by David Fairhurst
Or am I just trying to universalize something that applies only to me, so I don’t feel like such a schmuck?
This is the third—and, God willing, final—part in my series of “Hey, kids, don’t do what I did” columns, in which I expose myself to massive public ridicule by revealing one of my many idiotic career moves in the hope that it will serve as an object lesson for others. (You’re welcome.)
So last month, like any good shamelessly self-promoting actor, I decided to build myself a website—a simple, convenient place for casting directors to go to see my headshots, resume, and reel. Not that there’s been any burning need for such a place, you understand, but someday I do hope to end my current self-imposed exile from acting and I wanted to be prepared. But building an acting website involves tricky choices, and the one that stymied me was: Which resume do I post?
This is not as simple a decision as it seems, since you might call me an obsessive resume tweaker. The resumes folder on my computer contains nearly two dozen variations, each with a slightly different layout, a slightly different set of credits, a slightly different emphasis, depending upon the role and the project for which I’m submitting—and sometimes even the likes and dislikes of the particular casting director I’m sending it to. For example, the quirky, eye-catching layout, combined with an emphasis on my film credits, paired with my most dramatic headshot (it’s so freaky I call it my “psychopath” shot) is a cinch to get me an audition for any NYU student film. But the same outre package would probably cause an older, more conservative CD to fall on the floor laughing, roll around for a while, then pick himself up and post the whole thing on the office bulletin board to amuse the interns (who would quickly take it down so they could fax copies to crack up their friends). No, for this casting director, I’d dig deep into the pix-and-resume archive and assemble something a bit more traditional, something that suits his unique taste.
Yes, you’re right, I do have too much free time on my hands. I’m the Martha Stewart of resume writing. But so far this strategy has been pretty effective, resulting in a high audition-to-submission ratio. Keeping all these resumes straight, however, can be a real pain in the ass. And that, dear reader, is not a good thing.
Several years ago I was supplementing my acting education by taking a course in commercial auditions taught by a New York casting director, with the final class devoted to the standard mini-showcase for a commercial agent. As I entered the room that day to show the agent what I’d learned, I reached into my bag, rifled through some headshots, and handed him one, which he flipped over and perused while I stood at the front of the room waiting to begin. Unfortunately, I should have rifled a little more carefully.
“You were on ‘Sex and the City’?” he asked. “Which episode?”
“Oh, shit,” answered the voice in my head, while my mouth fumbled out a meek “Oh, yeah, uh, that was just a featured extra bit.”
Don’t say it. I already know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “You idiot! You’re not supposed to put extra work on your resume! How could you be so stupid?” You’re right. And I knew that, of course. But among my multitudinous resumes were a couple that contained (God, I can’t believe I’m confessing to something so foolish) what a politician might call “resume enhancement” and the rest of us call “lying”: resumes on which I’d listed a featured extra job on an episode of “Sex and the City” as “featured,” without further explanation. (Why? you ask. To impress those same future Scorseses at NYU with a recognizable credit, that’s why.)
Apparently, the agent didn’t hear my lame, backpedaling clarification, or else it made no impression on him, since he continued, “Because I’m a big fan of that show.” He didn’t say any more and didn’t need to. I knew what he was implying: “…and I certainly don’t remember you, you lying little weasel, you sorry, pathetic excuse for an actor.”
And that’s exactly how I felt. Naturally, my audition sucked. I sucked.
By the time I got home, mortification had morphed into defensiveness. I mean, I’d explained to him what I’d meant by “featured,” hadn’t I? Come on, wasn’t that enough? Why didn’t he believe me? I even thought about digging out my pay stub from the show and faxing it to him to prove that I really was on “Sex and the City.” Take that, Mr. Agent Man! Of course, that would miss the whole point.
While what I did is common among actors desperate to make their anemic film and TV credits look a little more impressive (though probably less common among people like me who should know better), it’s still lying no matter how you look at it—like injecting your resume with steroids. (Wow. Who knew a guy so skinny he disappears behind a mike stand would have something in common with Barry Bonds?) And needless to say, I have since purged all my resumes of anything that might force me to waffle and backpedal were I ever asked about it, no matter how paltry it makes my special skills. (Bye-bye, Irish accent! So long, ballroom dancing!)
But that raises another problem: How am I supposed to describe my credits that really were featured roles, now that the term “featured” has been so co-opted by exaggerating extras that it inevitably raises suspicion?
Technically, I suppose, the TV parts were “co-star” roles, to use contractual language. But I don’t know: “Co-star” seems too highfalutin a term for one measly line on an episode of “Ed.” “Principal”? True, if vague. “Featured principal”? That’s a coinage that Actors Access columnist Bonnie Gillespie has suggested; I’m not crazy about it, but I can’t think of anything better.
Go to www.davidfairhurst.com if you want to see how I solve this dilemma. And if you find a generic placeholder that says, “This site is under construction,” you’ll know I’m still obsessively mucking around in HTML, or scrolling endlessly through the 47,000 fonts currently installed on my computer, convinced that if I just find the perfect one, it’ll make me a star.
Yes, I know. Don’t say it.