Knightsbridge, London. December 2006.
If you ever want to feel stupid, wear sunglasses at night.
For those of us with any level of self awareness, few things draw public ridicule from abject strangers like being behind a pair of dark shades during the late evening.
Two dusky women blew right past me, did a double take at me leaning on one of the display fronts outside Harrods, and giggled to themselves.
Thankfully, my facemask hid the atomic blush of my humiliation, even if it did far less blockading against the cloying fumes of rosewater fragrance that wafted off the passing pair. I sunk my neck deeper beneath the upturned collar of my trench coat, in hopes that the thicker fabric would be easier to breathe through than the favourite scent of the middle-eastern tourist in London.
Inquiring minds may ask at this point why exactly was I dressed like the quintessential pervert? Especially standing under the twinkling lights of oncoming Christmas celebrations.
Anonymity's price was paid by looking like a sex offender on parole. My options were to get mocked privately or mauled publically. I chose the former.
Question number two then might be, why was I risking visibility in the first place? Ask my shark.
Harrods is a tourist trap; a net she'd gotten her tail stuck in.
"Are they actually serious in there?" Huh, didn't take long for her to thrash her way out. "I can't believe I just dropped fifteen pounds, fifteen pounds on a single scoop of fucking ice cream!" And gnashing her jaws as well, apparently.
"Strawberry?" I pried the cup out of her clenching claws. My poor sweet treat looked like something that belonged in a modern art museum. I pulled my mask down just below my lips and spooned a dollop into my mouth; still tasty, though. Not fifteen quid's worth, but hey, oil barons needed to waste their money somehow.
"I'm telling Ben to file this as a business expense, and take it out of your pocket. Where's that damn receipt?"
"I told you we should've just had some shisha instead. We're literally in hookah Mecca here, would've been cheaper." I took another mediocre spoonful. "And likely better on the taste buds, too."
"Sure, why not just have your face plastered on every gossip mag? I can see the headlines already: Underage Wizard Hits the Wacky Tabacky! Get your head out of your ass, will you?"
I kicked off the wall, slipped my arm inside hers as she rummaged around her purse, and pulled her away. I wasn't ready for this scene and I certainly wasn't in the mood for cameras, either. "Hubbly-Bubbly, Boy's-in-Troubly! Rolls off the tongue better, in my opinion."
"Why don't you roll your tongue all the way to the back of your throat and choke on it?"
"Berating me so harshly sort of defeats the purpose of treating me to ice cream to cheer me up, don't you think?" The next spoonful I shoved into her gob. Someone needed to cool off.
"Why should you be down? It's their loss!" She opened her mouth to ask for another scoop. I obliged. "We practically waived your fee, you aced the audition, and you've worked with both the other cast mates, too. The stars were aligned; it's not your fault they chose instead to point their telescope into someone else's window." And people think I have a way with words.
That other window had a view of Colin Farrell's room.
I'm curious if Brendan Gleeson and Ralph Fiennes would be happy or disappointed that I won't be joining them in Bruges. I'd have to call and tell them I'd failed the audition they'd helped line up. "D'you maybe think they got worried that if they hired me it'd end up looking like some weird alternate universe Harry Potter fanfiction or something?"
"I'm all for making you feel better, but I will not let you slide down the slope of delusion. Though we may not like to admit it, the fact of the matter is Colin did a better job than you."...This ice cream wasn't cutting it. "In my professional opinion, cussing comes more naturally to him than it does you. Luck of the Irish, I suppose." I chucked the empty cup in a bin as we continued to walk arm in arm back to the hotel.
"Too bad I'm the one left looking like a potato. Just sucks that I've been batting for the boundary, but it's the other guy who cranked out six sixes in an over."
"I have no idea what you just said." Anita was absolutely the type of woman who watched sports, just not this one.
"You must know I'm talking about cricket." How uncultured.
"Next time, just say you swung for the fences, but someone else got the home run."
"Baseball? They'll revoke my British citizenship."
"We're flying back to the states. You better start speaking American, Bas."
–
Heathrow Airport, UK. December 2006.
Thanksgiving had passed in America weeks ago, but I echoed the sentiment of the holiday when the immigration officer didn't make a fuss during my passport check. The autograph she asked for probably helped.
Anita, Cadbury, and I thankfully arrived at the Cathay first-class lounge unmolested.
I set my plate, piled high with pastries and cold cuts, down on the table as quietly as I could. The lounge server would bring me my Dan Dan Mian when it was ready. Cadbury was taking a nap, and I didn't want to wake her.
Couldn't blame her. Red eye flights were always the worst, but the late hour meant most people were too tired to notice or care who I was.
I pulled up her drooping shawl to cover her shoulders before I sat down and tucked in.
I had a beautiful, flakey danish halfway inside my mouth; then my phone rang. Who the hell calls at 2 am? I was more accustomed to having my bootycalls signaled by a knock on my caravan door.
An unknown number flashed across the screen of my blackberry. Declining the call would've been the smarter move, as Anita usually handles any important correspondence, so God only knows who this was.
I picked it up anyway. It had nothing to do with the fact I'd forgotten to charge my Nintendo DS - honest! "The number you have called is currently unavailable. Please try again never."
"You don't quite know how to switch off, do you, Bas?" I knew that voice.
"Radcliffe? What's got you up so late past your bedtime?" I hadn't transferred all my contacts from my old phone to this one yet.
"You say that like I'm the one with a full-time nanny." Touche. "But fair enough, you're not wrong. It's late. Thing is, I just got off the phone with a casting director who gave me some excellent news. Figured I'd share it with you since you're the one who put me on notice." Well, would you look at that?
"So Guy Ritchie's RocknRolla got it's Johnny Quid has it?"
"I've still got one last round left, but that's very much what it's looking like. I can't thank you enough, Bas. I mean it." Sincere praise, my kryptonite.
"Don't mention it. Seriously. It's not like I gave the audition for you."
"Maybe not, but I wouldn't have even been on their radar if you hadn't put my name forward alongside your own, or helped me edit that acting reel." I hadn't even taken the first bite of my pastry and I already felt like I was getting diabetes.
"Hey, I told you, you killed it with Neville this year. Others saw that, too. It was a crap shoot, anyway. We're both young for the parts, but it never hurts to try, you know?"
"They told me the same thing at first. I'm just lucky that I gave my five o'clock shadow the twenty-four-hour treatment. I passed the age verification that way. Plus, the casting director said I reminded him of a young Ozzy Osbourne, so that padded my resume, too."
"Good to hear. Don't forget to let Mark Day hear your effusive thanks either. He did that actual stitching of the scenes."
"I won't. I'll even drop a line at a more appropriate hour. It's just… my first big part! I had to tell someone - someone who might also be my cast mate?"
It wasn't his intention, but that question felt like a one-two punch to the gut. "No, not this time, I'm afraid." Ferrel first, and now Gerard Butler, served me my second loss on a fresh platter. No One Two for me.
"Shame. I probably should have listened to you when you said not to mention it." C'mon man, enjoy your own victory.
"Don't sound so glum. I'll survive. Besides, while you're scurrying around the gutters of London, I'll be sunbathing on the California coastline. The bikinis there would give your mum a heart attack."
"Well, there is that, at least."
–
Bas' Koreatown Apartment, LA. December 2006.
Anyone's self esteem would take a nosedive after facing a string of rejections. After the last few years, I thought I might've been the exception to that.
As I wrung my clammy hands and sat paralyzed at the distinctive Skype ringtone blaring out of my laptop's speakers, it turns out I wasn't quite as immune as I'd thought.
But a quick glance at Anita and the forehead vein that was threatening to burst pushed me to press answer.
Ben Stiller's face usurped my screensaver. "Hey, Bas. Thanks for taking my call."
The next words out of my mouth resulted from either nerves or nerve. "Nice to meet you, motherfocker." Whoops, there goes that blood vessel.
"Did you just-?" Take your blood pressure down a notch girl. See, he's laughing, isn't he?
"Not the typical type of flattery I'm used to, but hey, I'll take it! You'll fit right in with the rest of the cast." Lord, I hope so. Tropic Thunder was my last chance of getting in on a major production before Half-blood starts filming. "So. Let's talk about Sandusky."
"Alright, I've got the script in front of me. Which lines should we run?" I've broken the ice. Now let's tread carefully unless I want to fall into the freezing cold waters of unemployment.
"Don't worry about that. Not my style. I already know you can act just fine for the role. We'd just be wasting both our time." Okay… what's the catch? "I'm worried less about you and more about the role itself." There it is. Never can be simple, can it?
"If you've got an issue, I've got a solution."
The Skype audio flickered out for a moment when he excitedly clapped his hands together. "Love it! So, check it out, originally Sandusky's meant to be this wet-behind-the-ears rookie actor, eager to make a good impression."
"And he plays the boy scout who's responsible for keeping the crazy train from getting too far off the rails." I don't know why, but I suddenly felt a jolt of sympathy for David Heyman.
"Right, you get it. But I just feel like that characterization doesn't totally fit you. I don't want to waste you on something so simple."
"You've got me, so flaunt me, eh?" I can live with that.
"Pretty much. I'd like to iron out the kinks in pre-production while I'm still feeling flexible. The director's chair turns me into a tyrant, reportedly, so it's a good idea to squeeze some fresh ideas out now. We still need your character to be the guy who knows his way around a map, but I'm open to suggestions for how we achieve that."
"How about… hmm." C'mon brain, you can do it. "You know that phenomenon in Hollywood where they hire foreign - usually British - actors to play really gritty roles that an American would have a better frame of reference for, why don't we lean on that?"
"Stop! I need a pen. Hold on." He rummaged around a bit. "Okay, keep going. You mean like when they get someone who obviously went to like Juilliard or some really fancy art school playing someone from the ghetto, right?"
"Very much in that vein, yes. Gives the character foundation for knowing his geography and general work ethic via a privileged UK public school education while still keeping with the general satire of the script." Thank you, brain!
You're welcome.
"Okay, I'm sold. I'll need to fill it out, but it's a great start. I'm even thinking of adding a fourth fake trailer for your character to the screenplay. Maybe something like a parody of Lock, Stock, or a period drama or something. One last thing. The name. Kevin Sandusky isn't someone who got accepted into Eaton."
Good point. I racked my brain for the most ridiculously posh, comically British name I could think of. Only one came to mind. I'd riff on that. "How about something like Barnaby Cunningham?"
"Filming starts this coming May. Book your flight to Hawaii, asap."
I'd like to dedicate this successful audition to Benedict Cumberbatch.