Of course, I took the job. But I wore very unattractive underwear to the set, just in case they were trying to trick me with infrared cameras or something.
The movie was shot in houses all over Reseda, a porn suburb of LA, and I found out later that the director primarily made soft-core cinema to pay the bills, so that added up. Serial Killers was his attempt at breaking into more “artsy” content. But still with lots of titties.
I worked three days on the movie, knowing the whole time that the girl I was acting opposite was eventually gonna show her boobs in a “character shower” scene, and I treated her with a touch of pity. We never talked again afterward.
Despite the rough experience, I was paid $90.00 in the form of a check for five days’ work, and I was thrilled. I had MADE MONEY acting just two months after moving to Los Angeles! This whole crazy leap of faith was really gonna work out for me!
The day after I went to the bank, I got a call.
The check had bounced.
I called the film production number, but everything had shut down and disappeared, and in the end, I never got paid. Yes, the first dollar I’d ever made acting never existed.
I was mildly upset, then cheered myself up by spending $150 of my paltry savings on an ornate, rococo gold frame. I hung the framed check in my office so that I could one day relay the story to James Lipton on Inside the Actors Studio. A perfect representation of my ignoble first job in Hollywood. I was sure ol’ James would eat the story up.
I limped from tiny project to tiny project after that, but there were no more bounced checks. (Good thing: I didn’t have the framing budget.) The next few years were incredibly slow and frustrating, but I never thought about giving up on acting. Coming from the academic world, I had faith that whatever the obstacle, I could push myself further and harder than anyone else and I would eventually win.
Oh, you na?ve, cute child.
Between the long “no jobs in sight” stretches, I concentrated on what I could control myself and attacked the task of “Let’s be the best actor ever!” with as much pluck and adorable gusto as I did learning mathematical Group Theory. (Which I had completely forgotten the minute I graduated. But people were super impressed in auditions when I said, “I have a math degree,” so: semi-worth it.) I took acting classes everywhere I could. The one I recall most was with a guy whose name I will change to Grant, because he was the embodiment of a human turd.
Grant was about five feet tall and had a very large head, which is supposedly good for TV acting. Large heads, not shortness. I guess he pegged me as a problem when I first entered class. I was too fresh and friendly and looked like I needed to be psychologically assaulted? Something like that.
Whenever I asked a question or had a comment in class, Grant would act like I was an idiot. “Of course, it’s not like Pinter. Did you actually READ the plays?” If I performed a scene, he would tell me I was terrible in a pretty straightforward “Felicia, that was terrible” sort of way. I remember he once said, “You aren’t good at comedy, don’t even try. Concentrate on being a victim, it’s a better casting for you.”
I couldn’t understand what the problem was. I was always the teacher’s pet, it was my specialty. What was WRONG with this guy? Missing an opportunity with an A+++ suck-up here, hello!
I didn’t realize that there are places in Hollywood that prey on impressionable young people, aiming to break them down in order to build them up again. Run away from any teacher whose biggest acting credit is “Banker” in a Lifetime movie of the week? No, I was new to town, I figured since this person had purchased advertising in the back of a trade magazine saying that they were an acting teacher, it was my problem! The fault was obviously with me and my crappy abilities.
The last straw was when I performed Breakfast at Tiffany’s in class. It was the scene where Audrey Hepburn goes upstairs to George Peppard’s room and sings “Moon River.” I thought because of my beautiful singing voice, I would finally get a compliment out of big-head Grant. But at the start of the scene, the actor playing opposite me came out from backstage, said his first line, and he was . . . STARK NAKED. Like, his junk was all out and dangling like a turkey head. Never rehearsed, never discussed with me. And . . . yeah. I was a bit thrown.
“Keep in the scene, Felicia, my God, be an actor!” Grant’s huge mouth flapped at me from the sidelines like Terrance and Phillip from South Park.
I kept saying my lines, but it was very hard to keep the warble out of my voice with the other actor’s bait and tackle hanging out. I stumbled through the scene, shrinking in anticipation of what the teacher would say to me afterwards.