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Step 7: Get Cast

I have been cast in a show.

Applause break.

Since I know that getting cast is the main objective of every aspiring actor, I am going to walk you through this step very carefully. Every little detail might be crucial to replicating my success, so I don’t want to glaze over anything. In fact, I’m going to break down this post into fifty micro-steps that, if followed exactly, should act as a foolproof method for getting cast in any show.

You ready?

Here it goes…

 A Foolproof Method for Getting Cast in Any Show:

  1. Find an audition notice for a production of Twelfth Night on the Chicago Artists Resource website on July 24th, 2014.
  2. Email the production company to reserve an audition time.
  3. Receive an email confirming your audition time and informing you that instead of preparing a monologue, you must prepare one of three Shakespearean sonnets and perform it as if you were reciting the poem for a lover.
  4. Read the email and then forget about it for a week.
  5. Check the email again the night before the audition, panic, print out the sonnets, and then go to sleep.
  6. Wake up the next morning and pick out the one sonnet that you understand (mostly).
  7. Try to memorize it on the bus.
  8. Fail.
  9. Arrive at the theatre way too early. Instead of going in, walk around the block several times before sitting down on a park bench next to a playground.
  10. Recite the sonnet aloud ten to fifteen times, cursing whenever you screw up.
  11. Ignore the worried looks you are receiving from the parents of the nearby children playing on the playground.
  12. Start sweating profusely.
  13. Go into the theatre.
  14. No, not that theatre. There’s a show going on in there and the house manager is not pleased with you.
  15. Oops.
  16. Go to one of the theatres upstairs.
  17. Ask the lady at the bar upstairs about where you might find the Twelfth Night auditions.
  18. She doesn’t know.
  19. Sit on a couch and wait.
  20. Oh, here’s someone. The stage manager?
  21. Yes, the stage manager. You’re still too early, and you’re the first audition of the day, so the director has not yet arrived.
  22. Wait some more.
  23. Here’s the director. “You’re early,” he remarks. You confirm that this is the case. “Well, I guess we’ve got some extra time. Are you ready to go now?” You say yes.
  24. WHAT? Why did you say that? You’re not ready! You’re not ready at all! How does the sonnet go? “Not from the stars does my judgment…” No, wait, “do I my judgment… pick?” No, “do I pick my judgment,” right? No?
  25. Walk into a small theatre off a hallway behind the bar.
  26. “No, it’s pronounced ‘Klane.’ Like ‘main.’ It’s German.”
  27. Recite the sonnet. Get, like, a third of the lines mixed up.
  28. Apologize.
  29. Have the assistant director tell you to stop apologizing.
  30. Try to do the sonnet again, but this time, make it even worse.
  31. Let the director give you some advice.
  32. Don’t listen to the advice. Just do it again, but this time glancing down at the sheet that you printed out last night and crumpled up in your pocket.
  33. The director and the assistant director are trying to help you, but this is going nowhere fast.
  34. Do it one last time, but have the director cut you off halfway through and tell you that he’s seen enough.
  35. Walk out of the theatre, dejected.
  36. Throw your crumpled sonnet sheet at a garbage can outside.
  37. Miss.
  38. Are going to just litter like that? Pick it up, you monster.
  39. Place it in the garbage can like an adult.
  40. Receive an email later that day from the production company saying that, “We really enjoyed your work. Unfortunately, we will not need you for callbacks.”
  41. Mope around for a week.
  42. Receive another email from the Twelfth Night director. He apologizes for the wording of the previous email, saying that, although he did not need you at callbacks, he would still like to offer you the role of Captain/Officer/Priest and Sir Andrew Aguecheek understudy.
  43. Do a little dance.
  44. Wait for a couple of hours. You don’t want to seem desperate.
  45. Ah, who are you kidding? Email the man, for God’s sake!
  46. You’ve been cast!
  47. You’ve really been cast!
  48. HURRAY!
  49. HUUUURRRRRAAAAYYYYYYYYY!
  50. I really want this to be 50 steps, so, like, get a milkshake or something. Doesn’t a milkshake sound good? Milkshake. Yum.

So there you go. How to get cast. Right there, in plain, simple English. Pretty great, huh?

Don’t worry, though, this blog is far from over.

Far, far from over…

 

And if you want to see me in a show, I’ll be in a production of Twelfth Night with Leftend Productions that has performances every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in October at the Den Theatre in Wicker Park. To see me as Sir Andrew, aim for the weekend of 10th-12th. I’ll provide more information when tickets go on sale. In the meantime, feel free to donate to Leftend’s Indiegogo campaign so we can have a set, because sets are good and THEATRE ISN’T FREE, PEOPLE!

Step 6: Go to Auditions

Perhaps you imagine auditions taking place in a half-darkened theatre. You walk up on stage and face an auditorium empty but for a director, assistant director, and a large pile of audition forms. “Hello,” you say pathetically. Your weak voice echoes through the cavernous space. “I’m Joe Kloehn, and I will be performing Phil’s monologue from Howard Korder’s Boy’s Life.”

The audition forms rustle in response.

“Can I use this chair?”

The assistant director nods.

You screech a small wobbly wooden chair across the stage, sit down, and begin. Your monologue sounds thick and forced. The empty space spits your words back at you, mocking you with every syllable. You get louder, with the hope that increased volume will somehow translate into honesty, but instead it simply strains your voice and throws you off your rhythm. The words have lost their meaning, and it takes all your effort simply to deliver them in the correct order. Your hands gesture uselessly. At the monologue’s climax, you make your voice crack, with the hope that this will convey some sort of emotion. Then you take a dramatic pause before muttering the final lines.

 The theatre is silent. A single drop of sweat rolls down your forehead.

“Thank you for coming in,” says the director.

“Do you need to see my second monologue?”

“It won’t be necessary,” says the assistant director.

You leave.

 If this is what you imagine, there are two things I must tell you.

First: Don’t tell the director “I’m Joe Kloehn.” That’s my name, not yours. Why would you say that? It doesn’t make any sense. Don’t be a weirdo.

Second: Auditions are actually a good deal worse than that.

At this point, I have been to seven professional auditions. Less than half have taken place in theatres. The others have taken place in locations that are less than ideal for a two-minute performance that must showcase all of your acting abilities. For instance: The first audition I attended, the train was late and I ended up speed-walking six blocks in ninety degree heat. I rushed to the address I had typed into my phone, filled out an audition form in a stairwell, and did not realize that the audition took place in an old high school gymnasium until I walked through its double doors. I then spent the entirety of my monologue focused not on Phil’s unrequited love, but on how many regional IHSA basketball championships the Catholic Knights won in the 1990s. The director, sitting in a folding chair at the half-court line, did not seem impressed.

My second audition was in the decaying basement of an old arts building. It was a general audition, so I was auditioning for every production that this theatre company was putting on in their upcoming season, as well as for every show in an impending one-act festival. After waiting for forty-five minutes, I walked into a narrow little room that was absolutely filled with people. Every production and one-act had at least two representatives present, and they lined themselves up along the room lengthwise. The room was so narrow and they were so plentiful that I could not angle my body without facing my back to some of them. I did a lot of pacing just so they could all see my face before my two minutes were up.

My most recent audition took place in a dance studio. This would be a lovely place to audition, if not for the giant floor-to-ceiling mirror facing me the entire time. If you think watching recordings of your performances is painful, try watching yourself audition in real time. I don’t know what my performance was like, but that asshole in the mirror looked awkward as hell.

A good audition should transport the director into the world of the monologue. If you can accomplish this feat, even for just an instant, it should be enough to get a callback. However, the trick to these auditions is that you never know what space you’ll be transforming.

Well, one of the tricks.

You also will have no idea how long an audition might take. If a company has a tight audition schedule and a long wait list, expect no more than two and a half minutes. This can feel particularly disheartening, especially if you are like me and arrive everywhere an hour early. However, if you happen to be performing before a gap in the audition schedule, the director will keep you there as long as he or she wants. You will go through both of your prepared monologues, and then they might start handing you sides that you have to cold-read. They might start critiquing you, testing to see if you can take direction. This can be reassuring because it means the director is actually considering you, but mostly it’s just ridiculously nerve-wracking.

“Be ready for anything” is not reassuring advice. However, it is the only advice I can give as of now. I don’t know if auditioning will get any easier, but I sort of doubt it. I also doubt that this will be my last post on auditions.

On the bright side, you now know how to get headshots, find auditions, and go to auditions. That’s everything you need to know to get cast! It’s just a matter of time now, right?

right?

guys?

 

Step 5: Find Auditions

Now you have your headshots. Congratulations. Take them out and look at them. Pretty nice, huh? So professional. Kind of makes you feel like a real actor. Now take one of those fine headshots and flip it over. Do you see your resume there, handsomely stapled to the back? Look at all those credits. What great experience. Who wouldn’t want to cast you? Now take that headshot and put it face-up on your knee. Look at that picture again. You’re such a good lookin’ fella. Now take another headshot and put it on your other knee. Then, very carefully, take a third headshot and balance it on your head. Finally, spin your chair around and shout, “I AM KLAXTOR, THE MANY-HEADED DESTROYER OF WORLDS! I HAVE COME FOR YOUR CHILDREN!”

Very good. You are learning.

Now, perhaps you are wondering what to do with those headshots besides summoning the spirits of The Ancient Ones. I recommend attending auditions, where you will give those headshots to directors before performing monologues and prepared sides. Hopefully, through this process, you will get cast in a play, thus holding off the necrohordes for another of Mercury’s orbits.

But how do you find these auditions?

I have heard tell that sometime during the last millennium there was a printed publication distributed among the primitive actors of that period which informed them of upcoming auditions, providing information like where and when said audition would take place. Now, however, we live in world where words like “printed” and “publication” have all but lost their meaning, and no such document exists. Instead, we must turn to our hive-mind overlord that we know as Internet. Within this web of think pieces, foot-fetish videos, and fantastic, helpful, informative blogs, there are several hidden locations where Chicago audition notices are posted. And, because I am the pinnacle of human decency, I present them to you now:

League of Chicago Theatres: http://www.leagueofchicagotheatres.org/component/industryaudition/industryauditionlist.html

Chicago Artists Resource: http://www.chicagoartistsresource.org/calls-for-artists?keys=&field_car_location_value=chicago&field_call_type_value=auditions&discipline=Theater

Theatre in Chicago: http://www.theatreinchicago.com/auditions/

BOOM! There you go. The best places I know of to find non-equity audition postings. You should really be paying me for this.

But, like, really.

Really.

Think about it.

*ahem*

So, there it is. Go to these sites. Find auditions at times you can attend that are looking for actors of your type. Each posting will most likely provide an email address, so send an email to this address to schedule an audition slot. Always attach a digital headshot and resume in one combined PDF. You can show up to an audition without scheduling a slot, but it’s a poor show.

Don’t put on a poor show. You’re an actor. Shows are kind of your thing.

And remember, Klaxtor is watching.

Always watching.

Step 4: Get Headshots

This post could also be titled “A Bunch of Extremely Awkward Pictures of Joe.” I feel that I need to warn you that here I will be breaking my typical format of not having pictures by having pictures. These pictures will all be of me. Many of them will not be flattering. If you have not met me, perhaps you would like to skip this entry so as to keep the image of me that you have created in your mind unsullied by harsh reality. That said, this is also the first really concrete bit of acting advice I am going to provide, so you should probably just struggle through.

Another warning: The process of getting my headshots taken, retouched, and printed took me about a month. You must have professional-seeming headshots to audition professionally, so, if you are an aspiring actor, I recommend doing this as soon as possible.

Now, as I mentioned in Step 3, I began my entry into Chicago’s theatre scene by contacting several contacts, theatre world-insiders who I knew beforehand. One of the questions I asked my contacts was where to get my headshots taken. They each gave me their own long list of photographers who they knew did actor headshots. I looked all these photographers up online, and I confirmed that yes, indeed, they all did actor headshots. My contacts had not lied.

Unfortunately, I know nothing about photography, and thus could not assess the skill of these photographers based on their websites. I decided to take a more scientific approach. I cross-referenced all the lists my contacts gave me to see which photographer was mentioned the most. Only one man appeared on every list. His name was Brian McConkey. (If you are Brian McConkey, look at this free advertising! Isn’t this great? Wouldn’t it be a nice gesture to send a cut of your earnings to Joe Kloehn, considering that this hit blog is read by millions? Maybe you should even think about officially sponsoring this blog! Wouldn’t that be fantastic? Your customer base would probably increase by ten-fold, and that’s a conservative estimate! Anyway, just some food for thought.)

I set up an appointment with Mr. McConkey. He also offered to bring a stylist to the shoot for an extra ninety bucks, and I said sure, because this was my graduation present from my parents and thus not my money. I went to his loft, and after the stylist wiped some of the sweat off my forehead and tried to tame my cowlick, we spent nearly two hours shooting pictures of me. We did some pictures inside and some outside, which meant that McConkey and the stylist had to lug lots of gear around while I walked between them, pretending I had my own entourage. It was pretty great.

What was less great was receiving the pictures a week later. Not because of the quality of the pictures (don’t you dare pull those sponsorship dollars, McConkey), but because of the quantity. He sent me several hundred digital images of me, which is a lot of images. I spent the next few days staring at my face and going crazy.

The worst ones were easy to pick out. For example:

Oops.

Oops.

No.

No.

Yikes.

Yikes.

KILL IT. KILL IT NOW.

KILL IT. KILL IT NOW.

However, eventually I would get to a run of nearly identical pictures, and start focusing on tiny, insignificant changes.

I see that left earlobe peaking out...

I see that left earlobe peaking out…

There it is! Hey there, little buddy!

There it is! Hey there, little buddy!

WHERE DID IT GO? WHAT YOU DONE WITH LEFT EARLOBE, GIANT FACE MAN?

WHERE DID IT GO? WHAT YOU DONE WITH LEFT EARLOBE, GIANT FACE MAN?

Eventually, I landed on this picture, because of my smoky eyes and slight smile that says “I’m really sick of looking at pictures of my own face so this is going to have to do.”

Pure sex appeal. Ladies?

Pure sex appeal. Ladies?

McConkey recommended a photo retoucher, and since I could no longer un-see all my facial blemishes, I enlisted her help. This is the final product:

And left earlobe was never seen again.

And left earlobe was never seen again.

McConkey also recommended a printer, so I sent the retouched file to the print shop, went on vacation with my lovely and supportive girlfriend Kate (who should also feel free to sponsor this blog), and came back to find myself with two hundred 8x10s of these bad boys.

I pounded out some resumes listing my participation in a bunch of college shows, printed them, ran out of ink, bought more ink, printed more, cut them down to 8×10, stapled them to the back of my headshots, and was finally ready to audition.

If I could find some auditions.

I’ll tell you how to do that next week.

Keep reading.

 

And here are links to the photographer, retoucher, and printer I used. They were all excellent. Tell ‘em Joe Kloehn sent you. And tell ‘em he would like a cut of their profits for all this good press. I mean it.

Brian McConkey Photography: http://www.brianmcconkeyphotography.com/
Catherine Adam Retouching: http://www.ktretouching.com/
J&S Photo Service: http://www.jsphotoservice.net/

Step 3: Contact Contacts

I have heard tell that somewhere in this strange land there are institutions known as art schools where aspiring performers receive things called BFAs. I imagine that these places are filled with instructors who teach craft with the notion that perhaps, one day, their students might use said craft in a professional setting. For an actor, say, they might even dole out helpful tips on how one might audition and get cast. Additionally, this actor might build up a list of friends and contacts so that when he entered the professional world he would not do so alone, but instead surrounded by knowledgeable associates ready to lend a hand at a moment’s notice.

I did not attend one of these institutions.

When I graduated high school, I had convinced myself that, although I enjoyed acting, I did not want to become a professional actor. A career in acting seemed simultaneously frivolous and unattainable, so instead I redirected my efforts towards more serious majors that I knew would lead to jobs right out of college, like history or English.

As a result of this decision, I ended up at a tiny liberal arts college in the middle of Iowa.

After one semester, I realized that, hey, I should probably double major just in case sometime in the distant future something went very wrong and I was forced to pursue acting after all. And so, after some consideration, I obtained bachelor’s degrees in both history and theatre, thus making me the perfect candidate for moving back in with my parents.

My liberal arts education was rarely focused on what one might call practical application. My acting courses were taught by a performance studies professor, a dramaturge, and an experimental performance artist, and I think it’s fair to say that they were more interested in encouraging creativity than imparting a craft. This led to highly enjoyable class sessions. It also led to me remaining decidedly uninformed on how one might become an actor in Chicago.

Since my chosen institution of higher learning did not pass on nearly as much professional acting information as I would have liked, I had to make some contacts in the theatre world outside of college who could tell me what the heck was going on. Now, as you know, I grew up in Chicago, so I knew I had a list of people who I knew knew someone that knew what there is to know about the Chicago theatre scene. And perhaps, if I was very lucky and stopped writing intentionally obtuse sentences, these individuals would impart some of this knowledge onto me.

And they did!

These persons, mostly former classmates and family friends, all happily shared information on everything I wanted know, like where to get headshots, where to find audition listings, how to audition, and how to get representation. They also shared all sorts of information I didn’t want to know, like what to file under business expenses on your tax forms when you’re a free agent, how to try to not get audited, how to file for unemployment, and are you sure you want to do this? They allowed me to draw up a plan for how to proceed while simultaneously giving me a whole new list of fears. Without my contacts, I would not have been able to continue down this terrifying path and I would probably sleep better at night.

But now perhaps you are saying, “But Joe, I’m not nearly as cool as you! I didn’t grow up in Chicago and get to know a bunch of rad actorly types who could guide me through this difficult process!”

To you poor folks, I say WELL I DIDN’T HAVE AN AWESOME BLOG TO GUIDE ME THROUGH EVERY STEP OF THE WAY, SO DEAL WITH IT BUDDY!

I might also tell you to ask around. You might be surprised who has connections to the theatre world. It might be a friend of a friend of a lover of a friend, but I bet you know somebody. However, if you do not, keep reading. For future posts, I am going to be stealing a significant amount of the information my contacts imparted onto me and passing it off as my own wisdom.

Or you could just go to an art school, I guess.

But I guarantee that reading my blog is cheaper.

Step 2: Tell People You Want to Be an Actor

You have decided to become a professional actor.

So far, it’s gone great. You’ve pictured yourself taking the world by storm. It starts in a little audition room, where you deliver a monologue so spectacular that it makes the casting director first weep, and then applaud with joy. They cast you in their new play immediately, and word spreads of your seemingly limitless talent. Soon, you’re on the front cover of Chicago Actor’s Magazine and Seemingly Limitless Talent Quarterly, and, by the time opening night rolls around, your entire run of shows has been sold out. After rave reviews, you take the show to Broadway, where it is met with even more rave-y reviews. The play is turned into a pilot that you, of course, star in, and it results in a network show that runs for nine seasons. From there, you launch a movie career, win four Oscars, marry some young starlet, buy an Italian villa, divorce the starlet, become a recluse, and eventually die in a freak yachting accident off the coast of Brazil.

Planning phase: complete.

But, eventually, you have to take the next step. You have to tell other people that you want to be an actor.

When I decided I was going to tell people that I wanted to be an actor, I expected a whole range of responses, from “Are you sure you want to do this?” to “I do not recommend that you do this.” Then I imagined I would say, “Oh, my. You’re correct. This is a crazy idea. What was I thinking?” and shuffle off to law school.

Sadly, this is not what happened.

Instead, people have been very supportive. Almost across the board. Frequently, they even seem excited. “Go for it,” they say. “Do what you love. Follow your dreams.”

Of course, this vocal encouragement is often coupled with a facial expression that I have since come to identify as “Good luck, buddy” face. This expression contains a unique combination of skepticism, pity, and condescension. It is similar to the look one might give a small, visually-impaired asthmatic boy who insists that he will one day become an astronaut. It says, “I will not be the one to break your dreams, child, but know that they will be broken.” Or, to put it more succinctly, “Good luck, buddy.”

The other response I get essentially boils down to one seemingly reasonable question: “Can you make a living doing that?”

This question is, of course, horribly ignorant. Not ignorant in the sense that this person has grossly underestimated the monetary rewards for storefront theatre acting, but ignorant in the sense that YOU NEVER ASK A CREATIVE ABOUT MONEY.

And because the answer is a resounding “probably not.”

The most interesting responses will undoubtedly come from those closest to you. Because these unfortunate folks presumably have a vested interest in your future, they cannot brush you off with encouraging words and a “Good luck, buddy” face. They must seem genuinely supportive at all times, while still subtly getting across the message that your chosen profession frequently does not compensate you with actual money, which might make your life considerably more challenging down the road. This conundrum can lead to some unique approaches. My mother, for instance, is nothing but optimistic in regards to my acting career when we’re face-to-face. However, she occasionally sends me emails that are entirely empty but for a single link, a link which invariably leads to an article titled “Non-Equity Theater Actors Juggle Day Jobs.”

All of these responses are justified. In fact, there may be no better options. The ideal, one imagines, is honest, unqualified encouragement, but this would do me no good. Even if I received some heartfelt, caveat-less support (which I’m sure I have), I could never recognize it. I carry with me such tremendous doubt about my future that I hear skepticism in every voice and see “Good luck, buddy” in every face. I cannot hear people urging me on because every bone in my body is trying to go hide under my bed and not reemerge until they have formulated a list of concrete career goals and a five year plan that will place me in a stable profession with a comfortable salary.

I imagine that this doubt will dissipate around the time I receive my third Oscar.

I promise more concrete details about the nitty-gritty of professional acting in the weeks to come.

So keep reading.

Step 1: Start a Blog

I have a confession to make.

I have no idea how to be an actor in Chicago.

I was a theatre major at Grinnell College, a small liberal arts school in Iowa. This summer I returned Chicago, where I grew up, and I have decided that I am going to be an actor. I am currently residing in my parent’s basement.

 

This blog will be a guide. It will take you through all the steps I experience as I attempt to become an actor. I would like this guide to become the most honest guide ever written, in that it will be written as I discover the steps myself.

That said, there is no guarantee that I will achieve my goal, making the title potentially inaccurate. Perhaps, at some point, I will find it necessary to rename this guide “How to Have a Mental Breakdown in Chicago” or “How to Become a Permanent Member of the Food Service Industry.” In this case, the guide may become significantly less helpful, although no less honest.

 

Are you a fellow aspiring actor? Then perhaps this guide will provide you with some helpful tips.

Are you someone who considered acting, but chose another, safer path? Then this guide will allow you to live vicariously through me, and, in all likelihood, arrive at the realization that you made the correct choice, helping you sleep more soundly at night.

Are you very, very bored? I recommend George R.R. Martin’s book series, A Song of Ice and Fire, on which the popular HBO show Game of Thrones is based. However, if you have already made your way through the five existing tomes of Martin’s fine series, why not stick around? I promise to be mildly entertaining.

Are you a critic from the future, attempting to discover how the inspirational national treasure that is Joe Kloehn became the most brilliant actor of his generation? Well, sure, you could read this, but you could also just browse my latest autobiography: Joe Kloehn: Becoming the Most Brilliant Actor of My Generation.

Are you a lover of schadenfreude? Then this guide is a potential gold mine, you monster.

 

Please bookmark this site. It will be updated weekly.