How Jerry Orbach Saved My Career
By David Fairhurst
In August of 2000, I was no different. I was planning to leave the city for a sojourn in L.A. and was desperate to get on the show before I left—if for no other reason than to imagine the look on the face of a cynical, unpleasant, "L&O"-loving former co-worker of mine when she saw me pop up on her favorite program.
Coincidentally, that month I’d booked my very first role on a network television show: five lines on a short-lived newsroom drama on NBC (also produced by "Law & Order"’s Dick Wolf) called "Deadline," with Oliver Platt, Bebe Neuwirth, and Tom Conti.
Try to imagine the most difficult circumstances in which a nervous young actor could make his network television debut and you couldn’t do much worse than "Deadline."
From the moment I stepped on the set, I could feel the tension. Despite the high-powered cast, this was a series in trouble, and it seemed like everyone knew that cancellation was looming. To make matters worse, that day’s major scene was being shot on location in an Upper East Side mansion, a scene involving multiple rooms on multiple floors, dozens of characters, extras galore (did I mention the live string quartet?)—an incredibly ambitious undertaking for a struggling one-hour show on a tight schedule—which the director decided would be cool to shoot in one long, unedited five-minute take.
And where did my five lines fall in this mini-epic? On either end, where they could easily be snipped if the new guy screwed up? No, they were smack-dab in the middle. Meaning that if I blew a line, the cast, the crew, the dozens of extras, the Steadicam operator, the string quartet—everyone would have to go “back to one” and start the whole elaborate process over from the beginning.
My first television role. No pressure.
Upon arriving on set, I was introduced to Oliver Platt, who looked down his nose and grunted at me. But at least he made a noise; no one else said a word to me. Around the table at the first read-through sat the director, Platt, Hope Davis, Lili Taylor, and me, and as I looked around, the thought that kept going through my head was: “Okay, which one of us does not belong here?”
We read through the scene a couple of times, and of my five lines, I managed to remember approximately zero of them. From there, things went downhill. My newcomer’s nerves, the cold reception by Platt, my celebrity co-stars, the tension on the set, the complexity of the scene—all of it combined to make me feel as insecure as a freshman at the senior prom.
As we began shooting the scene, I somehow managed to fumble through most of my lines, botching only one take when I drew a blank on line No. 3 (after which, Hope Davis, bless her heart, told me not to worry about it—the only kindness I was shown by anyone that day).
But soon another problem became apparent: My five lines were proving to be unusually wordy and I was having trouble getting them all out fast enough. After the third take, the director hurried over with a peeved expression and asked what the problem was. But before I could answer, he grabbed a copy of the script and—to my everlasting mortification—started slashing my lines on the spot, from five down to three.
I’ve never felt so embarrassed in my life. It was the lowest moment in my acting career. “He hates me,” I thought. “He wishes he’d never cast me. My network TV debut and I can’t even get out five lousy lines. I’m ruining the whole scene and everybody knows it. What am I doing here? I’m not an actor. I don’t belong here.”
So as people in traumatic situations often do, I made a deal with God. “God,” I said, “just get me through this and I promise I’ll never act again.”
Several hours later, the scene was finally in the can, and I went home feeling nauseous but relieved. Never again would I have to go through this torture: The dream was over.
Two weeks later, "Law & Order" called: Three lines. Lab Technician No. 2.
My deal with God notwithstanding, I decided to give it one more shot. But if this experience was anything like "Deadline," I told myself, then it was definitely time to call it a career.
It was the last day of shooting on that week’s episode of "Law & Order" and they were running late. So I sat in my dressing room at Chelsea Piers for a good two hours with nothing to do but say the same three lines over and over and over again, listening to Angie Harmon across the hall warble Partridge Family tunes and dreading what was to come.
Finally, an assistant director poked his head in the door, said they were ready, and led me to the set like a man headed for the gas chamber. All that was missing was the final meal, the weeping relatives, and the priest to administer last rites.
And then, a miracle happened.
“Hey! How ya’ doing? I’m Jerry Orbach!” With a big grin on his face, he grabbed my hand and shook it like he was meeting a long-lost relative. Warm, relaxed, and unpretentious, he and Jesse Martin welcomed me as a member of the family, peppered me with eager questions, asked where I was from, and even (I swear) sang a couple bars of a show tune.
We ran through the scene once, I managed to get through it without a hitch, and immediately Orbach announced to everyone within earshot, “Hey, we got ourselves a pro here!”
Coming off the "Deadline" disaster, it was the very best thing he could have said.
The look and feel of "Law & Order" is so ingrained in our pop-culture consciousness, however, that being there on the set created a weird sort of out-of-body experience: I felt as if I were watching the show and acting on it simultaneously, as if I’d literally stepped through the TV screen. And before the first take, I could feel the old familiar nerves starting to return.
But this time it was different. Somehow I knew that all I had to do was look into Orbach’s friendly eyes and the nerves would melt away. No one had ever told me this; I just seemed to know it instinctively. By focusing on those eyes, everything else would disappear—the camera, the crew, the fact that I was standing on the set of "Law & Order" and doing a scene with Jerry Orbach and Jesse Martin.
So that’s what I did. As the director yelled “Action,” I stared at Orbach until all I could see were his eyes, and suddenly he wasn’t a celebrity anymore; he was just another scene partner—no different from the countless others I’ve had over the years. And this wasn’t a hit TV show; it was just another scene—and a simple one at that. In fact, it felt easy. I began to relax. I’ve done this a million times before, I thought. What the hell was I worried about? I’ve been acting for years. This is nothing.
Ten minutes later, it was all over. Orbach shook my hand again and we said goodbye. To him, I’m sure, it was just another day at work. But to me it was everything. Jerry Orbach had just saved my career.
As the first anniversary of his death approaches, I just wanted to tell him, “Thanks, Jerry.”