by David Fairhurst
Every time I do background work, I vow I’ll never do it again. (That vow usually occurs midway through Book No. 2, having learned after 15 consecutive hours on the film “Kate & Leopold”—during which I plowed straight through the book I’d brought and was left with nothing to do for the next, oh, eight hours—that bringing one book to read on a background job is sometimes not enough.) Unfortunately, I suffer from the actor’s disease, whose chief symptom is the absolute certainty, despite all past evidence, that you will never, ever be hired again. That makes it hard to turn down any job, even extra work, particularly when it pays SAG wages.
So when the casting director called and asked if I’d like to be a featured extra on an upcoming episode of “Law & Order: Trial by Jury,” my knee-jerk response was “Sure.” Even though, in the interest of forward career momentum, I’d promised myself I would never work background on a show (or one of its franchise siblings) on which I’d previously worked as a principal. Even though squeezing this job into my schedule would be next to impossible. And even though I’d vowed to never do background work again.
As soon as the word escaped my mouth, I regretted it. But if I act quickly, I thought, maybe I can get out of the job without causing any lasting career damage. So within 15 minutes of hanging up the phone, I was calling back to apologize and say I wouldn’t be able to take the role after all. As much as I hated to inconvenience a casting director—not a smart move under any circumstances—I figured that since I’d called back so quickly, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem for him to replace me.
What I didn’t count on, however, was that bane of downed aircraft and dumb actors: human error—mostly my own. When I called the casting director’s number, the person who picked up the phone was not the person I’d told I would accept the job, but somebody else. Of course, the smart thing to do would have been to ask to speak to the CD I’d spoken to earlier. Naturally, I didn’t do the smart thing. Eager to quickly clear things up, I instead explained the situation—that a few minutes ago I’d spoken to so-and-so and hastily agreed to take a background job that I now realized I wouldn’t be able to do, and could he please cross my name off the list? This new person, sounding a bit distracted, said okay. And that was that. Problem solved, right?
Yeah, right. Flash-forward several weeks. By this point, of course, I’d completely forgotten about the whole incident. In fact, I had far more weighty matters on my mind, as some sudden alarming symptoms had me stuck in St. Luke’s-Roosevelt Hospital for a battery of tests and surgery for something that could have been life-threatening. Thankfully, everything went well, but by the time I was finally released several days later, I was a haggard wreck, physically and emotionally, and eager to get home to my own bed.
So what was waiting to greet me when I opened the door? My answering machine lit up like a Christmas tree with a string of messages from the casting office, first to give me my call time for the background job I thought I’d turned down weeks earlier, followed by several increasingly urgent pleas that I get back to them as soon as possible, another frantic message on the day of the shoot asking where I was, and finally—after the shoot had come and gone and I hadn’t shown up—a genuinely concerned casting director wondering if I was dead.
When I heard those messages, I wished I were.
As I wrote in an earlier column (“How Mr. Reliability Became Mr. Bad Example”), as an actor I’ve always prided myself on my reliability. I know it’s gotten me work in the past: More than once a director has told me he hired me to fill a role at the last minute because he knew he could count on me, that I always show up on time, fully prepared, and give (I hope) a halfway decent performance.
So a situation like this—actually failing to show up for a job—made me heartsick. Now what do I do? My first instinct was to lay low and hope the casting director really did think I was dead. Yes, that’s how distraught I was: I actually considered faking my own death. I quickly decided, however, that careerwise this was not a good plan.
I could have blamed the casting office—after all, I did tell them, belatedly, that I wouldn’t be able to take the job and was told “Okay,” though apparently my message was not relayed to the CD in charge. But that didn’t seem like a wise idea either. What I needed was a solution that exonerated me but without blaming anybody else.
What I settled on was the truth. Unfortunately, not the whole truth. After several worrisome minutes, I picked up the phone. The casting director seemed honestly relieved to hear my voice. I apologized for failing to show up, I felt terrible about it—which was certainly true. I also told him I had been in the hospital and never heard his messages, having been too preoccupied to check my voicemail—also true. What I didn’t mention was that I didn’t know I had a job in the first place, that I’d declined it and he never got the message. I left out that part, and the casting director didn’t press me for details. In fact, he was quite compassionate and even told me I’d still be considered for future work, though I got the vague feeling he thought I was lying.
Of course, I was. Let’s face it: I screwed up. Badly. Three times. First, I never should have accepted the job when I knew I didn’t want it. Second, when I called to say I'd changed my mind, I should have made sure I spoke to the CD I’d spoken to originally. And third, I should have told the truth, the full truth, when I called to apologize. Not telling him that I’d turned down this job accomplished nothing but to make me look irresponsible. In trying to finesse this mess, I made it worse.
Not surprisingly, this office hasn’t called me since, and I don’t blame them.
Another hard lesson learned: Sometimes miscommunication happens. Even in a respected casting office. And sometimes actors screw up. Even those nicknamed Mr. Reliability. And when those two events collide, face up to it, accept responsibility, and tell the truth. It may not return the sparkle to your reputation, but at least your conscience will be clean, and that’s something that can’t be underestimated.