My toll was voided, and the order was tall: land a role in a major motion picture produced in Hollywood. Specifically, soundstages. I want to work where the Animaniacs live. Could any of that stuff be real? Anthropomorphic mice wearing overalls and gloves, concocting adventures and trouble in equal measure and never losing the safety and stability of their Warner Brothers water tower? It was a dream lifestyle, to me. I’m not a villain. Nor am I hero, but a secret… third… thing… this is the slang I was taught in an acting class many years ago. I’m sure it’s long since been replaced by vague noises of discomfort and mild violence. This world doesn’t accommodate to my kind (feathered, winged, bird). One doesn’t travel easily in a consumable state; one doesn’t trust the kindness of strangers once you’ve been called “yummy” one too many times.
Luckily, no one in Hollywood eats. Ever. Especially not meat. I’m safe here. This is my zone of comfort, my sphere of acceptance. I’m only as good as the last audition I landed, I’m only as good as the last performance I gave, I am… only… what you see on the screen. I’m a bit out of breath, I’ve been running around realizing I triple-booked myself and also my barista apprenticeship just started and I’m being followed by The Washington Post (they want to do a story on “talking animals”? Talk to someone else). I’m gonna bail on the first two, I’m really not feeling the casting director, smells like dead meat. Besides, the last audition is the only part with any substance; the first two, like so many others, casts me as “Chicken #2” or “Chicken #3.” I don’t even get to be “Chicken #1.” They already have a rooster for that.
Seriously? I’ve gotta be the character actor of roosters and hens in Hollywood? Okay. I’ve been made to understand that Sayuri, the dog from Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, is looking for a feathered understudy. You know, I could’ve done that Once Upon a Time movie. Quentin (a friend) doesn’t remember me, but we partied around 1998 in Greenwich Village. He doesn’t remember I helped him run lines for Wait Until Dark, which I thought he was good in (no matter: the critics slammed it, and Quentin [a friend] got all the blame, while Marisa Tomei got off without a scratch. Okay… that’s a moment). He won’t be casting me in his new movie unless I really make it, really impress the casting director Victoria Thomas with my… uh… non-avian qualities (patience? Lacking).
When Quentin (A FRIEND) gets his new movie going in December, maybe I’ll get an audition. But today I’m reading for Brian De Palma’s Stalkings, a top secret project—I had to sign an NDA. It basically said that I’m not legally allowed to discuss the film, including its director and its title, until a certain date, or else I’ll be, like, I don’t know, limber? I kind of stopped reading after a while. Reading’s boring. That’s why I’m an actor, I can just read the dialogue and slide down the surface of things. Bret Easton Ellis (another… friend…) taught me that, you know it’s all about appearances, that’s the theme of his novel Glamorama, which I haven’t read, but I’ve heard it’s good (moment!). I wish he were here with me. I don’t want to face Mr. De Palma alone.
His office is cluttered and musty. I must admit he smells of dead meat, as well, lots of it, along with cigarettes and peanuts. Do you people (humans) have no shame? I’m right here. “Yes, we know,” De Palma says. “We’ve given you your cue. Would you like to deliver your lines now?” I realize I said all of this out loud, to De Palma, and his casting director, and three more of his people, and instead of being thrown out on my ass wing by wing, he’s smiling back at me like a garden gnome. “Let’s see what you can do, Benny.” He knows my name. This is going to be fun.