Bill Dawes - September 7, 2006

I had a couple of auditions for a movie called "United 93," directed by Paul Greengrass. As you probably know, it's about the famous Flight 93 that went down in a field in Pennsylvania on September 11th. Both auditions were group improvisations based on the events leading up to the crash...

When Mr. Greengrass announced he was looking for "unknowns" to star in the movie, my agent said I would be perfect. He felt I was more than unknown enough to fit the bill. It's funny: when I was in my early 20's, people said I was "undiscovered." When exactly did I get fucking downgraded to "unknown?" I think once your hair starts thinning, people don't quite feel comfortable saying you're "undiscovered." In a similar vein, my friend Mark Bennett (L.A. casting director for "The Hills Have Eyes," among other things) laughed out loud when an Off-Broadway theatre review from last year called me an "up and comer." I guess in New York, I'm a young actor. In L.A., I'm a young dad. Either way, I like to think that I'm "bicoastal" in my unemployment.

There was no shortage of opinions in the lead-up to this film. With so much debate about anyone -- particularly a Limey like Greengrass -- even making "United 93," many New York actors passed on the audition. They thought, "I need to respect the victims of 9/11!" I thought, "I need a fucking job!"

I found out through my agent that the audition was a group "improv," or improvisation, of the events that allegedly happened on the flight before the crash. To many actors, that's a nerve-wracking prospect. To me, "improv" just means I don't have to prepare or read shit the night before. I have a great excuse to get hammered and watch ESPN until 4am and then justify it by claiming that my character in the improv is an alcoholic sports junkie.

Before the start of each audition, I sat in a crowded vestibule with a bunch of other "unknowns." By the way, let me give you a primer on waiting room etiquette: never make eye contact. Instead, do a brief scan, where you quickly tear apart at least ONE aspect of every person in the room in order to feel better about yourself. Then stick your head in your audition pages ("sides") or hang out in the bathroom until your name is called. Every once in a while, you'll see someone you hate and you'll have a split-second to decide whether or not you really need to talk to the asshole. Just like a high school hallway, if it's someone you hate, pretend you don't see them - even though the room is only 8 ft. by 8 ft. If it's someone you don't hate, however, just smile and nod and look back down at your pages. That's if it's a guy. If it's a hot girl, do what I do and flirt with her mercilessly to build up your confidence.

That may sound pathetic, but it's sort of true. Since every actor has missed at least one crucial stage of proper childhood psychological development (actresses: minimum two stages), we tend to need more attention than a bipolar kleptomaniac in order to fill whatever gaping emotional holes we have (for some actresses, it's not always just an emotional hole). When we don't get that attention, we have to rely on our arsenal of time-tested defense mechanisms.

For example, if you see someone who is absurdly good-looking, you will smugly tell yourself that he can't act. If you see someone who is ugly, you will smugly tell yourself that he is ugly. If you see someone who isn't ugly, kind of famous and can act, you can leave the audition relieved, secure in the knowledge that it's not YOUR fault if you don't get it. Pfft! How can I compete against the guy who played Doogie Howser!?

I didn't know any of the actors at either audition, although I did recognize Cheyenne Jackson at the second one as the star of the Broadway Elvis musical, "All Shook Up!" I smugly noted that he had fat thighs.

Fat thighs

In the first audition, I was with a withered old man who looked like a post-chemo Yoda , a chubby Jewish woman, a middle-aged guy with coke-bottle glasses who resembled my dad, and an Asian stewardess (although she was kind of dark-skinned, so perhaps she was "Blasian"). I was clearly, by default, going to have to be the Top Dog in this improv.

Now let me preface this by saying, I hate flying and stewardesses annoy me. For this film, the casting director called in actual stewardesses to audition for the role. So, I guess instead of actually being pointless bitches, now they had to PRETEND to be pointless bitches. I realize that "Stewardess" may be the un-pc thing to say and that the proper term is "flight attendant", but, honestly, aren't they just waitresses who fly? What do they "attend" to? Whenever I meet a "flight attendant" out at a bar and she starts to make a stink about her "title," I like to say, "Hey, that's awesome, now why don't you pretend this place is moving and get me a drink."

Let's face it, the only thing hot about flight attendants is the fact that, while in the air, their vaginas are ALSO flying (trust me, it gets hotter the more you think about it). By the way, I'm allowed to say these things about stewardesses because some of my BEST FRIENDS - I swear to God - are stewardess-fuckers.

The scene started and all the actors were told to casually file into the "plane." It's remarkable how hard it is for people JUST to do that. I'm telling you, people were overacting walking into a plane! They sniffed and scratched themselves and mimed weird shit. They snapped open newspapers and furrowed their brows to faux-focus. When's the last time you saw someone "snap" open a newspaper in real life? Or sniff when they didn't have a cold or a coke problem?

Side note: next time you watch a movie or something, look to see if any of the actors sniff sharply or scratch the back of their neck for no reason. If they do, it means they don't know what the fuck they are doing. If they do BOTH while smacking their lips on a wad of chewing gum or snapping open a newspaper, it means they suck dead puppy balls and probably got their acting degree at the DeVry Institute.

After about five minutes of entrances, the casting director told us that we just "heard screaming from first class." Right away, the stewardess started barking orders at everyone. I told her to "find out what happened." Her jaw kept flapping. So I told her to "shut the fuck up and find out what happened." She turned to the casting director as if to say, "Can he say that to me?" I then heard the poor, heavyset Jewish woman crying in the chair behind me, so I turned over my shoulder and gently told her to "shut the fuck up" as well.

A few minutes later, the casting director cued us again by saying, "You've just been informed that the plane has been hijacked." Immediately, the Asian stewardess screeched, "Remain seated and CARM DOWN!" I asked her if there was some standard "protocol to follow." She screamed "Remain CARM!" again, so I told her she wasn't "helping" and then I called her a "dumb bitch." Hey, don't get mad at me! That's how alcoholic sports junkies behave on planes!

I think I ended up pissing off every single actor in the room AND, better still, I got a callback! I have to tell you -- it feels better than that moment where you haven't gone in a couple of days, and you end up making one of those 2-for-1 superlogs that wraps around the bowl like a giant question mark and looks up at you as if to say, "What did you EAT?" It was like that, without the lonely, shivery feeling afterwards.

In retrospect, I don't think I pissed off the really old Yoda clone because I'm almost certain he was senile and wasn't aware the improvisation had even started. When I asked him afterwards how he thought the audition went, he simply said, "I'm a pirate!"

The callback a week later was with the director, Paul Greengrass, who had just come off a huge success with "The Bourne Supremacy." He was plopped in a chair right in front of me, looking very arch and British. He didn't say a word. He just sat there stoically and let the casting director run the audition, which had the same three parts as the last one: we board the plane and settle in; we hear screaming in first class; and finally we are informed that the plane has been hijacked.

This time, sitting directly behind me was an Italian guy in his early 30's, about 6'3", with stone-washed jeans and a movie trailer voice. When the casting director announced that the plane was being hijacked, I guess he decided that this was going to be the "Jersey Meathead Show" starring him and his tight black t-shirt. I wanted to tell him that if he was going pull the tough guy routine, he should avoid buying his t-shirts in size "gay."

Immediately after taking the cue from the casting director, Squatty McBenchpress leaned into me from behind and said, "Come on, there are only four of them. Let's take them out, bro!" Bro? I replied, "We don't know anything about their demands. Let's just wait and see what's going on first." He scoffed at my apparently vagina-laden reply and cracked his knuckles. Literally.

Now, if you were on a plane that got hijacked on 9/11, wouldn't you just assume the hijackers wanted money and a helicopter waiting for them in Beirut or something? Before 9/11, didn't you get all your information on international terrorism from the 1986 classic thriller "Delta Force?" That was the established blueprint for terrorist hijackings, right? Dark people demand money, white people scream, and Chuck Norris comes in all Deus ex machina and roundhouse kicks their ass. (I've always been a fan of the phrase "their ass," like a group of people have one large collective ass. Two huge bruised cheeks and one ginormous butthole.)

Everybody at the callback was white, so we got that part of the blueprint right. As a matter of fact, they were all white on the actual flight 93. Many black friends of mine have postulated that "that shit" wouldn't have happened on a flight with brothers on it. My friend Lamont told me that this sentiment has been kind of a guilty inside joke within the black community for the past five years. He once claimed, "an Arab with a shank would have been taken out instantly, son." I replied that most of the violence took place in the very front of the plane and that no one in coach even dealt with the terrorists until they rushed the cockpit. He said "So?" I said, "A black guy in first class? Come on!"

Any-gro, back to the story of the callback...

I turned to the actor sitting to my right on the imaginary plane, hoping he might be able to provide a little help. It was Cheyenne Jackson, Mr. Presley himself. He had completely shut himself off from everybody in the room and closed his eyes. Like many musical theatre people, when put in a situation that's supposed to mimic real life, he just sat there like a helpless idiot. I asked him if I could use the cell phone in his pocket, and he quickly said it didn't work. Thanks for playing along, Kid Galahad! Just as quickly, he buried his face in his hands, dropped his head, and muttered to himself for the rest of the improvisation. . I guess he was all shook up! (Oh come on, how could I resist?)

The flying waitress in the second improvisation wasn't even an ACTUAL flying waitress - she was just an impossibly dumb actress. I know this because early on, while we were boarding, she kept saying shit about "FCC regulations."

There was another old man in this audition as well. When he got the hijacking cue, he just started turning in circles and yelling to himself. I suspect that he may have gotten it into his head that he was also some sort of pirate.

It looked like I was going to have to work with Jersey McAbroller. I tried to calm him down, but he just paced back and forth and wiped his mouth with his hand; sniffing and scratching the back of his head while he popped his Bazooka Joe.

Then Biceps McPowertool got a fake phone call. He even did the "brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring" sound with his lips. His consummate suspension of disbelief compelled him to have a pretend conversation with his upside-down cell phone:

"What? (laughing) You're fucking kidding me! (chuckle, snarf) Both of the fucking towers? (snarf, giggle) What the fuck!?"

He dramatically snapped the phone shut (like a newspaper) and leaned into me once again with breath that smelled like Power Bars and cigarettes had amalgamated into a superlog inside his mouth. Mind you, he didn't lean into "The King," who appeared to be performing self-fellatio in his seat. Instead, Studly McWranglerJeans clenched my right shoulder and said, "Come on, bro, let's take them out!"

According to the actual transcripts of recorded dialogue from that flight, the passengers took a vote before they decided to move on the terrorists. So, trying to play along with what I had researched on "Google" the night before, I said, "Maybe we should take a vote." Chesty McTougherton laughed and spat back, "Come on, let's roll!"

Oh yes he DID, black girls! He said THE IMMORTAL LINE and we'd JUST started the fucking improv! I tried to further delay by talking about how we should arm ourselves and how the flying waitresses should make pots of boiling water. I put my hand on Elvis' auto-fellating back and tried to comfort him. I leaned down and could have sworn I heard him humming the melody to "Love Me Tender."

Deltoids McHernia was behind me, clapping, grunting and pacing with a manic grin on his face like we were in the locker room before kickoff of the high school district championship. Fuck yes! I'm lettering in taking out A-RABS!!!

Paul Greengrass said something for the first time during the whole audition.

He said, "That's enough."

Those will probably be the only two words I'll ever hear him say.

And like that, the audition was over.

I left there thinking...This movie is gonna suck anyway!

And also...Goddamn, I hope I get it!

I told you actors are fucked up.

EPILOGUE

I didn't see "United 93" when it was in the theaters. It is not, currently, on my Netflix queue. At some point, I might see it on Movies-On-Demand if the Showtime porn that night is subpar or the only thing on Sportscenter is baseball.

As some of you might know, Cheyenne Jackson actually booked the movie. Women go nuts for that guy. Critics say he's quite good in it. I say he has fat thighs like a gay man.

I hear that it's a surprisingly good movie, and the reviews were "through the fuselage," so to speak. Still, I don't really care to see it. I was in Manhattan that day and watched the buildings burn and fall 14 blocks from me. I have my own experience of 9/11. I saw men and women in business suits walking around covered in coats of beige dust. I remember how Manhattan smelled like a burnt fuse and how I could taste the debris in the air for weeks. I remember feeling the wind up 9th Avenue, like the city had been uncorked. It was as if the towers were buffers at the apex of the island, and, once removed, the wind ran amok; blowing ashes and circulating the smell of death and decay for months afterwards.

I guess I don't really feel a need to see this film for a connection to what happened that day.

Plus, I already know how the movie ends, which always sucks.

Denis Leary made a big stink about "United 93," saying that it was irresponsible and arrogant to make a movie that is just "speculation" about what happened on that plane. Leary feels that the families of the victims don't need a movie like that. But, with the creation of "Rescue Me," I guess he feels that the families of firemen DO, in fact, need a TV series which speculates that all firemen are asshole philanderers with substance abuse problems. While the families of the victims from Flight 93 universally praise the film, most firefighters I know want to kick Leary in the taint. However, he has a point about the FDNY: not all of them are heroes. I happen to know, for a fact, that Joey Donovan from Ladder Company 86 keeps a Jew in his basement.

Don't get offended at that last comment, I'm allowed to say that because some of my BEST FRIENDS -- I swear to God -- are jew-fuckers.

Posted by Bill Dawes at 9:00 AM