by David Fairhurst
Okay, nobody actually called me that. And we’re talking low-budget non-Equity regional theatre. But still, in a span of two years, three different directors came to me asking if I would replace an actor who’d either dropped out or couldn’t go on for some reason—all three times in leading or substantial roles, and once with less than 48 hours before show time.
At first I was peeved that I seemed to be everybody’s second choice for parts instead of their first, but quickly I grew to appreciate my place in the theatrical hierarchy. Being everybody’s second choice isn’t so bad, and being asked to fill in at the last minute was actually quite flattering: It meant that directors knew I was reliable, hard-working, a fast memorizer—maybe not the best actor in town, but someone who could be trusted in a pinch.
I had a good reputation as an actor in a good theatre town, and that was something I took pride in. Then I moved to New York and it all went to hell.
My first inkling that something was amiss came in 2000. I was freelancing with an agent who mentioned that he’d submitted me for a project at a major New York casting office. When he spoke to the casting director about me, however, the response he got was not what he expected: “Oh, yeah. David Fairhurst. We know all about him,” someone said, with an emphasis on “him” indicating that I was somebody to avoid.
If you thought a person’s jaw hitting the floor was something you only saw in cartoons, then you should’ve been there: I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say. At the time I’d been in New York for just three years, all of them as a full-time graduate student. I’d appeared in just one play in the city (written and directed by friends from school) and I’d attended only a handful of auditions—none of them at this particular casting office. (I know this because in addition to being a go-to guy, I’m also a meticulous record keeper, and the first thing I did when I got home from the agency was to check my records. And just as I’d suspected: nothing. I had never in my life auditioned for anybody from this casting office!)
So why would a casting director I’d never met refer to me as “him” like I was some sort of diva or troublemaker? As a proud go-to guy, this was deeply disturbing. How could this have happened? I’d probably sent them a headshot at some point, but who hasn’t? Was that it? Was it something about my resume or cover letter? Had I somehow managed to offend someone without realizing it?
The agent helpfully suggested that maybe they just had me confused with somebody else, but that didn’t make me feel any better. (And, not surprisingly, I never heard from that agent again.) To this day, I still don’t know what got me into trouble at that office.
Reputation is a tricky, potentially dangerous thing. A good one is hard to get and easy to lose, and a bad one is just the opposite. If you get labeled a troublemaker or a diva—deservedly or not—it can seriously harm your career. Nobody is irreplaceable; there are just too many other good actors out there.
The issue of reputation came up again recently. In my last BackStage.com column—in which I offered advice to grad school applicants on how to avoid mistakes when choosing an MFA program—I accidentally offended Robert LuPone, director of the New School for Drama, who felt I was undeservedly criticizing his program instead of the one it replaced. (For the record, the New School for Drama is a very different MFA program and has managed to solve many of its predecessor’s problems.) One person’s criticism wouldn’t ordinarily have bothered me, but LuPone also happens to be the artistic director of MCC Theater, an award-winning Off-Broadway company, and as soon as I got his letter, I thought, “Uh-oh. Here we go again. Now Robert LuPone thinks I’m a troublemaker too. I guess I’ll just have to add MCC to the list of places I’ll never get cast in New York.”
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time my noble intentions have come back to haunt me reputation-wise.
The summer before my final year of grad school, I was cast in the lead of a very ambitious, very expensive ($50,000 was the number I heard) NYU grad thesis film called "Sign of the Times." The shooting schedule was two full weeks of 16-hour days, and I was in nearly every shot of every scene. (That's me in a still from the set up above.) On Day 3, however, the combination of a hungry and overworked crew, a distracted director, and an overenthusiastic actor (me) resulted in an accident that slammed me face-first into a cement wall, fracturing one of my front teeth and spraining my wrist. I went to the emergency room, and production was shut down for the day.
But two days later—in constant pain, with no insurance to pay my medical bills, and with some kind of medieval torture device in my mouth to hold the broken tooth in place until surgery could replace it with a permanent metal implant—I showed up on set to resume work on the film. Some friends thought I was crazy: Who in his right mind would go through all this for a nonunion student film? But in my mind, I had made a commitment. A lot of people were depending on me. And, of course, I was the go-to guy: I couldn’t possibly not finish what I’d started.
In hindsight, this was a mistake. The grueling schedule, the 90-degree heat, the unrelenting pain, the prospect of surgery, my lack of money, the fact that in less than two months I’d be losing my apartment and needed to find a new one fast—all of it and more combined to Jekyll-and-Hyde me from go-to guy to raging diva. I hate to admit it, but I was a pain in the ass on that set: surly, unpleasant, uncommunicative—the fact is I was miserable and I just wanted the whole thing to end. (At this point, I would like to apologize to every single person who worked on that film: The me you saw in those two weeks was an aberration. I’m deeply embarrassed, and I’m sorry.)
After the accident, I was in no shape—physically or mentally—to continue working. I should have simply apologized to everyone involved and gone home to bed with my Percodan. But dropping out would have ended a very expensive production. And that’s not the kind of thing a go-to guy does. He’s supposed to solve problems, not cause them. So with only the noblest of intentions, I went back to work when I shouldn’t have. And now everybody on that film probably thinks I’m “difficult”—that pejorative label that’s derailed many an acting career—when the truth is just the opposite: Trying too hard to be responsible and helpful is what got me into trouble.
Uh-oh. I just thought of something.
I shot that film in the summer of 1999, and it was about a year later that a casting director I’d never met referred to me as “him.” Is it possible? Could word have spread from an NYU student film to a major New York casting office that I was some sort of diva? No, it can’t be! That wasn’t me! I was in terrible pain! Really, I’m reliable, professional, hard-working, everyone’s choice to help out in a pinch—I’m the go-to guy, dammit! How could this have happened?
As paradoxical as it seems, I’m starting to think that maybe it’s better to be a little more selfish and a little less helpful, at least when it comes to protecting your career. Like I said, reputation is a tricky thing.