicago, with only 1 class and 3 auditions under my belt.  But was it really that big of an accomplishment?

Signing with a talent agency was something Real Actors did.  Could I be that?  Could I commit to that?  Was this how it started? 

But how different was this than signing up with a temp agency?  And none of them had shown this much interest in me.

I signed.  What, if anything, will come of it, I have no idea.  But I can look back and say I did it.

Yesterday turned out to be Someday.