Maybe it was my obsession with Clark Gable and Carole Lombard’s relationship coming into play, but for my first LA photo shoot I decided to go for the “Look as old as you can at age twenty-one in an Ann Taylor silk blouse” strategy. Ultimately, in my mind, the pictures didn’t matter. Because I was still wrapped in that blind, unerring faith: Felicia Day was one audition away from a Vanity Fair cover, no matter what.
You see, I was raised on the great American girl dream. Talent and experience don’t matter. If you’re pretty enough, you’ll be discovered while sitting at an outdoor table in Los Angeles, plucked out of obscurity and placed onto magazine covers by a producer randomly driving down Sunset Boulevard in his Land Rover who pulls over, yanks a cigar out of his mouth, and yells, “You! Get in the car! I’m making you a star!”
Strangely, no matter how many cups of coffee I’ve ordered at outdoor cafés on Sunset Boulevard, this has never happened to me. I did, however, make one of the most inauspicious filmic debuts of any actor ever, so that’s something I can brag about.
There’s a weekly paper called Backstage where producers post notices to find unpaid and/or nonunion actors to audition for their terrible-quality stuff. Mostly student films in black and white with no sound included. As a newbie actor, applying for these projects is the best way to get experience, because no one with any résumé credits whatsoever would stoop low enough to do the work. You send out hundreds of head shots and get maybe one audition out of the bunch. And each response makes you feel like, This is my big break! I’m on my way to a party in the Hollywood Hills, watching Johnny Depp undress to get into a hot tub. Better shave my legs!
From one of my first submission batches, I got called in to audition for a movie in a building that was located on Hollywood Boulevard. After living in LA for over a decade, I now know it’s the sleaziest place in town to have a meeting, but at the time I was like, Damn, girl. You made it already!
The role was for an “Untitled” horror film. (Really, how hard is it to come up with a name? Just pick one and change it later, guys.) I arrived at the address to find a dozen girls sitting on the floor in the hallway waiting outside. No chairs.
One after another, the actresses went into the room, read the lines, and then proceeded to SCREAM at the top of their lungs.
“AAAAAAAAH!”
Sometimes there was a pause, muffled discussion, then a second take.
“AhhhhAHHHH AH! Ahhhhh!”
The casting director, a kid who looked like he was a high school intern from Omaha, would escort the actresses in and out, shuffling through cute girls like a deck of cards. “Next!”
The whole process made me nervous. I’d never screamed on cue before, so I practiced a few silent ones with my mouth closed while I waited, like a cat coughing up a hair ball.
“Mmmmm! MmmMMMmm! MmmmM?”
Eventually, channeling Miss Hilda’s vocal training in the back of my mind, I convinced myself that I could nail this situation, no problem.
When it was my turn, I got escorted inside the office and saw that it wasn’t really an office at all, more of a closet. There were actual brooms hung up behind the door.
The director sat in the middle of the tiny room with a tripod and camera next to him. He was wearing a dirty T-shirt and dark wraparound sunglasses. The room had no windows, so the shades thing seemed excessive, but it was Hollywood. I assumed important people looked douchey.
“Okay, okay, stand there . . .” He had a French accent and waved me into the middle of the room. The Omaha “casting director” squeezed in to read with me. With no preamble, the director started the camera and crossed his arms.
“Go.” Huh? Oh, that was his version of “Action”? Right.
I performed the scene.
I was adequate.
“Good good.” A long pause. “So, what I feel strongly for this character is we will have a shower scene, yes?”
I was confused. “A what?”
“A scene. In shower. To show character. Are you comfortable with shower scene?”
“Uh . . . you mean naked?”
He made a minimizing gesture. “Just breasts.”
Okay, well, HOLD ON! I’d prepared myself for something like this before my move. I’d heard about casting couches and naked switcheroos and Hollywood tainting and corrupting innocent girls’ souls, and I’d vowed to myself and my dad, “I’ll make it in Hollywood, but I’ll make it clean!” I would never show my breasts. Except for Scorsese, or Spielberg, or two dozen other exceptions. But no, Sir Wraparound Shades, no! You will not have my boobs.
I gathered myself proudly. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Will be beautiful, very artistic. Only to learn about character . . .”
“No, thank you.” I could tell he was less interested.
“Okay, scream.”
I screamed. It was a good scream. A silent “thank you” to my probably-dead-by-then singing teacher Miss Hilda.
“Thank you. Go.”
And I left, head high, knowing that I’d dodged a bullet. I would NOT be working for that exploity French guy, ever!
Except I did. I was hired the next day to be the non-boob-showing friend of the lead girl in the ultimately titled Serial Killers.