“I can act my ass off.” Those were her words.
It was the mid-eighties in NYC. Julia and I were clients at the same talent management company. MDM, or MMP. One of those initial-named outfits that leaves people befuddled. Like the personal license plate on a car that doesn’t spell anything clever. My manager was Richard Alfredo. He loved theatre actors and plucked me from a play I was in called The Fickle Fiddle. Julia’s manager was Bobby McGowan. (One of the M’s?) He was perennially tan even during a NYC winter and always within reaching distance of a phone (which was not easy in the 80s).
I saw Julia now and then in the office, stapling her pictures and resumes together, or visiting Bobby. She was 18 and already a beauty. Her skin was unblemished and her clothes draped effortlessly on her tall stature. I knew Julia was the sister of a famous actor, Eric Roberts, and wondered if she was talented.
Meanwhile, my clothes were wrinkled and mismatched, and my skin was dotted with beauty marks and red blotches from a yet undiscovered milk intolerance. At 22, I was a junior at NYU, a late academic bloomer. Never a great student, my hope was to become a working actor so I would have to forsake school.
We auditioned for the same role
Some movie. I don’t remember the name probably because it was never released, maybe never made as so often happens with films.
We were in the waiting area at the same time. No other actors had arrived yet for their appointment.
“You wanna read with me?” She said.
“Sure.”
Practicing is always a good idea before an audition. And if you can read/act aloud, even better. It would be an odd scene for a stranger, say a UPS delivery person, entering the waiting area of a casting director’s office. A gaggle of actresses mouthing their lines, talking to an invisible person, with force, drama, expression, crying, laughing. They’d look like crazy people with “big bitchin’ hair” and dewy glittery make up. (Oh, the ‘80s.)
We read the “sides” (one or more scenes from the script) then switched parts so the other could practice the role we were both vying for.
Dear scrumptious reader, I’m not being mean or competitive 35 years later when I say Julia Roberts was terrible! I thought if this gal works it will be because her brother is famous. After all, nepotism was/is flourishing in Hollywood.
Neither of us got the part.
Within a few weeks, we both had interviews at The William Morris Agency. (It’s not enough for an actor to have a manager. She must also have an agent--who takes 10% of gross wages. The agent books auditions, negotiates and reads contracts like a low-rent lawyer. The manager--who takes another 15%-- focuses on his client’s career and offers a personal relationship, giving the actor advice and direction. Maybe even a tissue supply if the actor didn’t book a part in that John Hughes movie.) Getting an interview, at The William Morris Agency, with credits including a play from when I was ten—Bunky The Bear and the Gypsy Affair, was a coup.
Rewind a few years before New York to a friend telling me that Robert De Niro, a real actor, was shy. My friend was older and pal’d around with Sean Penn, so I figured he knew things. This friend told me that De Niro was reticent to interview and if he did, he was withdrawn and introverted. All I heard was Shy = Brilliant Actor. And I wanted to be a brilliant actor.
If I decided to be timid in interviews, I would at least look amazing. I wore black leather pants, probably a tight-fitting top and heels.
I was nervous for the appointment and barely slept the night before. I treated myself to a taxi not only because I didn’t want to wear heels in the subway, but I wanted to be in control of my environment. The weather in the taxi would be more comfortable than having to hang on to my coat and hat in heavy winds, hold my breath as I walked past urine-scented alleys and blot my makeup after running through the smoke billowing from every orifice in the city. What was that smoke anyway?
The elevator doors opened to the waiting area. I gave my name to the receptionist who could have understudied for a Cindy Crawford photo shoot. Part of me thought I wouldn’t be on the schedule and that this was all a mistake.
“Risa will be right with you,” said Cindy.
I rolled the agents name over in my mind so I wouldn’t name-stumble. Risa Shapiro, Risa Shapiro, Risa Shapiro…
A red headed woman charged through a door, expectation dripping from her Gucci blouse. I stood to attention. This must be her.
“Risa Shapiro?” I said.
“Sha-PIE-ro,” she corrected me.
I was thrown. Not only did I have to hold back a giggle at the pronunciation of her last name, but my mind was thrown into a nervous intimidation soup before I was even in her office.
Why Sha-PIE-ro? Is that the difference between a low-born Sha-PEER-o Jew, and an elitist? Meanwhile, I had an un-Jewish name, Channing, so I wouldn’t be able to let her know I was of the tribe, an instant bond. I had a feeling though that my name could have been Rothstein and Ms. Sha-PIE-ro would not have been phased.
As I followed her, I focused on my footing. I wasn’t a high-heel person and my legs wobbled over these pointy stilts.
She led me down a long corridor. Offices on one side and cubicles on the other. I couldn’t help but peek into every office we passed with an open door. Inevitably, behind each desk was a well-dressed, high-powered agent on his phone making million-dollar deals. I stumbled by one office where I thought I heard the receptionist on speaker say, “Kate Hepburn on line two,” and the agent respond, “Put her on hold.”
What? Who puts Kate Hepburn on hold? I’ll take the call for f-k’s sake.
I was nervous but trying to play it cool. The leather pants didn’t help. I was sweating already. Risa led me into her office where another agent waited.
F-k! Alfredo didn’t’ tell me I’d be meeting with two agents.
The interview was a bust. It went something like this—
“Tell us about yourself.”
“Student. NYU.”
“Studying theatre?”
“Yeah.”
Robert De Niro Robert De Niro Robert De Niro…
“What kinds of parts do you like?”
“Everything.”
Robert De Niro, Robert De Niro, Robert De Niro…
Self-conscious silence.
They politely thanked me for coming and I left.
Julia signed with the William Morris Agency and Alfredo asked me what happened in the interview.
“Why? What was their feedback?”
“They said you didn’t talk.”
I wanted to tell Alfredo the Robert De Niro story, but he went on to say that Julia signed with them.
I needed that box of tissues.
“You know what she said to Risa? ‘I can act my ass off.’”
Dear scrumptious reader, it was one of those moments. It was the Red Sea not only parting but closing in on me at the same time. It was an awakening and drowning at once. I wanted to find a time machine and return to The William Morris Agency on Madison or was it 6th or Rock Center? Who gives a f-k? I wanted to barge into Risa’s office and say, “I’m the next Meryl Streep, Ms. Sha-PIE-ro.”
The only known time machine back then was a DeLorean and it was in De movies. The biggest mistake of my life was because of De Niro. And I would instead return to De rented room and study for De finals, my secret plan of leaving NYU because I was a working actor thwarted.
Soon after, the management company disbanded. Alfredo changed careers and McGowan hung his own shingle having no interest in repping me as a client.
I later heard the same acting-ass-off quote from Perry, an agent I met a few months later. I told Perry about my fiasco with The William Morris Agency because she was dating my cousin and I felt I could open up to her.
Then Perry said, “I met Julia while ago. I didn’t sign her because she read a scene for me and was terrible.”
“I guess she’s improving.”
“But you know what she said to me that day?”
And in unison we said, “’I can act my ass off.’”
(Perry didn’t sign me because she already had a young, funny Jewish actress on her roster. Yeah, there were thousands of us.)
I tell you this story not to diss on anyone but to share an important lesson in shameless self-promotion. What have you got to lose by giving out your business card, telling people how fabulous you are, announcing that you can: “Write your ass off?” “Podcast your ass off?” “Interview your great big, beautiful ass off?”
I don’t have regrets. If I learn from my mistakes, I’m good.
Backlash after the first draft of this piece
I felt crappy and I couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t regret so I asked hubby-Jeffrey who sometimes knows me better than me.
“Did you feel judged back then?”
“No. It’s embarrassment. Like why did I fuck up so horribly 35 years ago?”
“So, it is judgement. You’re judging yourself for screwing up.”
“I thought I was done. I try not to acknowledge the past if it doesn’t serve me. Writing this piece—I felt like I was there, back in time. The Essay-DeLorean. I feel guilty that I disappointed my manager. He left the business.”
“How do you know he left because of you? Maybe he found his calling and looks back with relief that he didn’t stay in Hollywood.”
“New York.”
“Okay. Gritty Hollywood.”
I Googled Alfredo. He became a theatre producer. He remained true to his love of theatre.
I decided to change the feeling of the outcome. Try this at home. (This probably won’t work for real trauma.) Take a memory that left your feeling unworthy, judged, untalented… close your eyes and bring up that memory. You are there, it’s happening. Now change how you feel. Smile, you’re excited, relieved and everyone in the scene is joyous, especially you. Open your eyes.
I was inspired to write this piece after reading Kim Van Bruggen’s essay describing the unease she feels when someone asks her, What do you do for a living?
Donna McArthur recently reposted her wonderful essay about courage.
And here’s a great self-promotion idea offered on Notes by Paul Macko at
Do you have a life lesson you can share here?
Ever mispronounce someone’s name?
If you get your foot in the door, what will you do with that foot? Will you tap dance or wear an orthopedic boot that hides your greatness?
Here are some mantra ideas besides Fake it till you make it—Pretend you can fend. Show your glow. Okay, those are goofy. What’s your mantra?
I LOVED THIS PIECE!!!
Great piece! I love the QR code idea - by the way, I scanned Deplatformable Newsletter’s QR code, and it translates to: “Never take advice from DeNiro.”