Chapter Twenty-Two.

     So, here's the thing:

     I didn't post Chapter Twenty-One last week, because it's been bat-shit crazy at my part-time job (Medieval Times, and yes, it's as kick-ass as it sounds to ride horses and play with swords), because March is our busiest month of the year because of Spring Break, when kids want to not think about school but do want to watch guys fight with sharp objects while falling off of horses, because isn't that every Spring Breaker's dream?

     Probably not. My point is, I was busy last week. Then I sat down today to actually publish Chapter Twenty-One, and I did what I always do before I publish another chapter on the blog. I read it. And I discovered something important. Something I hadn't noticed the dozen or so other times I've read Chapter Twenty-One.

     Chapter Twenty-One sucks ass.

     I'm serious. It's awful. Even though it's a completely true story, I read it out loud and it sounded like a giant, Titanic-sized boatload of bullshit. Poorly written bullshit. Now, I'm not saying everything up to this point would have made Papa Hemingway wet with jealousy, but I at least think I've been swinging for par. Chapter Twenty-One is just a great big slice into the trees, where there's poison ivy and coyotes. So, I am going to do with Chapter Twenty-One what the makers of the new Spider-Man film are doing with the first FIVE Spider-Man movies: namely, pretend like it never happened.

     And, with that in mind, I (mostly) proudly present Chapter Twenty-Two of Making Sh*t Up: An Improvised Life. 

(Oh, and plus there's no snappy photo this week. I tried. Everything looked like shit. You'll just have to read the words. You can do it. I believe in you.)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Some Shit I Learned While Making Shit Up

  

  I rarely get asked for advice about working on camera, even though I’ve been doing it for over twenty years. Maybe it’s because people have seen my work and believe I don’t have shit to contribute. But I think it’s mostly because I don’t hang out with actors. I don’t belong to any actor support group, or club, or fraternity, or whatever actors in groups call themselves. I have lots of nice acquaintances who are actors; I see them all the time at auditions, and I work with them frequently. But I wouldn’t call many of them friends. Not drop-what-you’re-doing-and-bail-me-out-of-this-Mexican-jail friends, anyway. That’s mostly on me, not them. I choose the company I keep.

     Still, I’ve learned a few things, doing this shit for twenty years. And some of these things I believe are worth sharing, on the very slight chance that a budding young actor is going to pick up this book because I was on a moderately successful PBS series back when his parents were children. So, here goes. Take it or leave it.

     Play well with others. One of the very first things you had better learn about working in television or film – or even theatre, for that matter, even though I never have – is that it is a collaborative effort. Even to pull off a thirty-second commercial takes a team of people, all knowing and doing their jobs to the best of their ability. That’s a whole bunch of folks with a whole lot of different personalities and opinions, who all believe in their bones that their job is just as important as the fucking actor’s. If you work on a set as an actor, get to know the crew; they’re the ones who actually make shit happen. Learn their names, and at least one or two personal facts about them. Understand that you will be working closely (sometimes quite literally) with them, and that you all have a job to do. You’re trying to make something that’s bigger and more important than your individual contribution. And yes, that means even if it’s just a donut commercial. And in order to work collaboratively and be successful, it would help to:

     Have some fucking humility. For me, the first rule in working in television is to remember this phrase: You ain’t all that. I say it to myself before every gig, as a sort of ground wire for my ego. I am not the most important person on the set, so I don’t need to act like it. I don’t need to bitch about how hot the lights are, or how itchy my wardrobe is, or how terrible craft service tastes. I don’t need to monopolize a Production Assistant’s time by asking them to get me a double-soy latte every fifteen minutes. And while I’ve gained some wisdom over scores of commercial shoots, I’m not a director, or a cinematographer, or a lighting designer, or a sound engineer, and I should do my level best to keep my nose out of their business. Show up on time. Do your job well. Be nice. Go home. It’s not rocket surgery.

     Thicken your skin. As an actor, you know what will be the single biggest reality you ever have to deal with? REJECTION. You are going to be told – a lot – that you’re not the person we are looking for. And here’s my problem with so many actors who consider themselves artists: they take it personally. They react to a rejection as though the client or director or producer were deliberately targeting them for cruelty. I suppose, in some very rare instances, that’s true. But overwhelmingly, your not getting cast for a particular part is just business. Okay? Especially in advertising, ad folk and their clients are looking for something specific – even if they don’t really know what it is until the moment they see it at a casting session. Nine out of ten times, it’s going to be someone who is not you. Deal with it. If you can’t handle a lot of rejection, stay out of this business. Hell, for that matter, stay out of most creative endeavors. If you ever want to act something, or write something, or sing something in front of people who are not blood family or very close friends, then you are always going to have someone in the audience who thinks that you suck. Throughout the whole of recorded history, there have always been more critics of the creative arts than people with the courage and conviction to actually practice them. So buck up, camper. Or get a regular job.

     Don’t lie on your fucking resume. That sounds like common sense, right? Guess again. I’ve seen it too many times. This is the most basic of rules; if you can’t speak fluent Portuguese, or do magic tricks, or walk on a high-wire, or competently ride a horse, don’t put it on your resume. The worst cases I’ve seen of this both involved people who said they could ride horses, when they clearly could not. In one case it was funny; an extra on a commercial lied and said he could ride for a trail riding scene we were shooting. The trail guide asked each of us individually if we were comfortable on horseback. Then we were all warned about river crossings. It was summer, and some of the horses liked to get out in the middle of the river and lay down, whether or not somebody was on their back. I don’t know if this twenty-something kid was listening to this part, or just thought he was too cool to pay attention to an actual cowboy who was trying to keep us all safe. But sure enough, we got out in the middle of the Medina River, and his horse started giving all the warning signs, and he panicked and started kicking the horse and pulling in the reins at the same time, at which point you might as well just shout to the horse, “I got no fucking clue what I’m doing up here!” which the horse was like, “No shit,” and promptly laid down in the river. The guy wasn’t hurt, just mortally embarrassed – and fired.

     The second incident was serious, because it involved a much older actor who should have known better. This gentleman was a very accomplished theater actor, and assured all involved he was comfortable on horseback. All he had to do was nudge the horse forward into a Point Of View shot from ground level. When the cameras rolled, he didn’t nudge the horse so much as kick it in the ribs, causing the horse to rear, causing him to go ass-over-teakettle backwards off the horse, landing hard and breaking several ribs and his collarbone in the process. He could just as easily have broken his neck.

     Being in front of the camera is not the place for skills learning. If there’s a particular skill you’d like to be able to put on your resume, invest your time and money and go learn it. Take music lessons. Learn to ride a horse. Go to the firing range. Find someone who is good at what you want to learn, and learn from them. And still don’t put that shit on your resume until someone qualified at that skill tells you it’s okay to do so.

     Here endeth the shit.

     Next Week, Chapter Twenty-Three: Near-Death Vacations (Interlude)

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