Yesterday, A History of Violence screenwriter Josh Olson ruffled some feathers (and inspired a round of huzzahs from any writer, reader, or producer who's been slipped a screenplay by a friend-of-a-friend) by publishing a manifesto in the Village Voice decrying the widespread practice of asking acquaintances for free script notes. Today, Movieline takes a cue from Olson's welcome service to Hollywood's put-upon and exploited professionals, inviting someone from a different part of the industry to vent similar frustrations. Enjoy. (And learn.)
We know you've been working very hard picking out your headshot, but before you go looking for some professional feedback, you might keep in mind the following piece by All About Steve casting assistant James Overland.
I will not help you pick out your f*cking headshot.
That's simple enough, isn't it? "I will not help you pick out your f*cking headshot." What's not clear about that? There aren't even any contractions in that elegantly direct, uncluttered statement, so that there's not even room for you to determine, like a lunatic, that the apostrophe in a "won't" or "shan't" is a symbol that means I will help you pick out your headshot. I simply have no interest in helping you pick out your f*cking headshot. None whatsoever. Not even a little. Do you see how I'm holding my index finger and thumb together tightly, so that there's no space between them? That lack of space represents my lack of desire to look at your headshot, much less help you pick one out. You see, if there were a tiny bit of space between my fingers, you might interpret that as a small desire to lay on your floor among dozens of photo proofs of your f*cking headshot, trying to decide which one's lighting properly accentuates your cheekbones. There is no desire. None. OK, I think you're getting it. Moving along.
If that seems unfair, I'll make you a deal. In return for you not asking me to help you pick out your f*cking headshot, I will not ask you to hand-wash my dirty socks in your sink, or dust the hard-to-reach places in my f*cking apartment, or give my constipated dog a canine enema, or whatever the f*ck it is that you do for a living.
You're a lovely person. Whatever time we've spent together has, I'm sure, been a merry-go-round of pleasure for the both of us, as we whirled around again and again in circles, me on a ceramic Clydesdale, you in one of those god-f*cking-awful swan chairs (and why the f*ck would anyone sit on anything besides a horse? It's baffling to me.), hooting and throwing our arms in the air, deliciously carefree while remembering how simple everything was when we were children without Hollywood careers that required looking at stack and stacks of headshots of people who'll never draw a real paycheck in this town. But still, we had a grand old time, I'm sure, as we shared a funnel cake topped in powdered sugar and some strawberry-like substance that probably contained no actual fruit and chatted about how Peter Berg is the greatest director who ever lived. Yes, we bonded, and yes, I may have given you a shoulder rub that may or may not had a strange sensual tinge to it after you playfully dabbed a spot of that powdered sugar onto the tip of my nose, so cute, and yes, I wish you luck in all your endeavors, and it would thrill me to no end to hear that you had booked a great gig with the headshot I had no part in selecting, and that your headshot has been blown up to poster size and is featured in the lobby of the sketchy "photography studio" where you had it taken. Hold on, was this an extended metaphor, or did we actually go to the carnival? I can't remember because I'm so f*cking torn up about you asking me to help you pick out your f*cking headshot. Thanks a lot, asshole. Where was I? Oh yes:
But I will not help you pick out your f*cking headshot.
At this point, you should walk away, firm in your conviction that I'm a dick. Or a tool. Or a douchebag, choose your own dismissive epithet to describe my seemingly selfish behavior. But if you're interested in growing as a human being and recognizing that it is, in fact, you who are the dick, tool, or douchebag in this situation, please read on.
Yes. That's right. I called you a nasty name. Because you created this situation. You put me in this spot where my only option is to acquiesce to your demands, inconsiderate as they are, or be the bad guy. Of course, if I thought about this for a moment, I suppose I could politely decline your request, truthfully stating that I'm very busy with my professional obligations at the moment and just don't have the time right now to help you pick out your headshot, and thank you for understanding, you're a wonderfully mature person, and we'd probably still part as friendly acquaintances who once shared a magical day at the carnival. But that seems incredibly complicated, doesn't it? Now in addition to making me potentially acquiesce to your demands or be the bad guy, you've made me try to think up a reasonable, hypothetical solution to our dilemma, and all the blood is rushing into my face. I don't like this sensation one bit. My therapist says it's a sign I'm letting things bother me to an unhealthy degree, and immediately do my breathing exercises or the stabbing pains in my temples might return, perhaps with a mild fainting spell. That, my friend, is the very definition of a dick move. Do you want me to faint, even if it's not that big a deal, it's just a little harmless fainting, not some Gran Mal seizure thing? I bet you do, dick. This is all your fault.
I was recently cornered by a semi-attractive young woman of my barest acquaintance.
I doubt we've exchanged a hundred words, though I have stolen a naughty peek down the front of her blouse once or twice, because while she's not all that great, you know, pretty decent rack. Maybe three times, tops. But she's dating a friend, so, you know, off limits to my advances, mostly. He could go on a long business trip and something could happen, accidentally. Anyway. She cornered me in the right place at the right time, and asked me to look at her contact sheets for the headshots she keeps having re-taken because she's never quite happy with how they come out and terribly indecisive about which new one to pick. She was up for a speaking role in one of those late-night chat-line commercials, the kind with all the porny looking women pursing their lips seductively while clutching the cordless phones through which they'll find a soulmate (you, if you have a valid credit card), and wanted to get a professional opinion.
Now, I normally have a standard response to people who ask me to help them pick out their headshot, and it's the simple truth: I have two piles next to my bed. One is headshots from good friends, and the other is headshots and Polaroids that agents have sent to me that I have to look at for work. Every time I pick up a friend's headshot, I feel guilty that I'm ignoring work. Every time I pick something up from the other pile, I feel guilty that I'm ignoring my friends. If I look at yours before any of that, I'd be an awful person. Some nights the dilemma becomes so upsetting that I sweep both piles onto the floor in a fit of frustration, roll around in them for a little while while pulling at my hair, eventually falling asleep, my gentle sobs a lullaby of vexation.
Most people get that. But sometimes you find yourself in a situation where the guilt factor is really high, or someone plays on a relationship or a perceived obligation, or someone bribes you with a slice of Double Fudge Mint Oreo Xplosion from The Cheescake Factory, because I'm utterly powerless before that particular offering. Then, I tell them I'll read it, but I if I can put it down after my eyes scan from the top of their heads to the middle of their foreheads, I will. They always go for that, because nobody ever believes you won't get all the way down to their lips once you start. They're so very wrong about that. I've bailed at an unairbrushed frown line many, many times. Try me.
But hell, this was just a contact sheet with 36 little pictures of her, and there was no time to go into song, dance, or fake a fainting spell, and it was just easier to take it. How long can a contact sheet take?
Weeks, is the answer. As in, more than one week, but fewer weeks than would constitute a month, which would just be an absurdly long amount of time.
And this is why I will not help you pick out your f*cking headshot.
It rarely takes more than a quick glance at a photograph to recognize that you're in the presence of someone attractive enough to be in a television commercial, but it only takes a flash of gap-toothed smile as they hand you that photograph to know you're dealing with someone who should never be on camera.
(By the way, here's a simple way to find out of you're an actor. If you disagree with that statement, you're not an actor. Because, you see, actors also have functioning eyeballs, or it's very difficult for them to read their sides at auditions.)
You may want to allow for the fact that this nice lady had never had a proper headshot taken before, but that doesn't excuse the inability to keep her eyes open in the majority of shots, or to smile without exposing her entire tongue and looking, quite frankly, totally insane. In half of the proofs she felt the need to get her fingers into the frame while making a peace sign, in others she had that tongue inserted in the middle of that peace sign's 'V" to simulate, presumably, an oral sex act. Her eyes crossed, uncrossed, darted in opposing directions that may indicate an ocular disorder. Her name was misspelled on the top of the sheet. I could go on, but I won't. This is the sort of thing that would get you tossed out of background work in a club scene in Entourage, where you're not supposed to do anything but look over and smile as Turtle and Drama bicker over who gets the first swig of champagne, finally collapsing into a pile of noogies and headlocks.
Which brings us to an ugly truth about many aspiring actors. They think that having their headshot taken doesn't actually require the ability to sit or stand still and smile in appealing fashion while a photographer tries to find their best angle, the optimal lighting, and an interesting pose for their subject. Having your headshot taken is widely regarded as the second-easiest way to find an agent, after blowing a guy in a suit you met at the Coffee Bean who claims to be on an important desk at CAA. Anybody with $50 can have their headshot taken in a shady-looking bungalow on Highland Avenue, right? And because they believe that, they don't regard casting professionals with any kind of real respect. They will hand you a headshot without a second thought, because you do not have to be a professional photographer or a director or a studio head to work in casting.
So I looked at the thing. And it hurt, man. It hurt like the first time you share funnel cake with someone at the carnival and they get all weirded out that you'd like to give them a nice shoulder rub to help with digestion. I was dying to find something positive to say, and there was nothing. Because here's the thing: not only is it cruel to encourage the hopeless, but you cannot discourage an actor. If someone can talk you out of being an actor, you're not an actor. If I can talk you out of being an actor, I've done you a favor, because now you'll be free to pursue your real talent, whatever that maybe be. Teaching. Accounting. Voiceover work, whatever. And, for the record, everybody has a talent. The lucky ones figure out what that is. The unlucky ones keep sinking all their tip money or grad school stipends into new headshots and asking me to help them pick out the best ones.
To make matters worse, this girl (and her boyfriend) begged me to be honest with her. She was frustrated with the responses she'd gotten from friends, because she felt they were going easy on her. We love the peace sign thing!, one would say. Do more with the tongue and the fingers, it's sexy and hilarious!, said another. What if you took some laying on a couch, while eating grapes? sabotaged yet another. They wanted real criticism. They never do, of course. What they want is a few tough notes to give the illusion of honesty, and then some pats on the head, maybe a shoulder rub while you're delivering the allegedly rough appraisal. What they want -- always -- is encouragement. Do you have any idea how hard it is to tell someone that they've spent literally an entire afternoon sitting on a stool while some guy with questionable hygiene sticks an SLR in their face? Do you know how much blood, sweat, tears, and wasted therapy hours that would be better spent on anxiety-related fainting issues goes into that criticism? Many, many hours. My therapist says sometimes I obsess about what people who give me their headshots to critique really think of me, which I totally don't. Who cares what they think? Not me, that's who. F*ck you, Dr. Horvath, stop putting destructive ideas in my head. So after I cleared the doctor's nagging words from my head, I finally got down to business.
My first draft was ridiculous. I got out my red grease pencil and started circling some of the tiny versions of her head on the contact sheet, scribbling notes and symbols (!, !!!, ?, etc etc) across the images, and after a while, found I'd marked up virtually every face on the page. So I wiped it clean and by the time I was done, I'd come up with something that was brief, easy, just a couple of circles around faces, light on !!!, and considerate as hell (smiley faces were involved). The main point I made is that she might've been trying too hard with the peace signs and off-putting pantomime cunnilingus. She was way more interested in standing out and looking mildly deranged than in just having an attractive representation of herself reproduced on a glossy sheet of paper. It was like buying scissors and hacking away at your locks without learning the basics of hair-styling. You'll learn a lot along the way, I said, but you'll wind up with an asymmetrical mess atop your head that might work if you're an anime character, but not if you're someone trying to land a commercial gig.
(I should mention that while I was circling away with my grease pencil, she pulled the ultimate amateur move, and sent me an e-mail saying, "If you haven't looked at it yet, don't! I have new pictures! Look at these!" In other words, "I ran into a guy at Ralphs who said he takes really affordable, professional headshots at a fraction of the cost of my previous guy but with much better results, so I went off with him, did a new set, and I feel like these will be much better, even though they won't.")
I advised her that is all she was interested in was finding a great headshot, she should find a photographer and stick with him, or if she really wanted was to be an actress, start at the beginning and take some classes, maybe those ones at the Scientology Celebrity Centre because they seem willing to work with people who are a little touched, and start studying seriously.
And you know what? I shouldn't have bothered. Because for all the hair I pulled out, for all the mild cutting I did worrying about giving her a real, professional critique, her response was a terse, "Thanks for your opinion. And by the way, I notice every time you look down my shirt. Every time. Perv." And, the inevitable fallout -- a week later a mutual friend asked me, "What's this dick move I hear you pulled on Whatshername? She's got a decent rack, but come on, let's not stare all the time." So now this girl and her boyfriend think I'm an asshole and a breast-ogler, and the truth of the matter is, the story really ended the moment she handed me that contact sheet. Because if I'd just said "No" then and there, they'd still think I'm an asshole. Only difference is, I wouldn't have had to spend all that time trying to communicate with someone who just wanted a pat on the head, and quite possibly a nice shoulder rub that might make the criticism go down a little easier and provide a couple more glimpses of cleavage, because hey, I should get something out of this deal as well. Actors can be so selfish. It's a selfish vocation, honestly.
You are not owed a look, a glance, a once-over from a professional, even if you think you have an in, and even if you think it's not a huge imposition. (It is. Huge, the imposition. In case I haven't made that clear.) It's not your choice to make. This needs to be, er, clear -- when you ask a professional for their take on your headshots, you're not just asking them to take an hour or two out of their life, you're asking them to give you -- gratis, a Latin word meaning "free" Greek? No, Latin -- the acquired knowledge, insight, and skill of years of work. It is no different than asking your friend the house painter to paint your living room during his off hours. Well, maybe a little different, because that involves ladders and brushes and fun white overalls with those cool paint-spatters all over them. But it's pretty much the same thing, but with headshots.
There's a great story about this caricaturist who has a successful stall on Venice Beach. Some guy told the artist he'd pay him to draw a picture on the back of a Federal Breasts Inspector t-shirt he'd just bought at a nearby stand. The artist whipped out a Sharpie and banged out a sketch, handed it to the guy, and said, "One million dollars, please."
"A million dollars?" the guy exclaimed. "That only took you thirty seconds!"
"Yes" said the artist. "But it took me fifteen years of drawing the caricatures of snot-nosed kids and their awful, awful parents at Disneyland to learn how to draw that in thirty seconds. It was a hellish place to work. If you took more than five minutes a portrait, Goofy and Donald would work you over with a week-old churro. Those things are like iron. I suffered -- oh how I suffered! -- to hone my craft. I still vomit any time I see those mouse ears."
Like the cad who asks the professional for a free look, the guy simply didn't have enough respect for the artist to think about what he was asking for. If you think it's only about the time, then ask one of your non-casting friends to look at the headshots. Hell, they might even enjoy your headshots. They might gaze upon you with a newfound respect, thinking you could actually look like the hotter version of yourself in those photos. It could even come to pass that they call up a friend in the movie business and help you get an audition, where you'll trade your dignity and a grudging handjob for a walk-on role in the next Leo Dicaprio picture, and soon, all you dreams will come true. But me?
I will not help you pick out your f*cking headshot.