You wanna be a professional actor? Lesson one.

Let’s begin. You have big dreams. We all do. You look at yourself in the mirror and imagine masses of adoring fans asking for your autograph, clamoring to catch a glimpse of you exiting your limousine…

Maybe it can happen. However, unless you are one of the incredibly lucky (read: charismatically good looking) few, your chances of fame and glory are slim. So I pose this question to you. Do you love to act? Have you been onstage, conquered the roiling monster in your gut, and lived to wish for it again? Do you think you have talent?

Lesson # 1 starts here. It is called REALITY.

Acting is a much harder field than most know. Take a typical NYC theatrical performer.

Your day begins early (5-6am) to exercise. Why? Your body is your instrument, your tool, your livelihood. Without a body that is conditioned, you will not be up to grueling tasks before you (you’ll understand as you read on). I am not saying your body must be that of a Greek god, nor even skinny. Just FIT. Have a little stamina. By the way, try not to wake up any of your roomies; they had rehearsal until 2am because the choreographer wasn’t happy with the Crapshooter’s Ballet.

Maybe you can make a 7am or 8am audition if you are lucky before running into “work” schlepping coffee or serving eggs to ungrateful breakfasters whose caffeine has yet to kick in. Hopefully there will be less than 150 auditioners for the role you are seeking that morning, because your boss is tired of each of his workers being late because auditions ran long. You are really hoping to get a call back, because it has been 5 months since your last show.

After your shift you go to your next audition. You enter the room with 1 or 2 monologues and an upbeat song and a ballad prepared, hand your headshot and resume to the director and before you can say two words the director says, “Thank you. Next!” Let’s assume it is a “cattle call” where you audition in a large group. Perhaps your group of 30 needs to learn a bit of a dance number from the choreographer in under 5 minutes and audition en masse. The choreographer and director then simply watch the crowd and eliminate those who don’t meet their criteria. Maybe you are too short. Maybe you don’t have the skills necessary for the dance. Maybe they want all brunettes.

You survive the cutting. Now you must sweat it out until you find out whether or not you get a “call back”, or invitation to the next round of auditions. After all this, you may get a part in a show. Now the real fun begins.

First you need to contact your day job and make arrangements around the rehearsal and show schedule, because the production simply doesn’t pay enough (IF it pays) to live off of without your daily tips. Now, in addition to your 5-8 hr. work shift, you will be rehearsing 5-6 days a week (Monday is “dead day” in professional theatre; unless you really suck), for 4-8 hrs or more as you get closer to opening night. So your daily schedule now looks like this for 4-8 weeks (if you don’t have to help construct the set, too):

4a
Wake up
5a
Day Job at food service establishment of your choice
11 am
Work out
Noon
Lunch
2pm
Studio for dance practice
4pm
Work on lines with friends (I.E. Dinner)
5pm
Rehearsals
10-11pm
Food or Stimulant and socializing or sleep or more rehearsal…
12-1am
Sleep (if not rehearsing still)

The show begins and you are now performing 7 shows a week, 6 days a week including the matinee on Saturday. You show up 2 hrs. prior to curtain time to put on make-up, check costume and props, and if the budget of the production isn’t big enough for stagehands, check and prep the set. Plus you warm up to help prevent body and voice injuries. However, if you pull a muscle, break a toe, or have a sore throat the show must go on! You grit your teeth and perform through the pain, because chances are you have no understudy. So you take pain relievers, sore throat lozenges and tea, wrap up your injuries tightly and go on. (Once I had my face gashed open in the middle of a chase scene gone wrong, and held the cut on my face closed with butterfly bandages, instead of the recommended stitches, because I could cover the bandages in make-up, and not stitches. I still have a scar years later.)

Not being one of the lead roles, you have 5 different characters to play in the show and 5 lines accordingly. You have to strip down to a dance belt (glorified jock-strap showing a whole lotta ass) side stage in front of 3 people who assist you in changing costume and make-up, freezing from the air on your sweat covered body, in under a minute so you can make your entrance at the start of the next scene. Hopefully after the bow, you don’t have to help strike the set as well.

All this, so some critic can say, “Did we really need a revival of Hair set during the first Iraqi War? The mediocre ability of the cast really detracted from what should have been brilliant choreography on the part of Mr. So-and-So… blah, blah, blah.”

So you ask me why anyone would want to perform? If you have to ask, you may not be ready for a career as a performer. If the sound of this sends thrills up and down your spine, and you think that one show a year and 5 people in a studio apartment appeals to you; if the tired sore feeling you have is how you measure accomplishment; then read my next article: Acting Basics.