Site Presented By
Thursday, Jan 8, 2009
Too bad her son, poised to costar with world-famous thespians, lacks motivation.
Dec 4, 2000 | The casting agent spotted my 11-year-old son at his gymnastics class.
"Would you like to read for a part in a movie?" she asked him. Reid shrugged. "Here, take my number," she said. "Ask your mom to call first thing in the morning to set up an appointment."
Before I called, I asked my son, "Are you sure you want to do this, honey?" Secretly I hoped he would tell me that he'd always wanted to act. When I played Helen Keller in a junior high school production of "The Miracle Worker," I vowed that acting would be my life. It was only years later, after grueling repeat performances of "The Fantasticks" and "Arsenic and Old Lace" -- and especially after playing the lead in a college production of "Antigone," grim even in French -- that I recognized the main reason I'd been smitten with my first role: Only one speaking line. But still I'd been seriously seduced by the mystery and the glamour of acting. Spotted by a casting agent!
My son, not seduced, was at least game. "Why not?" he said. "It might be a good experience."
The T-shirt Reid happened to be wearing when I picked him up after school on the way to the casting director's was white once. It hung almost to his knees, so that just the hem of his shorts -- which were dark and very large -- peeked out, like a droopy black slip, underneath. In the cab on the way uptown, I watched him consume an entire pack of red licorice; a light stain extended from the corners of his lips, encircling his mouth in a soft halo. He turned to me and knocked his baseball cap up off his face with the back of his wrist.
"Think they'll like me?" he asked. He smiled his huge, beautiful, megawatt smile. His teeth were pink.
There were already four boys with their sitters or moms slouched around the heavy wood table in the conference room when we arrived at the casting director's. They all gave my son and me the once-over as we walked in. We sat. I read the paper. Reid studied for his math test. I wondered if the other boys were invited here, too. They were swapping stories about their agents. One of the kids, who claimed to be 12, looked as if he could have used a shave.
A chipper young blond woman popped into the room. "Is everybody here?" she asked brightly. She spotted my son. "Reid!" she said. "I remember you!" She gave him a copy of a short script.
"Does everyone know the story?" she asked.
My son and I were the only two who shook our heads. "OK," she said. "Ohh-kay. So the story is ... " And she went on to weave a confusing and disheartening tale, dropping the names of two famous actresses and a very famous actor like breadcrumbs along the way. Everyone in the room seemed to get the story but me. The characters wandered around in my head like lost children.
"But then ... why is Grandpa in the hospital?" I asked dimly.
"He's not in the hospital," the chipper woman said. "The sister is in the hospital."
"Uh, well, skip it," I said.
A moment later, my son left to read. I gravely slipped on my reading glasses and pretended to study an editorial about budget cuts while I fantasized about the intimacies I would soon be sharing with actress No. 1.
"This dialogue seems stilted," she confides. "Will you help me fix it?"
"Your son is so intelligent and well-behaved," says actress No. 2. "So beautifully brought up."
I hadn't even really looked at the page when Reid stood before me, pleased. "We'd like him to come for a callback," Chipper said, "or you can stay for another half hour and we'll see him again." I glanced at Reid, who nodded.
Get Salon in your mailbox!