-•✦--✦--✦•-
"Nice. Okay, I think it will play now." Georgie announced.
"Straight away?" I asked.
She ignored me again. After nailing a scene I wanted my laurels but Georgie stonewalled me yet again.
"I'd like Nathalie to learn as much as possible. How about you do a scene afterwards? Are you up for it?"
"Umm… if it's okay, yes…" Nathalie replied.
"Okay! Let's start." Georgie said with a quick clap with sudden burst of energy.
The tape began to roll. And on the tiny display I appeared: head bowed, hands in my lap. The banana gun was prominently displayed, taking up the centre of the screen.
"This bit isn't in the sides," Georgie explained, "but Wilf did it anyway. Actors decide how they want to portray a character. A hundred people get the same sides, and a hundred people do the same thing. Casting directors get bored watching the same thing after another. You have to catch their attention."
She pointed at the screen.
"Wilf is seated, and there's already tension on his face, even without knowing, you know something is wrong. But there's some humour because the banana feels so out of place, so in contrast. That's called a strong choice. Make strong choices about a character, you'll grab attention. And if you can't, use something memorable as Wilf did. Even if Wilf flunks the audition, the casting director will remember the boy with the banana. Do you get it?"
Nathalie nodded — completely absorbed in the tape. My enthusiasm dropped, apparently I'd done a piss poor job.
Georgie resumed the playback. We watched the whole scene without any interruption. I felt oddly proud as I watched, but pride was useless here; I cared more about how they saw it. Clearly, I was too involved to judge myself objectively. When I performed and felt I'd done a good job, it was hard to not have my view be distorted by the action of the scene. I was too biased.
I leaned forward as the tape continued. Georgie was just as focused as Nathalie. She must have an opinion about my performance. Yet she kept me on the edge of my seat, waiting for that feedback.
"He never looks into the camera," Georgie observed, "Even when he crosses near the lens to look at you, his sightline stays just below the lens. That's good. Never look straight into the camera, not even for a frame. And look here — he stares into my left eye and then into your right eye. Those are the closest ones to the camera. It makes the audience feel closer to the scene, I'll show you the difference later. Now he goes down to the nose then back again. That's how real conversations work, how real people move unconsciously. Eye acting matters. Eyes are windows to the soul, emotion must be visible there."
She demonstrated smiling with her eyes, then smiling without them — which made her look disturbingly like an evil doll. Nathalie nodded earnestly in understanding.
"How was I?" I asked again,
Georgie ignored me completely. "What else do you notice?" She asked from Nathalie,
"Hmm… he's doing an accent," Nathalie said. "We sound like Londoners, but he sounds… American?"
"Yes. It's not bad. You noticed it because it's distracting, there's a lot of contrast. Ideally the reader should match the accent too, but readers aren't always actors and we get whoever we can. I could do an American accent but then I'd lose emotional accuracy because I only had a few minutes with this script. So for our purpose, it doesn't matter if only Wilf is doing the required accent. What else do you notice?"
They watched the tape once more. I watched them instead — Nathalie's face full of concentration, Georgie's completely neutral and devoid of anything identifiable.
"I don't have anything else," Nathalie said in defeat. "He was really good."
I was over the moon. Nathalie — the new rising star, the new favourite pupil — thought I was good. We would be worthy rivals. I was sure of it.
"That's fine. We'll go over it more once we do your tape."
"You mean… I'll do a scene like Wilfred?" She asked,
"Yes. Right after this. Best get on with it, I say." Georgie grinned.
Nathalie looked like she wanted to run, but wasn't brave enough to say so.
"Generally," Georgie went on, "the camera never moves. These tapes are almost always shot by a casting director. Hardly anyone owns a proper camera. A casting director would never move it. It's not a good idea to pan and tilt the camera like I did."
"So… it was bad to do that?" Nathalie asked.
"Yes. But not really."
Nathalie seemed confused, so Georgie continued, "If the script says you're sitting and then standing, or walking and talking — those are actions. Easy enough in a casting office, but tricky with a fixed camera. The script requires Wilf to move, so a casting director can't blame us for that. Miming it will look even worse, it doesn't look real. You want to show your best performance, so do what you must. With that being said, notice he only shifts a few inches and stays mostly within the frame. Just because you can pan the camera doesn't mean you should draw attention to the movement. We're not directors, we are actors."
"I think you're confusing her," I said. "You say we can do something, then say we can't."
"Well, there aren't strict rules for this. Except maybe one. Want to hear it?"
We both nodded. Georgie let the moment stretch dramatically, because of course she had to. Drama teacher, she was.
"Always be professional. That's the only rule there is." Georgie said wisely,
"Lame. You've never been professional," I pointed out.
"I'm professional with the right people," Georgie shot back. "Now, shall we start with the tape?"
It took a long stretch of coaching before we managed Nathalie's first tape. She was doing a scene from Pay It Forward. She had to play a boy — all the sides in the room were for boys, because it was my sides. I did have the full script for Great Expectations with an age-appropriate Estella that Nathalie could perform, but I wasn't risking muddying my own preparation. I'd see the real actor for Estella soon, she should inform her character to me not someone else. My performance hinged on that.
"That's me, and that's three people. I have to help them. But it has to be something—" Nathalie tried, stumbling over words.
Georgie stopped the camera and held up her hands for Nathalie to stop.
"Let's try that again," Georgie said. "The sides say you're in front of the class. You're presenting. You're nervous — which is good — but your delivery is too even. You want to show the nerves."
"Couldn't she show her nervousness by reading more flatly?" I asked. "Like she's trying too hard to keep control, trying to be too formal. It seems natural and loads of kids do that if they're on the spot."
"Possibly. But she'd have to sell that with something else. Eyes. Tics. Breathing. Tighter angles, wide shots. A physical giveaway we've set up earlier. For an first audition tape, let's not jump to such a strong choice. We'll start simple and build up from there."
"Fine."
Nathalie tried again. She was still nervous but for the wrong reasons — us, the camera, her own awareness of being watched. We reset. She forgot a line. We reset again. My eyes narrowed. This looked like camera shyness: fixable, but tough at first.
"Georgie, maybe she doesn't like the camera? Try one without it?" I suggested,
"Fair dos," Georgie said, turning the tripod aside.
The next run went better — but then each one after it worsened. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe she felt judged. But I wasn't leaving. If I couldn't observe her baseline, there was no point. She was my rival; I needed to see where she began and how far she could go.
"Let's try a different scene," Georgie said. "Something that speaks to you. How about Nala?"
"Okay…" Nathalie nodded.
The difference was instant. Her Nala was rehearsed — well rehearsed — on both sides with Georgie performing Simba. It wasn't perfect, but it was considerably better. And somehow that disappointed me even more.
"How about we try it on camera now?" Georgie said, switching it back on.
Nathalie's performance was the same but she eyed the camera a few times on accident. Her performance felt drab, lifeless. At first, I thought that maybe it was my ego which couldn't accept someone being better than me. Now, I couldn't deny it anymore. Nathalie is an amateur. That was me being generous and nice with my choice of words. She didn't seem talented, she was slow at taking direction. She was nervous and flustered easily.
Something was wrong. So very wrong.
Initially, I helped with the scenes but I rejected to join in favour of observing from a more neutral angle. Distancing myself from them allowed me to see it for what it was. Nathalie was new to acting, it was plain to see. Even Henry, all that time ago would do it better. Hell, even me during that Oliver performance could do these scenes better.
Growing quiet, I tried to unravel the mystery. My brain couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. I kept hearing the words — buzzwords that repeated until I had to accept them for what they were.
"Good work." "Great job!" "Amazing, that's the best we've seen so far."
Compliments. Georgie was complimenting the girl for what was frankly a terrible performance.She was an amateur. She was in this class because she was a beginner. This wasn't an advanced class or some special group for booked actors. It was just a catch-up session for Nathalie, who was behind on the drama side of her training. Was that all? Luke said she was brilliant at dancing, but her 'advanced' class turned out to be a beginner acting class, and she attended this Cub Academy as well. Gilles taught her with the rest of the hopefuls, she wasn't in an advanced class. What if she was terrible at dancing too?
I spent more time simply observing, keeping quiet until the two of them largely forgot about me. Nathalie didn't improve much, if at all. I'd tried to reason with myself that she was a fast learner, but she kept proving me wrong. Even with the rosiest glasses on, at some point even a fool has to admit when they're wrong.
All my excitement about having a new rival washed away, leaving me hollow. First Henry — who my grandparents and parents would never speak about anymore. Then the Tommy Stubbins at Apollo, nice enough kids but clearly not focused on acting as an art form to be my rival. And now Nathalie Emmanuel, whom I'd inexplicably put on a pedestal. I partly blamed Franco for the idea he had planted in me, the story about the three gifts Jesus received. My ego was so inflated I was comparing myself to biblical stories — as though I was a hero, collecting quest items before a great journey.
It was all nonsense. Nathalie was a lovely girl, sweet, kind, and pretty. But that was it. She wasn't my rival. She didn't have the qualities I'd expect from one. I knew I'd recognise my rival instantly — work ethic, respect for the craft, a drive for excellence. All qualities you could sense, especially if you possessed them yourself.
Someone rapped on the door — quick, sharp, four beats, nails drumming in a staccato beat. I knew who it was before she spoke.
"Wilfred! Are you in there?" Aurélie called, voice cracking.
"Yeah?" I said, standing to open the door.
Aurélie was crying, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks.
"What happened? Are you alright?" I said, flustered. Who on earth would make someone so sweet cry? Was she crying over some idiot boy from London? I swore that if I found out who, I'd give him a smack round the head.
"What did you do?" Aurélie fired at me, accusing.
"What?" I blinked.
"You said something to Gilles. He fired me! And he said it was because of you. I'm his sister! Ce n'est pas vrai!"
"Oh, love, come here," Georgie said softly, pulling her close. Then she shot me a look. "What have you done?"
"Aurélie!" Nathalie hurried over to hug them both in support.
All three stared at me — not hateful, but with a touch of disdain.
Oh. So I was the reason for why she was crying. Now I had one upset girl and two others glaring at me. I felt my face harden. Gilles really was a complete arse.
—✦—
Monday, April 26th, 1999 — Rochester, Kent, UK
Rochester reminded me of Chester and it had nothing to do with the names of the town being similar to Chester's. Actually, I suppose it did. Chester was an anglicised word for caester, Roman word for fortification. So as you'd expect, Rochester was built by Romans and their handiwork could be seen everywhere. Likeness with Chester continued with the Tudor-era buildings strewn around the town. But what really got you to notice these similarities was the was the river Medway going through the town. Across the river was the town of Strood, two towns formed the very new Medway council.
Two towns divided by a river. Rochester was Chester, Strood was Saltney. How peculiar.
We'd spent the Sunday getting settled at a hotel provided by BBC. Being back on production finally settled my mind from reeling too much from the disappointment. Even without a rival, I would grow up to be the best. It was just another challenge.
A large studio had been hired for today's activity. We were going to do a read-through of the entire script. So I sat on the massive fort made out of tables. Weirdly, all of the cast were present. Which was the first time it had happened with me on any production. Second weird thing was this table read was happening only a day before the shoot started. Usually that happened with TV shows but apparently it extended to this particular BBC production as well.
My eyes went through the cast members making small talk. Our director Julian Jarrold started the morning by instructing us to talk to the person next to us. He had a medium-length light brown hair done in a side part. It would look bad on most people but somehow it looked just right on him. He seemed to have been working exceptionally hard to get the production started because the man was sporting the darkest eyebags I'd seen on a live person. Not that I'd seen a dead one yet.
Tony Marchant the writer was a guy with nerdy square glasses and the body and face of a football hooligan with a haircut of a skinhead. Guy sent all sorts of conflicting signals, it almost seemed appropriate that he was a writer on top of that.
My eyes roved over the actors. Much like Tea with Mussolini, I was in face of a famous and professional cast. Some people were much more famous than others. Namely Ioan, Welsh actor on the rise and the sole reason I, a half-Welsh was cast in the role of Pip. Man was getting all kinds of attention from cast due to his recent fame for Horatio Hornblower. I didn't think that the show got popular outside of the UK. But within our border, he was huge.
Brunette bombshell was speaking in an animated conversation with Ioan. Justine Waddell was a fairly new actor in the scene but she'd recently finished production for a film called Mansfield Park. Miramax had produced that, so I was pretty sure it'd get pretty big.
Next to them sat Charlotte Rampling, who was to play Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. One of the most memorable characters from the novel and most adaptations. Though she was important to me for a completely different reason. Dune, one of the biggest trilogies since Harry Potter and unlike most trilogies it was regarded as one of the best ever. She played the leader of the Bene Gesserit in it. I didn't want to watch it, it was so far away that I would probably be in pain waiting many years for the film to be produced.
My eyes kept going around the room, small actors, big actors. All of them offered me revelations small and big — Sherlock Holmes, Les Misérables, Illusionist and more. Unlike the Italian actors I'd seen, these actors would act in more known artwork. At least to my revelations self.
"How many productions have you been in?" the annoying voice asked.
I bit my lip. I am as serene as Lake Como, I told myself. After forcing down the irritation, I answered the unwelcome question.
"Three."
"Only three? At least tell me they were films," the girl huffed.
I shot her a glare, then forced my eyes forward.
"Well, since you're new," she continued, "I might as well teach you the ropes. This is a table read. The director wants us to greet each other, chat, build rapport. We won't start reading for another ten minutes or so."
"I know," I snapped.
She smiled, a slow, satisfied curl of the mouth. "Then play the game as is proper. Answer my question."
"One film," I muttered.
"Only one? God. Where did they dredge you up from? Do you know someone in the production? Is that how you got the job instead of someone… competent?"
"No, I don't know anyone. Is that alright with you?" I said, anger leaking into my voice.
Annoyingly, she wasn't completely wrong. If I understood things properly, Gail Stevens had only cast me because Ioan was Welsh and Nain just happened to speak Welsh after my messed up audition. Stupid Nicholas Hoult and Stupid Daniel Radcliffe. This was one role that I mucked up yet somehow I landed it. It was fair to say that I didn't deserve it.
"Are you even from England?" she said, tilting her head. "It sounds like you struggle with whole sentences."
She even said it slowly, which annoyed me even more. I shifted away from her. She was too much. Maybe not looking at her face will make her more tolerable.
"Yes, I'm from Chester." My accent came out full force — always went more Manc-and-Scouse than proper when I was angry.
"Chester? Where's that? Some little backwater? You might've heard of Sheerness or Kent, maybe you can give me the tour when we're there. What about your family, then? Where are they?"
"They're in Chester, alright? It's near Liverpool and Manchester," I said through gritted teeth.
"That old woman talking to Ioan earlier — was that your mum?" she asked, sing-song and smug.
"She's my grandmother! That's it. I'm not talking to you, anymore." I slapped my hand on the table.
She rolled her eyes as though I were a toddler having a tantrum, then calmly went back to reading her script. That irritated me even more — she didn't even care. She'd won at some game that I didn't even know we were playing. Was that hatred I was feeling?
I studied her properly. Dark brown hair, so deep it was almost black. Eyes a pale gold-brown that shimmered like honey when the light hit it just right — ironic, considering her personality was anything but sweet as her looks was.
Our conversation had started innocently enough when we were seated together for the director's exercise: she'd asked my name, schooling, training, credits. But whenever I tried asking anything back, she ignored me and delivered little cutting remarks about me, my teachers, and my training. Now, I didn't even know if I could work with her.
Five minutes passed. I watched the adults chat, growing bored. The girl playing Estella hadn't looked up from her script once. Something came over me — boredom, maybe, or the illusion of normality during her five quiet minutes — and I forgot how unpleasant she'd been.
"What's your name, anyway?" I asked awkwardly.
She looked up, momentarily surprised I was speaking to her, then gave an evil little grin. It made her look more mature, somehow.
"I'm Estella Havisham. Pleasure," she said, overly posh.
"Are you going to keep being so annoying? What's wrong with you?" I snapped.
"I've no idea what you're on ab—" She stopped mid-sentence as understanding dawned. "Oh, honestly. You're so serious. So… dull. Can't even have a bit of fun."
She straightened, her voice slipping into theatrical grandiosity. I couldn't tell if she was still making fun of me.
"My name is Dorothea Offermann. Actress extraordinaire. Wunderkind. And you are Wilfred Price — lucky enough to share the silver screen with me before I ascend fully into stardom. You may brag about knowing me before I was famous. You're welcome."
"Right… uhh," I said dumbly. What else could I say to that?
"You're not reading your script," she commented, judgy as ever. "You do realise our job is to bring those words to life?"
I glared again. She was prickly enough that I regretted speaking.
"I've memorised the script. I'm off book," I said,
"Hmph. Well. Maybe you're not half bad."
She paused. "Quarter bad," she corrected, then lifted her chin with a prim, self-satisfied nod.
"If you need help, you may ask me. I've done thirteen productions, and I'm generous enough to offer guidance to the needy."
I just stared at her.
What ten-year-old talked like that? What ten-year-old thought like that? Dorothea Offermann was a concentrated ball of delusions of grandeur and arrogance, all wrapped in terrible manners and a narcissism so oversized it made Gilles look positively modest. Every infamous stereotype about actors and rock stars lived inside this one tiny teeny little girl.
And I would have to endure her unpleasant company for the next month.
I gave her another stink eye — purely on principle.
She was rapidly becoming my least favourite human being on Earth.