-•✦--✦--✦•-
D+1, After Audition
Particular house in Hanover Garden always had the light on the second floor. It was the largest of the many tiny rooms cluttered throughout three floor property. The open window of the room let out the odd noises and experimental tunes played by a piano. If you stuck around in the footpath outside, you could catch music from eight in the morning to eight at night. Today the piano kept playing even after those hours, and an angry knock came to demand answers.
"What are you lot doing in there?" an annoyed voice shouted.
Even from the second floor, I could hear it — my window was open. I looked up at the clock and realised that I had lost myself at some point. My mood had been great, and I had started to write music for myself. Like a big boy.
Vinyls bought from the Archive had changed my opinion about music in so many ways. At the moment, my obsession was with blues, but soon I'd move on to jazz, and then combine everything I'd learned into rock and roll. British music fans might never agree, but American music was at the top of the world for the same reason Britain had once been—the trading that brought so many people of different cultures together also brought together their music.
Every genre could be deconstructed into its component pieces. Rock and roll combined every musical genre that came before it — blues, rhythm, country, and jazz. But many of those component pieces could themselves be attributed to a common ancestor, blues. That genre also combined folk music of America with African sounds brought over the Atlantic by slaves. It was a genre risen from the need to endure hardships and to deal with it. If music could evolve, why couldn't I evolve? My goal was to experience the evolution of music myself and ascend as a musician.
Blues was nowhere near the beginning of music. I was no historian and would never claim to be one, and I didn't see the need to explore obscure traditional music from different continents—not for the foreseeable future, anyway. Blues just fit me. I'd evolve my blues into jazz and improvise it like I'd learned in acting classes, until my jazz transformed—until I built musical instincts. The world had collectively gone through that evolution, creating countless genres of music, new sounds bred from the old faithfuls. Visionaries created radical new music, radical new way of hearing sounds.
When I was done recreating that evolution, I'd have my own working understanding of music. How fun would it be to release albums in various different genres? Raise the stakes, push the timeline further—go beyond the year two thousand. Modernise it all. Surely there'd be a new genre across the millennium breakpoint. I wanted to know how that genre would sound. Could I be the one to create it? If not, I'd add to it my own touches.
Knock sounded much closer this time. My door.
"Yes?" I said.
"Wilf, you'll have to pack it in for now. Ronnie's right cross, he is. You've got to stick to the time we agreed," Nain reminded me.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Nain," I murmured.
"No point apologising to me, cariad — go and speak to Ronnie," she said firmly.
"Okay…" I sighed, peeling myself away from the piano. The melody I'd came up with was simple, but I'd been enjoying it all the same.
"Oi—" Granddad called as I headed downstairs. When our eyes met, he gave me the look.
That was rare for Granddad, and I shrank a little under it.
"What have I been teaching you, eh?" he asked, voice low and steady.
My mind went blank.
"Things about god?" I ventured a guess.
"No, you daft boy. I'm talking about respect — love thy neighbour. Folk knew that two thousand years ago. But no—" he jabbed a finger towards me and a palm towards Ronnie, "—I want you to remember what you said to him."
Only then did I notice Ronnie sitting inside, drinking tea — from my mug, no less.
"No need to have a go at the lad," Ronnie chuckled nervously.
"Ah, but I won't have a man of this household go back on his word," Granddad said, voice firm as ever.
That's when it hit me — I'd made an agreement with Ronnie. I'd promised only to play within a certain time window. Hanover Gardens had been built for the working poor — though over the years, the definition of 'poor' had shifted. Area was now my middle class — yet the walls were still thin as paper. No wonder the sound carried straight through to Ronnie's house, our doors were inches apart.
Shame crept up my neck. It was such a simple promise, and I'd forgotten it as soon as I'd made it.
"Do you remember what I said?" Granddad asked quietly.
"A man's got to keep his word?" I guessed.
Granddad nodded. "If a man vows a vow to the Lord or swears an oath to bind himself by a pledge, he shall not break his word. He shall do according to all that proceeds out of his mouth. That's the lord's word, lad — but I'll tell you my own. A man's only worth his word. You can be poor, you can fall flat on your face, I'll never judge you, Wilf! But you never break your word. Not once. You hear me?"
"Yes!" I nodded quickly.
Granddad suddenly seemed larger than life, and I knew I'd remember that moment. I also learned another lesson bundled with this: don't make promises you can't keep.
"Mr Killick," I said, awkward but earnest, "I'm sorry for not keeping my word. But I promise to not play after eight while I live here. Not again, you can count on it!"
"You do that," Ronnie said with a nod, then paused, thinking. "You know, I didn't really mind your playing before — sometimes it's quite nice to hear. But whatever you've been banging out lately, it's almost as bad as racket you make in the mornings," he added with a chuckle.
"I can't believe I apologised to you," I said, feigning outrage.
"Stick to proper music instead of whatever that hellish noise was," Ronnie said, downing the rest of his tea in one big gulp.
"Right, that's me done. Best get some shut-eye," he sighed, setting the cup down with a clink.
"As an apology, I could get you a ticket to my show!" I offered in apology.
An apology needed a gesture, after all — and this one didn't cost me a single penny, which mattered these days with how much I'd been spending.
"What? I'm begging you to stop playing, and now you want me to go and listen to you on purpose?" Ronnie asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
"Uh—I just thought—" I began, flustered.
"Ha! Only pulling your leg," he laughed. "Yeah, go on then, I'll take the tickets. Don't moan if I flog 'em off, though," he added with a wink.
I hadn't spoken to him much before, but he struck me as a bit of a joker. I wasn't sure yet if that was a good thing.
"Which day suits you best?" Granddad asked.
"Any day there's no footy on'll do me. Mary might even shed a tear or two — doesn't fancy the stadiums, that one. Theatre will be right down her street." Ronnie said with a grin.
We spoke some more before seeing Ronnie off. I tried to make myself an evening tea — Italian tea Nain bought for us. It always knocked me out whenever I drank it. Before I could even put the kettle on, the knocker made a sound.
Granddad put on his serious face again; someone showing up late was never good news.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Adrian, Wilf's agent!" a voice replied.
It was indeed Adrian, only he wasn't alone. A handsome man in his mid-twenties was behind him. My agent had come to drop off some new equipment for me — a Sony DCR-PC1 camera that cost him £1300 at the shop. More specifically, that's how much it had cost me.
Adrian got paid each time I got paid — so far that only amounted to thirty pounds. Reality of the world all over was that you needed money to make money. I had paid Adrian about four hundred pounds to book me a photographer and order prints of headshots, pay for stamps, and more. Each casting director received a print and some details about me — only after seeing dozens to hundreds of such photos, would agents even decide to call some for auditions. Seventy auditions, no bookings since April. Yet the silver lining was that I had that many auditions. Or was that just another disappointed? How many times had Adrian even submitted my headhost? Hundreds, thousands? Surely not.
I'd still need to spend money to even get the chance to audition. This particular camera cost me more than three weeks of salary — it hurt. I was scared to even ask how much money was in my account now.
The camcorder looked beautiful, though. It was small enough to fit into a jacket pocket and even came with a tripod and an external microphone. The reason for the expense was to grab the casting director's attention—better quality recording, better lighting, better audio. Instantly, I'd set myself apart from the others. That was the idea, anyway. To help with that, the handsome man with Adrian set up three chunky studio lights in the piano room. Each one weighed almost as much as me.
The nameless man carried them both and struggled up the stairs. I made a token attempt at appearing to help, but the best help was to leave it to him. The stairs in the house were so narrow that helping would've only got in his way. My bank account couldn't afford lights like these. Thankfully, Adrian had got a deal on them from a friend at some big production equipment company. Renting was almost as good as owning.
Adrian spent time teaching me how it all worked, but even he wasn't familiar with all this new technology. He left it all to me with advice for me to remember:
"Set up the lights like how I drew it on this page. Remember to frame yourself in the center — only a slight distance between the top of your head and the frame. Send me the tapes and I'll send them to the casting directors."
He handed me a stack of scripts and said a final statement that I only registered as a warning later on.
"Those are your scripts. I added some commercials in there too."
"I don't do commercials," I answered as usual.
Adrian rolled his eyes. "What about the letter?"
The word brought me completely out of my good mood from yesterday's audition. I was sure that I had scored it — only a few days until Adrian informed me that I got the role. In the excitement of it all, I had forgotten about the letter.
The dreaded letter.
My head turned to stare at it. I had hidden from it yesterday, but I had completely forgotten about it today, even though I spent all day in the same room.
"What about the letter?" I asked.
"They need an answer. There's just over a month left," Adrian reminded.
"Do I have to make a decision now?" I said, sagging.
"No, not right now. But I don't get why you're holding it off. It's good," Adrian noted.
"Because it changes everything… Listen, I think I will be booked for Great Expectations. I did the audition yesterday. Did you receive any news for it?"
"No, give it a day or two," Adrian said, shaking his head. "Forget about Great Expectations, do your auditions and forget about it. Move on to the next audition, that's the only way you survive in the industry" he said, patting the tiny camcorder.
"Okay…" I looked away.
"I need an answer in a week. I can't hold it longer than that — they'll need to prepare," Adrian warned.
When my agent left the room, I noticed the handsome lad who'd carried the lights was still there.
"Hey, Wilf, yeah? I'm Blane. I'm his new client," he said, nodding behind him toward Adrian.
"Wilfred," I replied simply. "I'm pretty new too."
Blane glanced around my makeshift studio — the camcorder perched atop a tripod, the studio lights, and my piano giving off a proper professional image.
"You've got a cracking setup here. I've got a camcorder back home too — nothing as fancy as this one, and no proper lights. But I've got a trick that's worked wonders so far. Want me to tell you?" Blane said, in that tone adults always use with kids.
I didn't mind. Any tips were welcome.
"Yeah?"
"Record a tape every single day. Read through scripts, work on it until you stop messing up. Improv, improv, improv. Angry even if the script says happy, try it all. My acting teacher gave me that advice — I've come on loads since. Not booking jobs yet, but I improved a ton," Blane chuckled.
Call me old-fashioned, but talking to a camera by myself wasn't my idea of fun. I must have looked doubtful, because Blane added,
"You can only get better by doing. Don't wait until you're cast in a pile of productions to build up experience. Directors have cameras, I've got mine, and you've got yours," he said, pointing at the camcorder.
"I prefer auditioning in person," I explained. "Speaking to a lens feels miles away from acting."
"That's not how it works," Blane said. "You'll need someone to read for you. You live with your grandparents, right? They seem like a great bunch. Get them to read the lines off-screen. Casting directors need to see the dynamics with your scene partner. That's why they always read with you — so they can see how you gel with your partner, see if there's any chemistry and all that."
My ears burned as I realised my mistake. It had nothing to do with the camcorder or the self-tapes. Gilles had taught me, told me dozens of times, yet I had ignored the lessons because I wanted to see how the casting directors were reacting. I was never successful at that—they were masters at hiding their emotions.
I had denied the bond with the casting directors just to gauge if they'd cast me. Searching their faces had only impeded my own work. Maybe my acting wasn't so terrible after all. Instead, I'd been shooting myself in the foot at every audition—I wasn't even acting. I had been observing when I should've been connecting, watching when I should've been listening.
"Right," I muttered, my mind far away.
Blane had left by the time I came to. Another person I'd have to apologise to.
—✦—
Two Days Later
I performed two days in a row; Doctor Dolittle had picked up audience again. The weather seemed to worsen each day, all the while our attendance improved. My mood had improved after so many failed auditions, and even the world seemed to be falling in line. Even as I complained about Doctor Dolittle, it was still a blast to perform in front of a full house.
My tube ride back home was spent in introspective silence. Things had been looking up; me being Welsh had been so important that the two casting directors had broken their stony faces and took meticulous notes. But three days had passed without a callback. I thought about the letter Adrian spoke about—at the time, I hadn't really given it much thought. I wasn't worried then. Now, it seemed that I needed to make a decision. If I got no callback within four days, I'd have no choice.
My stomach made a noise; it wasn't from hunger.
—✦—
D+4, After Audition
There had been no callbacks, not a peep. My phone only rang when my parents called; Adrian hadn't contacted me at all. Holding up a highlighter, I went through my latest script, marking each of my lines. I had received this ages ago, casting date had been announced for ages, and I just happened to be busy on the day with a performance. So I was preparing for my self-tape. It was for Oliver Twist, a straight drama with no musical number—a TV series that I could play a titular character in. As far as casting for Harry Potter went, this would be the most relevant role. A titular lead character for a nine-year-old—those didn't grow on trees, and they were rare in the industry.
Only there were multiple such roles, and I was auditioning for all three of them. If there was god, they planned it all just right so the best kid could be cast in Harry Potter. One I was doing now, one I had already done and was awaiting good news for, and the last one was David Copperfield. I should never besmirch the name of Charles Dickens because he was providing even after death, opportunities for me to build up my profile.
I'll spare you how terrible the self-tape went. The Sony camera had so many buttons, and have you ever set up lighting only to find out you have a terrible shadow on your face as you start filming? It was a frustrating experience and I had a new appreciation for the electricians and grips on sets. My grandma was a godsend for all of it as she modelled for me while I set up the lights and the tripod just right and then she read the lines with me. We had connection, it only highlighted my audition mistakes.
One of the tricks Blane told me included sitting the reader right beside the lens of the camera. Nain sat so close to me that it felt awkward, but the camera had the best angle that way, and I got the best dynamics with my reading partner. I had wasted a Hi8 tape, but in the end, I wrote my name in marker on the case and put it in an envelope to be sent off.
Too many days had passed, and sending off that mail reminded me of another envelope that I hadn't read the contents of. Too long had I avoided the truth; I needed to face the music. Inside my makeshift studio was a nice long couch—a lovely place to take naps on. Except I hadn't napped here in a week. The letter was the reason for my avoidance of my daily kips. I plopped down on the couch; the crunching leather and soft cushions were just so perfect for my bum.
The envelope lay on the coffee table, lone and intimidating.
My name was written on the top. The yellow envelope differed greatly from the bills my parents received in the mail. It was A4-sized because it contained a contract within. I unwrapped the string from the button and took out the contract, so crisp and crease-free.
In bright bold print it said the following:
Performer Contract (Extension) for
Doctor Dolittle
Dated September 7, 1998
A few days back, I couldn't even look in the direction of this contract, but now my eyes roved over every detail that had changed from my last. My performance numbers remained the same; my current schedule was listed. The old contract's schedule had changed as I was more favoured by the time we had premiered. The new end date for the contract was April 9th—almost exactly one year from when I had started Doctor Dolittle.
Then my eye found the juicy detail.
Weekly Salary: £888.45
My mind worked overtime to reason out why that number was given. So specific and random. First of all, I was getting a raise, which was great—it meant that I was wanted, and on top of it, our production was doing great. How our audience numbers increased had a lot to do with the generous terms, probably. This was almost twice as much as I was earning now; my pockets had been recently emptied, and this would be perfect way to solve that hurdle. The money made me feel better, and I started to feel silly for having ignored the contract all this time.
[SLAP]
I had my face in my palms; I had seen a number and dropped my morals in moments. Dolittle wasn't good for me; I needed to learn more things and try harder productions.
The words on the page seemed to taunt me—Great Expectations would start shooting next year, as would Oliver Twist and David Copperfield. There was room for me to have my cake and eat it too. I would lose my dignity, but eight hundred pounds—I could take acting classes here in London and work on my craft while I did Dolittle. Wouldn't that be a more surefire way to progress as an actor?
[SLAP]
God, what am I thinking about? I was doing it all so I could get Harry Potter. If I didn't get that role, there was no point to it all. At that point, I could start acting again once I had finished drama school. No, I had the power of revelation that could guide me. No point in playing it safe; I wanted to take the high road. The more obstacles, the better.
I packed the envelope again and wrapped the string between the two buttons. No longer would this evil object haunt me—I had seen the words written in it. There was no longer any mystery to it. Facing my fears worked better than I thought. Gently slapping my face with both hands, I put my game face on.
There was a whole new audition on the horizon—one which I would no longer mess up by trying to read the impression of my casting directors. No, I would act without committing such dumb mistakes. I needed to book David Copperfield; if obtaining any of Dickens' titular characters could be great for Harry Potter, what would happen if I got cast in all three? Three lead roles, two of them titular. Warner Bros would have to hand me the job, right? If I could pull that off, there surely would be none as experienced to lead than me.