How to Prepare for a Theatrical Audition

 

 

“Oh really, Algernon, I think it is high time Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or die; this shilly-shallying with the question is absurd.”

 

 

I’ve repeated this phrase nearly a hundred times now in the last week, since I got the email saying I had an audition spot for Pride and Prejudice this weekend. I must have a prepared monologue, a headshot, and a theatrical resume. Dear reader, you may know I never lack for enthusiasm, but as I climb the ladder to this particular ten-meter platform, I wonder, “What was I thinking? I’m not prepared!” You know what, I think I’ve actually said THAT line a hundred times in my life. Gulp. Do not pause. You’re not going to die. The audience is watching!

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The line is from The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde, and it blows out of Lady Bracknell, auntie to the dandyish Algernon. The grande dame delivers her lines like pronouncements. She’s a tour de force. Moi, I’m sort of a small, perky person. I definitely have work to do. I picked the monologue to showcase my ability to do a British accent and my comedic sensibility.  Well, I thought I was capable in those areas.  Yikes, I’m halfway up my ladder so to speak. It’s too late to pick a different monologue.

 

 

To help me transform myself into a solid matron of Victorian society, I seek out Babs, my theatrical guru and actress extraordinaire. We meet in the studio at the State Theatre. She tells me how to announce myself at the beginning of the audition, then she listens to my first run-through.

 

 

"And smile. Look natural, like you're having fun."

 

 

Well, I like Babs and I know her, and I still destroy the monologue, and the accent, and warble like a canary.

 

 

Now, if you’d like to work on your posh British accent, known as Received Pronunciation, or the Queen’s speech, and you are a wide-mouthed American like me, here is what you must do. Purse your lips, or, as my best friend in Norfolk says, make your mouth like a cat’s sphincter. Your jaw may move up and down, but you are not to widen your mouth. Are you with me? All sound moves up and out of you through your nose, and forward, not a bit escapes out the side. Do you look like a baboon? You’re doing it right.

 

 

Of course, Do Be so Kind as to deliVer sharP, hard KonsonanTs. Plus, you still have to remember your lines, okay?

 

 

Ah, the language and the lilt of it. A doyenne of the late Victorian era would have had elocution lessons as a young woman, with the result that her speech is like a speech to Parliament. The rises and falls of her pitch feel like a roller coaster. Then there is the pacing, which is like slalom skiing, slow SLOW then FASTTTTT, then around the corner, then repeattttt. Try this line now :

 

 

“Of course, Algernon, if you are obliged to be beside the bedside of Mr. Bunbury, I have nothing more to say. But, I would be much obliged, if you would ask Mr. Bunbury, from me, not to have a relapse on Saturday, for I rely on you to arrange my music for me.”

 

 

Need a TUMS? Feel a little sick to your stomach with the rising, falling, and slaloming? You’re doing it right, even if you are a nauseated baboon whose mouth looks like a cat sphincter.

 

 

What, you don’t want to warble your lines? You want the back row to FEEL your energy? Comportment! If you’re playing a grande dame, and who wouldn’t want to do that, then hold your hands in a relaxed fashion at your waist, in front. Do not flail!

 

 

"Have you always had that nervous habit with your right hand?"

 

 

Gestures must be definitive. Your hands will help you feel if your voice is coming from your core, not from your slippery, unreliable throat.

 

 

"You have been working on your core, haven’t you?"

 

 

Uh oh. So, there you are, you nauseated cat-butt-faced baboon, with your hands comfortably in front of you, now take it from the top, and remember to be natural.

 

 

Righto, after all this hilarity, the headshot is a breeze. For twenty-four hours before, drink lots of water, no alcohol or coffee.  Get a good night’s sleep. Make sure your hair behaves that day. Put on one- and- a- half times your normal make-up.

 

 

"What do you mean you don’t know how to do make-up?"

 

 

Chin out, eyes up, don’t blink in the flash, even out that smile, keep your shoulders down. Look natural! Well, as I left there, I asked, “Can you just air-brush out the bad night’s sleep and those two beers, and maybe the last five years?” She did. I look fabulous she says. Bev's a genius, and a diplomat.

 

 

I’m now trying to concoct a theatrical resume out of thin air. I’m hoping that my classes and playing Marilla in Anne of Green Gables a couple of years ago will stretch out to fill a whole page. Do you think a size 24 font is too obvious? What about two-inch margins and double spacing? "Well, actually, I'm designing a haiku about my dramatic experience, minimalist and elegant. Ha, attitude and style," says I, with my hands comfortably in front of me.

 

 

Well, here I am, at the top of the ladder, and the edge of the platform is straight ahead. Don’t wish me luck! That’s a bad omen in theatre. No, what you want me to do is, “Break a leg.”

 

 

And look natural!