3 Ways to Not Embarrass Yourself During Your Next Audition


What’s good, thespians? If you answered “my latest audition,” you’re a filthy liar. Here’s a truth sweater to try on and pretend to like: we’re coming out of pilot season quicker than incoherent sonic discharge trickles out of Donald Trump’s face sphincter. It’s time to admit that your life is in shambles, and it probably will be for the next eight to ten months. No need to fret, friend. By following these handy tips, you’ll be ready to step into the audition room with the same confidence you were quietly saving for an oncoming 7 Train.

Showing up well-rested to an audition is a common mistake. Instead, try harnessing a healthy mix of disoriented rage and animal adrenaline. Your desire to please your parents WILL NOT BE ENOUGH. YOU’VE ALREADY FAILED THEM. Sleep a maximum of two hours, do not eat, and drink nothing but bodega coffee. If the very real possibility of defecating in your pants does not present itself the moment you Jason Statham your way into the audition room, you will not get the part.

Not in the traditional sense, anyway. Don’t “read” or “research” the entire play. It’ll bog you down in details about other characters’ stupid problems. Likewise, avoid practicing in front of a mirror or committing “words” to “memory.” As long as you get the general idea across, who cares? Do you truly believe the casting director for an unpaid web series has any working knowledge of your cringe-inducing Neil LaBute monologue aside from I AM SO FAT AND SAD AND I HATE EVERYTHING WITH LADYPARTS? Of course not. Just ramble something about being unwittingly deceived by a conniving sow for ninety seconds. Congratulations on your role.

My handsome face and acceptable body didn’t happen overnight. Just kidding. I regularly fall asleep face-down in piles of fried mozzarella. The truth is, some of us are born with gifts under the family tree, and others are born with coal in our stocking. “Coal” meaning “ugly” and “stocking” meaning “face and everywhere else.” Many people assume attractive folks have easy lives and, consequently, no character. That is undeniably true, so I work extra hard to appear interesting and talented. If you’re ugly, drive it to freakish levels and bank on what I call the Buscemi Factor. Avoid looking boring at all costs. If you need someone to carve an interesting scar into your face, I am in no way trained in knifeplay, so I’m probably the man for the job.

Hey. I’m an actor. I need the money.

Max is a delusional moron living in New York City.


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