This was my second audition in a month at the Center, which is a shiny example of contemporary university architecture (on the inside, anyway). Lots of curvy ceiling panels and excitingly chunky moldings here and there. I was there to audition for the role of a son struggling with his siblings over what to do with his mother, who has Alzheimer’s. I did okay with it, I think. I’d had time to work with and be familiar with the lines, and read through without much trouble. It was affecting, and easy to get to the painful subtext because my own grandparents suffered from dementia before their deaths several years ago. My grandmother’s case was more severe, having been brought on by aftereffects of an accidental head injury in a car rollover, and my grandfather had problems due to the stress of caring for her and losing her, mentally, over the course of a few years.
The auditions were running late, as they often are, but there was only one person ahead of me when my original audition time arrived. An older actress who was trying for the part of my mother was called in and I settled back to review my sides while I waited. Not more than 60 seconds later, the door opened again, and she walked out. The director called my name, we shook hands, and she had me follow her in.
“That was the weirdest thing,” she said. “That lady who was just in here? She said she’d read the script and there were swear words in it, and that she was sorry, but she didn’t do any projects that had swearing in them. Isn’t that odd?”
I guess sitcoms and commercials are your only safe bets, dear.
