Stage auditions: they’re essentially the performing arts world’s version of trial by fire. Actors are thrust onto a bare stage, granted a mere three minutes to showcase their entire being, their accumulated skills, before a panel of often weary judges. Imagine this as the hiring process across professions. A surgeon, auditioning for a position, would have three minutes to perform a lobotomy. As a sliver of brain matter is excised, a monotone voice would declare, “Time. Next!” Undeterred, the surgeon might present themselves at another hospital the following day, this time tasked with an appendectomy. Even a flawlessly executed procedure wouldn’t guarantee employment; perhaps their nose was deemed unsuitable.
My own baptism by fire in professional auditions occurred at sixteen. My high school drama club cohort had stumbled upon an open call for The Sound of Music. We, armed with countless viewings of the movie, were convinced we embodied the perfect Von Trapp children. All that was required was our presence, and stardom in a grand musical production would be ours!
Reality struck hard upon arrival. This was not the familiar high school auditorium, nor were we vying against the usual two classmates for the semester’s roles. Hundreds of children were being ushered onto the stage, one after another, presented to casting directors like livestock, each warbling “Doe a Deer.”
Stephanie, blessed with a genuinely lovely voice, was allowed to reach “Fa a long long way to ruuuun.” Then came the abrupt, dismissive, “Thank you.” Too tall. Scott, with the quintessential blonde Von Trapp look, made it to “Me a name” before being cut short. Voice too low.
Then it was my turn. I felt like an insect under a microscope. The music began, I inhaled deeply, and sang: “Doe a . . . ”
“NEXT!”
Two notes. That was my entire audition.
The audition process wasn’t always this abrupt. The term audition didn’t carry its current weight until the late 19th century. Prior to that, a young man aspiring to act would seek an interview with a company manager, not an audition. Young Mr. Prescott would arrive punctually for his meeting with the esteemed Mr. Postlethwaite, who awaited in an office filled with books, a comforting fire crackling in the hearth. Over tea, the manager would inquire about young Prescott’s aspirations and interests, gauging the boy’s moral fiber and suitability for the company. If deemed appropriate, Prescott would be welcomed as the newest apprentice. His journey would commence as Spear Carrier #3, gradually progressing to minor speaking roles—”Yes, my liege”—in subsequent productions. While the company’s celebrated actors graced the stage as Hamlets and Cleopatras, Prescott would absorb the craft through observation. After several seasons, his name would grace the playbill in a leading role. Mr. Prescott appearing as Romeo. Quaint. Refined. Encouraging.
Motion pictures changed everything. Rudolph Valentino’s rise on the silver screen spurred theaters to desperate competition. Suddenly, conventionally attractive individuals, regardless of talent or training, became the sought-after commodity. A pleasing face translated to millions for a producer. Morality and ethics were irrelevant. A woman could be plucked from the chorus line and catapulted to stardom overnight. Casting directors emerged: often perceived as brutal gatekeepers, agents of humiliation.
Early in my career, I found myself as one of these agents at a regional theater. The casting director’s realm, I soon discovered, is impersonal and administrative. The role involves issuing audition notices, sifting through piles of headshots, making countless phone calls, scheduling appointments, overseeing auditions… all in the hope that, after this exhaustive process, the director and producer would encounter the ideal person at the perfect moment.
Auditions are, more often than not, tedious. Unlike the manufactured drama of shows like American Idol, real auditions are rarely thrilling quests culminating in euphoric discoveries. They are, in reality, long days spent in airless rooms, watching a relentless stream of individuals attempt to impress you in three-minute increments. Actors often fail to grasp the numbing effect of this process. An opinion is often formed within the first three to five seconds of an audition. If an actor visually fits the role and sounds passably competent, you might grant them your attention for the remaining minutes. If lunchtime beckons, your stomach’s demands overshadow all else, rendering talent irrelevant. Your mind drifts to mundane concerns. Where to eat? Time for dry cleaning?
Humor, often at the expense of the auditionees, became a coping mechanism. Before actors even entered the room, headshots became fodder for mockery. During auditions, a poker face was essential, while mental notes were taken for later comedic retelling. A demonstrably untalented woman delivers a climactic monologue from Sophie’s Choice. Pure comedy! Another mangles David Mamet’s name as “Mamay”! A laugh riot! A tone-deaf rendition of “What I Did for Love.” Hysterical!
But my most memorable auditioner was a young woman who chose to sing Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot Song.”
Image alt text: Pat Benatar passionately sings into a microphone on stage, bathed in vibrant concert lighting.
The sheer audacity of the song choice was an invitation to ridicule. This young woman was likely no older than I had been during my Sound of Music debacle. Yet, I allowed her to sing the entire song, not out of kindness, nor out of any belief that the theater might hire her. No, it was purely for my own amusement. The spectacle of someone earnestly belting out this rock anthem a cappella, swaying to a melody only she could hear, was too captivating to cut short. She was a rock star in her private universe, complete with an imaginary microphone and spotlight. I let her believe she was succeeding, that I was impressed, that a chance might exist. Oh, I was indeed impressed, but not in the way she imagined. That evening, my friends were regaled with the story, erupting in laughter: “This girl in leg warmers screeched a Pat Benatar song! You wouldn’t believe it!”
Had a casting director, years prior, used my own youthful audition as comedic fodder? “So, this Italian kid walks in and starts singing (imitating Italian accent): Doe-a a deer-a, a femala deer-a —ha ha haaaaa!”
My tenure as a casting director lasted three years. I had to resign. There’s a fundamental flaw in a profession where you routinely deem 99.9% of people as unsuitable. My perception of the world became warped. Meeting anyone, anywhere, I found myself hyper-focused on flaws and peculiarities. “It’s lovely to meet you,” I’d say to a new acquaintance, while internally dissecting, “Those jeans are clearly too small. Your hairdresser should be sued. Is that a nose job?”
Leaving the casting world, I was hired to direct a play at a smaller theater, one without a dedicated casting director. I was now responsible for running my own auditions. Fortunately, some genuinely talented actors auditioned, and I suppressed any urge to mock them. As the process neared its end, I had mentally cast every role except one: the minor, comedic part of the boisterous, overbearing waitress.
The final actor entered for her audition. She was petite, not the imposing presence I had envisioned. Her reading from the script was hesitant, riddled with flubbed lines. I mentally dismissed her. But instead of succumbing to the pressure, turning crimson or bursting into tears—she laughed. A genuine, hearty laugh, directed at herself. “This is the worst audition ever!” she exclaimed, still laughing. She attempted again, stumbled over words, paused, and… laughed again. “Forget it! I’m just too nervous. I’m terrible! Thanks anyway.” And with that, she exited.
Oh well. Still no waitress, but overall, a productive day. I began packing my belongings.
Then, from the hallway, I heard her laughter again. She was recounting her disastrous audition to friends, mocking her own performance. But in this retelling, she was not hesitant or insecure, as she had been during her brief time on stage. She was vibrant, boisterous, the life of the party.
A thought, one that would never have occurred to me during my casting director days, surfaced: she deserves a second chance. Her vibrant personality might be the perfect complement to the ensemble I had envisioned. She would be a welcome presence in the company.
“Miss DeRosa, would you mind coming back in, please?” She was clearly surprised. She returned. Instead of asking her to read again, I simply asked why she had been so nervous. Her expansive personality, previously hidden, now emerged as it had in the hallway. Soon, she had me laughing. I had found the final actor for my play. Miss DeRosa appearing as the Waitress.
I went on to cast Miss DeRosa in at least three subsequent productions. She eventually progressed to more substantial roles in my shows. Her initial audition might have been objectively terrible, but judging someone’s potential and suitability in a mere three minutes is fundamentally flawed. It simply cannot be done.
–Domenick Scudera
