THE CAST SYSTEM

A critically acclaimed performer and consummate professional asks, "Why is everyone fixating on a tiny pimple?" By Courtney Thorne-Smith

As an actress, I am often asked about the pressure I might feel "to look a certain way." There seems to be a misconception that I live in the world of Valley of the Dolls, where there are big, mean producers who hold me to very clear specifications about how much I am supposed to weigh and how many wrinkles I am allowed to have. In my experience, it is much more subtle and far less sinister than that. Being an actress is very much like being stuck in the sixth grade. Do you remember how, when you were 12, you felt that strangers were often looking at you and judging your hair, body, and skin, and how crazy and self-conscious that made you feel? Of course, as you matured, you realized that was just silly. No one was taking time out of their own busy lives to judge your appearance—unless, that is, you grew up and chose to work as an actress.
     Imagine this: You are an actress who works on a television show. You woke up this morning at 4 A.M. to shower and drive yourself 45 minutes to work. You are expected to be in the makeup trailer by 6 A.M., where you will spend an hour and 15 minutes in front of wall-to-wall mirrors, watching your puffy, sleep deprived face and tired, overworked hair get poked, prodded, and painted by a team of experts as they attempt to turn you into something the camera will love. You are more than vaguely aware of the makeup artist's knitted brow as she carefully mixes colors to cover what are apparently an extraordinary number of blemishes, discolorations, and general imperfections. You watch while she shades where you are too round and highlights where you are too shadowed. You try to look innocent and surprised when she points to a large red spot on your chin and says, "Did you pick at this?" in a tone that makes it clear that picking at your pimples is just a little bit worse than torturing puppies. You feel ashamed, knowing that somehow both the pimple and its raised, reddened aftermath are your fault.
     When you are finished in hair and makeup, or rather, when they have finished with you, it is time to get dressed. You walk to your trailer and find an outfit hanging in your closet. You say a silent prayer that it will fit. You know that it was altered to fit your body a week ago, which means a week before your body began its monthly pre-period attack on your self-esteem. You squeeze into the pencil skirt and fitted blouse that looked so right last week, and gaze longingly at the drawstring pants you wore in that morning (happy pants, you call them). As you turn sideways in the mirror and try, unsuccessfully, to pull in your bloated, cranky tummy, you try to comfort yourself with the thought that no one else will notice; that, surely, you are the only one who cares what your tummy looks like. You are wrong. As you make your way to the set, nodding hello to the director and producers along the way, you are sidelined by the wardrobe stylist, who takes your arm and swiftly turns you around, walking you back the way you came. "Didn't we just fit this on you?" she asks.
     "Yes," you answer. "I'm just a little PMS-y right now, but...."
     "Well, the director doesn't like it. We're going to have to change you."
     You assume she means "change your clothes," but you can't be sure. She finds a pair of black pants and a sweater that fit and look slimming, and walks you back out to the set, where you stand in front of a group of tall canvas chairs, where the director and producers sit with cups of coffee and cheese-filled Danish in their hands as they discuss your outfit (body?). "OK, that will be fine," says the director, as the producers nod their agreement, and the costumer heads off to check on the other actors. The director then looks at you and says, "What's that on your chin?"
     When it is time to shoot the scene, you walk with your fellow actors to the set. You try not to notice that your co-star's skirt, though a smaller size than your own, is big on her. You try again to suck in your stomach. And your thighs. After the hairstylist and makeup artist come over to "touch you up," it is time to shoot the scene. "Rolling!" calls the first assistant director. "Action!" calls the director. And you are on. You can feel that the scene, though a difficult one for you, is going well. After the director yells "Cut!" you and your fellow actors nod at each other in silent support and turn your attention back to the director, expecting him to say, "Print that, moving on!" He doesn't.

Instead, you notice him whispering animatedly with the camera operator and pointing in your direction. Instead of "Print!" he yells "Makeup!" and you watch as your makeup artist comes over and joins their heated discussion. There is much head-shaking and shoulder-shrugging as they look from you to the television monitor and back. Finally, your makeup artist heaves her heavy bag onto her shoulder, and they all walk toward you. The 100-person crew, tired from a week of 14-hour days, watches impatiently as the three of them—the director, the camera operator, and the makeup artist—make their way over. The director holds your chin in one hand as he turns your head, tilting your face awkwardly for the other two to see where your blemish catches the light and, presumably, ruins his shot. More makeup is applied, lights and grip stands are moved around, and you run the scene again. It doesn't go as well. For you, it is now a scene about a pimple.
     When the scene is done, you are through for the day. You decide to go to the mall. As you enter the department store, a woman you have never met before calls you by your name and holds you in place by your upper arm.
     "Oh, my God," she yells. "I can't believe it's you. I love you! You are you, aren't you?" You nod and smile; after all, she just told you she loves you. "I swear," she continues, "you are so much smaller than I thought you were! You just look so much bigger on TV! So I guess it really is true about TV putting on weight, huh?"
     "Yeah, it is" you barely manage to choke out, realizing that, although this woman thinks you look slim, millions of television viewers think you are a tank. You head for the loungewear section; you need more happy pants. Fast.
     You pick out three pairs of cotton drawstring pants and head toward the cash register. When you hand the saleswoman your credit card, she looks up with a conspiratorial grin on her face. "I thought that was you," she says. "Did you just get a haircut?" You smile and run a self-conscious hand through your newly shorn locks. "Yes, I did," you say. "I thought so," she says, handing you your bag. "I liked it better the other way, didn't you?" You suddenly realize that you did, and that it will take approximately a year and a half before you and the salesgirl are again happy with your hair.
     You return home to find a manila envelope on your doorstep, and you open it to discover a script and a note from your agent. You have an audition tomorrow afternoon—you and your pimple. You read the cast list and the script and learn that the character you are being asked to read for is ten years younger than you, and you know that, in spite of painful power peels and expensive eye creams, you look every one of your 32 years. Which, before you were asked to pretend that you were 22 years old, felt like a perfectly good age. You call your agent.
     "This character is ten years younger than I am. I can't play a girl in her early 20s," you say, secretly hoping he will tell you that you are wrong and that, in fact, he had assumed you were still too young to buy a legal cocktail. He doesn't.
     "Oh, I know that," he says. "And so do the producers, and so does the director. Everyone is quite aware of your age, believe me!" All right, you think. Got it. Point made. "But they want to see you anyway." Great, you think, facetiously.
     "Great!" you say, heartily. "Thank you."
     As you work on the script, you attempt to sound comfortable saying "cool-o-rama" and referring to your vagina as a "yoni-monster" and a penis as a "cock-a-doodle-doo." By the following morning, you are feeling "fierce" and "smokin'" enough to believe you may actually have a shot at this role. You work your way into your new low-slung Earl jeans (stretch, thank God) and go to your audition.
     It went well, you think, when you are done. They laughed at the right moments, and you were able to say "yoni-monster" with a modicum of comfort, grace, and even youthful enthusiasm. This could work, you think, as you consider what you will wear to the premiere. You call your agent for feedback.
     "They think you're too old," he says.
     "Thank you," you say, and consider a career as a writer.