Suzie Plakson has been making a living as a TV, theatre, and film actress for 25 years.  Highlights include recurring roles as Dr. Golfinos on Mad About You and Judy Erikson on How I Met Your Mother, Broadway’s La Bete, movies such as Disclosure, Wag the Dog and Redeye, and the voice of a blue brontosaurus real estate agent on Dinosaurs. For more info visit www.suzieplakson.com.

I’ve been auditioning for professional acting jobs for (cue scream of horror) thirty years. Auditioning is, indeed, a micro-art unto itself. It is an art within a presumably artistic business, an art fraught with frustration, futility, humiliation, anxiety, hidden crafts, and on very rare occasion, magic — magic that isn’t necessarily contingent upon getting the job. The magic happens when preparation and skill mix with the receptivity of the people for whom you’re auditioning — in spite of the pressures that would seem to preclude that possibility — and all within the room are transported, for a moment, beyond the rather unappealing business at hand.

A few of my general premises:

1) Show business is a mad, mad, mad, mad world.  Mediocrity is all too often the cream that rises; why does so much talent go nowhere, why does so much crap go everywhere? Don’t ask.  Literally.  To maintain a steady sanity, it is essential to accept, again and again, the fact of a systemic, smiling insanity and inanity. One must let go of finding a Why in so very many instances.  Particularly for the analytical amongst us, “But why?” leads to tortured madness.  Best to cultivate many warm, wise touchstones in your “real” life.  Best to learn to laugh.  Best to develop a philosophical, practical view of the landscape.

2) There is a greater, albeit hidden acting skill called forth in an audition equal to and often greater than importance of the actual acting skill required to make the given material shine: the subtle but impenetrable pretense that one has automatic respect for and takes delight in the talent, the taste, and the company of the people for whom one’s auditioning.  So often, we’re walking into rooms seething with invisible, toxic tension. I guess I always figured it was a rather masochistic, but necessary, part of the gig to appear grounded and spontaneous and happy and confident – and then start acting.

Back in New York, I was so used to being dissed that I could perform as if the folks auditioning me were paying full attention, even if they were talking throughout, at a desk six feet in front of me. The saving of my dignity, again, at such times, was to, say, directly stare at them while they were talking, as I vocally and physically pretended to be fully invested in what I was doing. Yet, I must say, I’m sad that I had no idea how not to stand for such unkindness and disrespect.  Perhaps that’s why I became so diligent at finding ways to recover my dignity after auditions, as it has been so often compromised.

3) My audition credo has been, “Give ‘em trouble.” In other words, make such a memorable, exciting impression, that when they can’t cast you, for whatever reason, they feel torn; they can’t cast the Name, the friend, the sister-in-law, or the prettier woman, with a completely clear conscience. That means go in prepared, looking swell, and reading fabulously. Leave them confused, at the very least, as to what to do about you. That aggression shouldn’t show (yes, one more layer of acting required), one embodies that dynamism in the preparation. It won’t remotely guarantee a job, but I’ve found that it bolsters my inner strength. Particularly when I’m going in for the ones I really, really want, it helps me to leave feeling myself to be a person of craft, whatever the result. I find it’s a far more powerful trajectory than to go in, hat in hand, hoping to be approved of.

4) The control/lack of control thing: As I have found to be true over and over and over and over again, from casting directors, actors, producers, directors, the grapevine — there are infinitely variable elements that result in a person getting cast.  All you can do is control your turf; you can’t begin to control anything else.

5) When I first started out in New York, whether I was up at three a.m. to wait in a line that wrapped twice around the block to hand in my picture, whether I walked 70 blocks in the transit strike, or sang some song for the hundredth time, I poured every molecule of concentration and energy and hope into every single audition. I realized, eventually, that if — on top of all that, on top of all the pay the rent gigs — every time I walked into one of these things, I said to myself, “Is this It? This could be It!”, and it wasn’t even remotely ever It, the cumulative disappointment would kill me.  I began to realize that the very lifestyle itself was the embodiment of hope, and that any more hope than that would break my heart and spirit. So, I began to develop a healthy cynicism to protect my optimism.  It helped me to make it a discipline to Let Go, to Move On, after each audition.  (See number 4.  Then,1.) Yes, much, much easier said than done, you bet.

6) The audition performance itself is not, I have found, contingent upon my acting choices alone. I only get to be as funny or as moving or as interesting as the audience at hand, the chemistry of the collective, is willing for me to be.

Out of the now, yes, yikes, thousands of auditions (including voiceovers), a few pop out in this moment as good, bad, and ugly.

Theatre auditions have always been my favorite.  The sweeping, very generalized truth of this being that the material is better, the directors are smarter, the atmosphere is more conducive to Art. I suppose, too, I enjoy them because much of the theatre for which I’ve auditioned has given me stylistic room to spread my wings, vocally and visually.

When I auditioned for La Bete on Broadway (which I subsequently got), I wore high-necked ruffles and buckled shoes and felt perfectly at home, and not the least over-dressed. The accent was English, the play was in highly literate rhyme, the style was delicious to play. I read the script into dust, though always held the book, so as not to give the impression that this was a complete, static performance.  The audition was in a theatre; this, in and of itself, can lend a potent dash of delight to the endeavor. Now, these folks were aiming to put on a great production; so things were planned expertly, the reader was a fine actor, the director was articulate and imaginative during the audition.
There was a Neil Simon play at the Taper: True, this audition was already an exercise in near pointlessness, as most of the characters were already cast with TV names. But Neil himself would be there, so I was seriously excited.  The play (in my opinion) was not good, actually, and very pretentious, meaning to be dark and faux French, with black, bleak, I-hate-marriage humor.

Sadly, the man himself was as dour a person as I’d ever seen behind an audition desk.  His eyes were dead, his energy was unfriendly and even unkind. The reader was pleasant enough, tried hard, but was an average, dull, dramatic TV actor, who had no sense of the sharpness required to make such material cut into the air, and anything that might’ve been funny, might’ve been theatrical, was just mushed into mediocrity.  I left, praying I wouldn’t have a chance (I’ve done that a lot, when the audition has been so full of oppression and unhappiness), and knowing full well that there was nothing I could’ve done to shift the energy in that room.

I sang and read for Bob Fosse, and he was (which I believe he was for every single person that walked onto that stage), absolutely rapt. He was leaning on the seat in front of him, with his face in his hands, looking up at me onstage, as if he were falling in love. He was divine, and it was a heavenly, moving experience.  Auditioning for a gentle genius who completely wants you to be wonderful — well, all you have to do is bring your best stuff, and show up.  The chemistry does the rest, and if the show’s yours, it’s yours, and if it ain’t, you’ve given and been given a golden little gift, and a sweet, eternal memory has been made. Makes my heart sing even now, remembering.

Now, film auditions vary wildly according to the director, of course.  Most, I have found, tend to like the feeling that you Are the character, and wouldn’t have to waste anybody’s time actually acting.  So, once again, the acting on top of the acting: in this case, acting like you’re not acting.  Also, the embracing of spontaneaity is key: it took some time for perfectionist me to understand the value of a flub-up; mistakes allow personality and vulnerability to come through, and, on a good day, wit.  And then there’s just plain pretending; I got cast once just having a long, rather dull conversation, never reading a line, acting like I was interested.

Carl Reiner’s audition for That Old Feeling was a rare joy.  I’d gone in to read for one role — one of the second leads for whom I was not remotely beautiful enough, but for which my agent had miraculously elbowed me in anyway.  Mr. Reiner had me read for three other roles, all with different accents, and was full of praise and fun. I had dressed (purposefully, knowing that I had zero chance at the lead) as someone sort of sexily eccentric and unique, and the choice worked in my favor; he loved my outfit, I made a few cracks, and the scene was set for the spirit of improvisation from the start, so that when he threw the other roles at me, and I read them cold, I was a happy fish in clear water.  But he set the tone — welcoming, encouraging, and fun-loving. I didn’t get cast, but I left feeling validated.  Again, though, I could only be as funny and clever and dexterous as he was willing for me to be.

I once auditioned for Woody Allen.  It was quite a moment.  I’d flown into New York especially, and it symbolized the closure of a very long road for me; I had visions of waking up at 3:00 A.M. twenty years prior, to camp out in line on the sidewalk for his cattle calls, only to stand for fifteen seconds — no kidding — in front of a camera, and be pushed out of frame by some PA.  The only possible preparation for this present audition was to get as calm as was humanly possible. I just hung out in the hotel room, ate, watched movies, and didn’t call any of my New York friends, whom I knew would get too excited for me, and I’d “catch” their well-meaning nerves.

The man himself was quite warm and very shy. He’d set up his office in such a way that the very comfortable chair the actor was to sit in was lit beautifully. This was so clever, because when you sat down, you immediately felt like you were actually being filmed, not by some horrible videotape, but by the real thing — thus that elusive sparkle would be that much more likely to spark. So smart, I thought.

At a Woody Allen audition, one gets handed a few pages of dialogue, having no clue as to character or context, a few minutes to study it, then you go in and have at it. I loved the challenge, and found it great fun. I also thought he did something very brilliant, which other actors, from what I’ve heard since, have hated; he hid himself almost entirely, peeking out from behind some partition, or pillar. It sounds odd, I know, but the effect, for me, was significant — freedom from watching Woody Allen watch you.

My only impediment during that audition was the casting director, who was obviously burned out and moving too fast. When a casting director reads with an actor, they always — with the exception of this one time — wait to see if the actor’s ready to start. Not her. The nano-second my ass hit that chair she was off and reading. I covered and caught up, the scene went well, but I wanted her dead.  Acting, though, like…I didn’t want to rip her head off and thought she was just a peach of a gal.

To Television. The most frustration I have experienced as an actor — by leaps, bounds, and light years — has been being caught in the wheels of the creation of the “fill” in between those car commercials.  The people have been generally more self-important, more insecure, more pressured, more panicked, less intelligent, less artistic.  Also, they tend to travel in great packs — rooms full of writer/producers, rooms full of executives, everyone terrified to act alone.

My first audition for a series television was a sampling of the feelings of, by no means all, but so very many others that were to follow.  I left feeling thoroughly humiliated, and wanting to bathe in Comet.

I was in Orange County touring with a revival of Stop the World, I Want To Get Off in 1988, playing the lead — four different lady loves — opposite Anthony Newley. A writer/producer had seen me and come backstage, asking me if I would like to audition for a Jim Henson live-action TV sitcom. Why, sure, who wouldn’t?! He tells me it’ll be such a “nice, relaxed room,” and we’ll all have “so much fun,” that it’s a “love project.” Ah, the smell of bullshit in the air.  Having never smelled it before, it smelled like roses to me.

I get the script in my hotel room. I am appalled. It is so wretched, so stupid and so completely unfunny.  I try to wrench this and that wooden line this way and that, but I can only just barely make it speakable.  I was used to auditioning with great material, how…did…this…work…?  Why…?  Wow…

I drive to wherever the audition is, I walk into my first TV audition room full of, say, ten to fifteen people, and there sits Jim Henson in the middle, looking miserable, absolutely miserable. He is furiously glaring out from under his eyebrows.  No one else looks happy either, but they’re smiling.  I’m sad that Jim Henson appears to hate me and I haven’t even spoken.

But I am not particularly cowed by all this misery, (though it was mystifying), as I’m onstage every night, getting a strong response, sometimes playing to barely filled matinees, so I just buck up and do the scenes.  They fall horribly flat. They should. They are horribly written.  But what happens next that sprains my brain is this:

The writer/producer who’d brought me in, who was so adoring of me backstage, looks at me, in front of everyone, as if he’s been betrayed, and says, “No, no, what are you doing — do what you did onstage the other night.” I’m, like, wh — ??? “Yeah, you know, you’re doing all the accents and all the mime schtick, and — “  I’m looking at the script and saying, “But where — there isn’t…” and he rather roughly shepherds me out of the room by the elbow, takes me outside and starts frantically telling me to do what I did on stage the other night, over and over, as if he says it enough times it will make sense, and I’m trying to explain to him that the script has nothing whatsoever to do what I was doing on st –”Forget the script!” he says, “Fuck the script! Fuck the script! Go in there and throw in all the accents wherever, and when you get to the song — “ “…the…song?” “yeah — oh, they crossed it out, yeah, well, you can see the words, just make up a melody!”

I go back in, a somnambulist.  I try, with conviction, to do what he says. I feel more idiotic than I’d ever felt in my life.  They thank me, they hate me, I hate them, we smile, I leave, wanting only to scrub the rotten egg off of me.  The show never got anywhere.  But from that day on, I Understood, viscerally and experientially, the dysfunctional idiocy that can reign supreme in television.

I auditioned for The West Wing twice — it was a favorite show of mine, and both times I was very edgy, and so excited. The first time was a pretty exquisite audition experience.  Ken Olin was directing and he was so gracious, so smart, so very, very nurturing. Loved it, left it feeling proud to be an actor.  Wow.

A year later, I get a call at nearly eight o’clock the night before, for an audition early the next morning.  The role is huge, and beyond fabulous; she is a sort of pleasantly disheveled poet laureate, and I am madly in love with it, ah, yes, dangerously in love with it.

The next morning, having spent the whole night perfecting, choosing clothes, hair, you name it — I am…wait,  — completely alone in the hallway lined with chairs. …Huh? No one else is auditioning for this?  Did someone get fired? But, wait, why me? Did they like me that much last time?  What’s happening?  It’s thrilling, it’s weird, it’s confusing. Red alert.  Houston, we’ve got a problem.

I walk in and, sure enough, I get the silent, but potent hit in the gut.  Three people — one writer, one casting director, and one Aaron Sorkin.  Something’s up, and though I can’t place what or why, I just know this is a crock of some kind, though I automatically pretended not to, because what would one say, “What’s…going on? Something’s going on, right?”  No, so — I’m acting as if everything’s…just fine.  And then I start acting.

The casting director was looking really guilty, sympathetic and apologetic, I could see it in his face, though who the hell knew what to make of it.  Aaron Sorkin was reading with me; an executive TV producer/writer reading with the actor?! What?!  A never-before, never-since event.  And a thoroughly deflating one; he never, and I mean never, not once, not even for a glance, looked up at me.  He read one scene, at breakneck speed; there were three scenes, the others wouldn’t get read, obviously, and he left no air at all for playing any of the moments, and the performance and character I’d worked on all night and all morning evaporated, just evaporated.  It had all meant nothing.  I left, sad, confused, embarrassed as hell, and you bet, pretty heartbroken.  But laughing.  That’s my thing.  “Suckerpunched again.” Intellectually, of course, I was absolutely certain it wasn’t about me, but yet, I’d just been so humiliated, lifted so high, dropped so hard, so it haunted me for weeks.

Well, I watched the episode, a few weeks later, and Laura Dern was playing the role (and she was swell, as usual).  Who knows, they’d probably just closed the deal with her when I walked in, but maybe thought they couldn’t the night before.  Who knows.  No one.  And this is true of the lion’s share of these things: your agent won’t know, no one will know, there will be no explanation.  See number 1, 2, 4, 5 and 6.

Then there are the roles that come out of the blue: my agent sent a tape to Mad About You for a strong recurring role (while I was a regular on another show, mind you), told them they had to cast me from the tape and that I wouldn’t audition?! — (sadly, he left the agency and went into real estate) — and, well, they did! Huh?! Years later, I auditioned for Redeye, so completely annoyed to be wasting my time going because I knew that no one would ever cast me as a stewardess, for God’s sake, and so I didn’t prepare, didn’t do my hair, didn’t care, and got the part.  No, I repeat, no — I would never in a million years recommend that as a habit; that’s what’s known as fate, or fluke.  Point is, there ain’t no explaining some things.

Maybe the toughest thing to accept, and to have to keep on accepting every time something happens that makes no sense, which is really quite often in this business, goes back to number 1: it’s a mad world where there are really no rules and often no sense or much justice.

I have found, upon horrible and wonderful, long and winding adventure, that no matter what I bring to the audition table preparation-wise, presence-wise, power-wise — the chemistry of the room, the collective, is what determines a fabulous audition or an I-hate-this-business audition or all the auditions in between.  The fact is that the audition is a team sport, not a solo show.  I may, as I’m auditioning, have the most focus in the room for the moment, but the least amount of control.  And, of course, having a great audition just isn’t, alas, necessarily about getting the job.  My measurement of a good audition is if I can leave feeling a little bit appreciated for what it is that I do well, having just done it well.