Talking as Fast as I Can: From Gilmore Girls to Gilmore Girls (and Everything in Between) (2016)
For some reason I had very old-timey ideas about what show business was like when I was first starting out. Maybe it was all those afternoons I spent watching The 4:30 Movie when I was supposed to be doing my homework. (Sorry, Dad!) Back then, there weren’t many ways to learn about what the life of a working actor was actually like, or even get a glimpse into how to get started. Pre-American Idol, the closest thing we had to a show business competition was Star Search, but the acting portion was oddly stiff and theatrical, and never seemed very authentic. The world of entertainment-related periodicals was different then too: there weren’t fifteen gossip publications like there are today, all of them competing to be the first to tell you where J. Lo had dinner last night or to reveal the name of Kate Hudson’s new bichon frise. The National Enquirer spent some time on the secret world of celebrities, but focused equally on alien babies and Loch Ness monster sightings. There was no Real Housewives of anywhere, and no Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat, where people could constantly update you on their every move. People—even famous people—had not yet begun to focus on their “brands,” and there was really only one daily show about Hollywood, Entertainment Tonight, which was pretty fluffy back then, and fairly tame. Magazines were not yet going after every detail of what went on behind the scenes. No one was asking the important questions of today, like “Whose cellulite is this?”
The 4:30 Movie featured mostly old films and was categorized around a weekly theme: Elvis week, Westerns week, horror week, etc. That’s where I fell in love with movie musicals starring Gene Kelly and Judy Garland. That’s where I decided Katharine Hepburn was my favorite actress of all time. That’s where I learned that an actor’s highest calling was The Theatah and the ultimate goal for a true thespian was BroadWAY, emphasis on the WAY. I was inspired by the black-and-white movies of the 1930s and 1940s, like Stage Door, in which young hopefuls lived together in a sorority-type house, sleeping with their hair in old-fashioned curlers that looked more like rags, practicing dance steps in their tiny galley kitchen while wearing silk tap pants and dreaming of BroadWAY. I loved their vivid vernacular and tried to incorporate it into my life. “Say, fella, this gal’s got sore gams,” I was in the habit of saying. “My dogs are barking—got a dime for a cup of joe?” This being the mid-eighties, no one had any idea what I was talking about.
I was determined to make it to BroadWAY, and that meant I somehow had to become a member of Actors’ Equity, the theatrical union. The union conundrum: you can’t get a union card without getting a union job, and you can’t get a union job unless you’re in the union. My plan, although the path was long, was to earn enough hours as an Equity apprentice to become eligible, which could take years. The only faster way would be to somehow get cast in an Equity role. Apparently this happened once in a while, when a part called for something unique that none of the members of the Equity company were able to do. As a young actor, I remember focusing obsessively on the “special skills” section of my résumé, peppering it with abilities, even ones I only sort of had, in case one of them might lead to my big break. Included on my résumé at the time were “skills” such as driving (not a given in New York City), roller skating (the musical Starlight Express was big at the time), dialects (although this claim was vague and pretty much untrue, I felt it made me seem sophisticated and Shakespearean), and Rhonda Weiss impressions (Rhonda Weiss was one of my favorite characters from Gilda Radner’s Live at Carnegie Hall show, a VHS tape I watched obsessively). Why I thought anyone would be more impressed by my Rhonda Weiss than by Gilda Radner’s is still an embarrassing mystery to me today. But back then, especially when coupled with dialects and driving, I thought it made me seem quirky and well-rounded. Probably despite these skills rather than because of them, I landed a spot in the Equity apprentice program at the Barn Theater in Augusta, Michigan.
The Barn was (and is) a well-respected summer theater that had a resident Equity company and even occasionally drew some Broadway stars. In the lobby of the theater hung framed headshots of “Barnies” of note—actors who’d once been apprentices here, just like I was, and had gone on to bigger things. I didn’t recognize any of their faces, but I was still impressed. It was beyond my wildest hope that my headshot would one day hang in this lobby too, prompting scores of theatergoers to remark, “Who?” I could only dream of such obscurity!
On the first day at the Barn, all the Equity apprentices auditioned for the directors and members of the Equity company to get their specific casting for the summer. The core Equity company consisted of experienced actors, most from New York, who’d been hired for the whole summer. Many of them had worked at the theater before, and they all knew each other. They asked me a few questions, then chose a piece for me to sight-read: “Slap That Bass,” a Gershwin number from the musical Crazy for You. I didn’t know the song, but the whole point was to see how well we could perform with limited preparation. The rehearsal period for each show was only two weeks, so it was important to show them how quickly we could learn music and dance steps. I was nervous but not too worried, since in general I could sight-read pretty well.
Or so I thought.
Even though I was only expected to read off sheet music on the stand in front of me, I wanted to really perform the song, to prove I was not only a speedy learner and a good singer but a good actress too. My casting for the entire season depended on what I did in this audition. The pianist played through a few bars and hummed the melody for me until I felt ready to try the song alone. Then I took a deep breath and started to sing.
Zoom zoom zoom zoom
The world is in a mess
With politics and taxes
And people grinding axes
There’s no happiness.
Looking out at the sea of faces in the audience, I could tell right away that I was doing well. I felt relaxed and my voice sounded strong. People were smiling and tapping their toes to the beat.
Zoom zoom zoom zoom
Rhythm lead your ace
The future doesn’t fret me
If I can only get me
Someone to slap that bass.
I saw one of the Equity actors in the audience exchange a look with the music director. She clapped her hand over her mouth like she was stifling a laugh. He giggled back at her and slapped his knee, and I thought, wow—are they impressed or what? It’s almost as if they’ve never seen an apprentice perform this well on their first day. I wondered briefly if I had a chance at getting my Equity card in my first summer. I’d been told that never happened, but what if? They’d talk about it for years to come! Not only would my headshot be displayed in the lobby, but maybe they’d need a plaque touting my incredible accomplishment as well! APPRENTICE FOR A DAY. THEN STRAIGHT TO BROADWAY, it would say! A wave of extra confidence washed over me, hurtling me toward the chorus:
Slap that bass
Slap it till it’s dizzy
Slap that bass
Keep the rhythm busy
Zoom zoom zoom
Misery, you’ve got to go!
Everyone in the audience was laughing now, and I thought, well, that’s sort of weird, but they aren’t stopping me, and they all look pretty pleased. The problem was that they looked almost too pleased. I hadn’t really seen “Slap That Bass” as much of a comedic song, but maybe I was wrong? So I decided to go with their response and sort of shimmied my shoulders, adding even more personality and pizzazz.
Slap that bass
Use it like a tonic
Slap that bass
Keep your philharmonic
Zoom zoom zoom
And the milk and honey’ll flow!
There was no doubting it now—everyone was now becoming almost…hysterical? One of the actresses was wiping tears away, she was laughing so hard. I’m just naturally funny, I guess, I thought. I never realized it to this degree before. This is for sure the day I’ll be discovered! Never mind my promotion to the Equity company—maybe I won’t even last the summer here! What if they send me directly to BroadWAY? I wondered if I’d have to drop out of Barnard, and if not, how I would manage both my schoolwork and my full-time stardom. Flush with the excitement of my newfound destiny, I beamed back at them all and headed into my big finish:
In which case
If you want a bauble
Slap that bass
Slap away your trouble
Learn to zoom zoom zoom
Slap that bass!
Arms outstretched, I held the last note as long as I could. The entire room applauded, I bowed, and then they all dissolved into giggles. For a while they were laughing so hard that no one could speak. Finally the music director waved his arm over his head, signaling everyone to be quiet.
“Lauren,” he said kindly, “you have a good voice.”
A good voice? Didn’t he mean a spectacular, transcendent, unique, miracle voice from Heavenland?
“A very good voice,” he said, and paused. I could tell he was struggling to keep a straight face. “But I don’t think Ira Gershwin wrote this song about a fish.”
For a moment I felt surrounded by fog, or like I’d just been woken up from a deep sleep. What was he talking about? What about a fish? Why would he—
And then it hit me.
In my haste to show how quickly I could learn the song, I hadn’t really stopped to consider what the song was about, which was someone joyously playing the bass fiddle. I mean, I sort of knew that, but in my nervousness, I didn’t pronounce “bass” like the instrument—like “face,” “place,” or even “ace,” a word that was actually in the song. I pronounced it like “pass,” “grass,” or “ass”—which was also what I now felt like. Fueled by adrenaline and dreams of my Equity card, I’d turned a song about playing an instrument into a song about abusing a fish. Over and over, I’d just gleefully sung about hitting the poor fishy upside the head. I’d given “slapping a bass” a whole new meaning. No wonder they were laughing so hard.
In my mind’s eye, I removed my framed headshot from the theater lobby. My plaque faded into the wings. My Equity card evaporated in the glare of the footlights.
But eventually I recovered, and managed to get into the summer stock routine. The apprentices worked very, very hard. In addition to rehearsing during the afternoon, our duties included anything and everything it took to keep the theater going, including costume sewing, set building, and floor mopping. Mornings were spent doing chores like cleaning the bathrooms and painting the fence that surrounded the property. I lucked out and for a few weeks got a coveted job working in the box office taking ticket orders over the phone. The box office was luxurious compared to the outdoor activities we performed in the 100-degree heat. It had both air-conditioning and a constant influx of baked goods from the theater-loving locals. The baked goods were supposed to be sent directly to the Equity actors, but most never made it past whoever was manning the phones. Every day I’d have stolen cakes and cookies for breakfast, a Chinese chicken salad from McDonald’s for lunch (do they still make this? It was so good), and then came “dinner,” or what passed for dinner on an apprentice’s nonexistent salary, a combination of food and beverage that I loved more than I’ve loved some meals I’ve had at restaurants with Michelin stars. I’ll tell you what it was in a second, but I warn you—it appeals only to those with the most discerning palates.
After the main stage shows, there was a sort of bar that opened next door to the theater called the Shed, where the apprentices performed cabaret-type songs and skits for any audience members who didn’t yet want to call it a night. On the main stage we were chorus members, bit players at best, but at the Shed show afterward, we were the stars. I personally wowed audiences by accompanying myself on songs with the acoustic guitar I’d brought from home, my greatness limited only by my dreams and the fact that I knew how to play just three chords. But that’s all you need for “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” my friends! At the Shed, the “stars” were also the waiters, so the storeroom in the back doubled as our backstage area and locker room. It was a chaotic jumble of costume pieces for our upcoming numbers, bar supplies, and personal stuff. The back room was also where they kept the Snak-Ens, an evil mix of delicious seasoned crackers and pretzels that I’m pretty sure the dastardly Gardetto’s company invented in an attempt to ruin my career, even though at the time I had no career to speak of. We weren’t allowed to indulge in the Snak-Ens, which were kept in giant garbage-bin-sized tubs in the storeroom—those were only for the PAYING CUSTOMERS. The theater owners were VERY strict about this. So I’m here to tell you, and any former employers (or health inspectors) who may be reading this, that we 100 percent DID NOT reach our grubby hands into the giant bins OVER AND OVER every night until we were sick with salt bloat. How DARE you imply such a thing! That summer, I also discovered the first alcoholic drink I actually liked the taste of, a drink that was very hip and happening at the time, and is still a sign of intellect and sophistication. I’m talking, of course, about the Fuzzy Navel. This nutrient-packed, classy combination of Snak-Ens and Fuzzy Navels was my dinner for two whole months.
Halfway through the summer, an incredible opportunity came up. An Equity part was going to be given to one of the apprentices. It was a smallish part, so to bring an Equity actor all the way from New York would be too costly. It was cheaper to just give one of the apprentices their card and pay them Equity wages for the two-week run. This was exactly the scenario I’d imagined, precisely the break I’d been hoping for! There was much excitement and discussion among the apprentices about the part, and also about what it required. The play was a farce, a broad comedy about two cheating husbands and the wives they’re lying to, and the role was a French maid that one of the husbands is caught having an affair with. When the maid and the husband are discovered in bed, the maid stands up in fright, and as she’s facing upstage, babbling in French, the blanket that’s been covering her falls, exposing her bare backside to the audience.
The rumor was that the director would only be bringing a few girls in to audition, and we wondered nervously whom he’d choose. The next day, a short list was posted, and my name was on it. I was thrilled and flattered. We then learned that the entire audition would consist of being brought into a room and showing our bare butts to the director. I wasn’t sure exactly how that would work (enter walking backward?), and I thought it was a little odd that we weren’t being asked to read even a small part of the actual scene, but I was still both thrilled and flattered. This was the sort of thing professional actresses were asked to do all the time. My Equity card was just a bare-butt-flash away!
The Chosen Butts became an instant club of sorts. We tried our best to be professional and not act overly excited, but it was clear we were bonded because of our excellent butts I mean acting ability. We didn’t want those of lesser butt to feel left out, but we’d subtly smile at each other in the hallways, pleased at having been singled out for our shapely butts I mean talent. The phrase “butt buddies” had never made so much sense!
The day of the audition came. We were asked to disrobe from the waist down in private, and when we were ready, two girls holding a sheet walked out slightly in front of us. We walked up behind them and turned around, the girls dropped the sheet for a brief moment for the director, then they put it back up and we all walked out together. During the entrance and exit, the director made innocuous small talk. His wife was sitting beside him, there to ensure we were comfortable. Everyone was very respectful. The whole thing was over so quickly, I barely had time to register any feelings about it at all. I walked out smiling, waved to the rest of my BBs, who were waiting to go in, got dressed, and went to a secluded place behind the theater, where I burst into tears.
There was nothing wrong with the way anyone conducted themselves that day. The audition process was thoughtfully executed. The play was silly and full of sexual innuendo, and nudity was called for in the script.
I just didn’t like it.
The audition made me feel vulnerable and just plain bad about myself. On top of that, I was embarrassed not to have thought the whole thing through more thoroughly. I wanted my Equity card so desperately, I hadn’t stopped to ask myself what I was comfortable doing in order to get it. In art, the painter presents his canvas. In acting, the canvas is you. Over the years, I’ve learned to have a sort of distance from myself in certain situations—I’ve regularly stripped down to nothing in front of a stranger in order to have a fitting, for example. As actors, we are poked and prodded by other artists whose contributions are vital to presenting the canvas at its best: hair, makeup, lighting, scenery. The canvas is given lines to say, someone else’s clothes to wear. In acting you have to have an objectivity that enables you to, at times, turn yourself over to someone else and let them do the painting. But this was my first experience paying more attention to the canvas part than the me part, and I realized both sides needed to line up. I’d thought it was mature and professional to do anything asked of me to get the job. I learned a little too late that day that maybe it was more complex than that.
The girl who got the part was an apprentice in her second or third year, a great comedienne with a great figure. She had no problem being semi-naked in rehearsals and seemed to really enjoy doing the show every night. There’s a lid for every pot, they say, and there’s definitely an actor for every role (and then some). The truth was, even if I’d gotten it, that part just wasn’t a good fit. The me of today often reads scripts I don’t connect with, and I’ve learned not to worry about it too much. If a story doesn’t resonate with me—even if it’s a really good one, even if it’s one I wish I could be part of—I just have to accept that I probably wouldn’t be as compelling as someone else could be in the role. And it’s become fairly easy to let them go.
One of my incredible acting teachers, Wynn Handman, always talked about how important it was to have a feel for the material. He dismissed the idea that every actor should be able to tackle every part. “Charlie Chaplin did just one thing,” he’d say. “He just did it better than everyone else.” Later on, I’d learn not to feel too bad when I realized a part wasn’t right for me. But at that young age, with only high school and college plays on my résumé, I didn’t think I had any right to be choosy or to have much of an opinion about what I wanted to do. At the time, I had only the vaguest hint that my instincts might be worth respecting.
It would take many more years to learn how best to respond to those instincts. But when, during the course of my early career, I was asked a few more times about nudity, the answer was always a fairly easy no. Nothing wrong with it, and a vital part of some kinds of storytelling; just not for me.
In my second summer at the Barn, I was given an Equity role without even having to audition for it. I was chosen. This was a real honor, and a very big deal among the other apprentices, and it happened so much earlier than I thought it would. My headshot plaque dreams returned! The character was named Marjorie Baverstock, and the play was called The Musical Comedy Murders of 1940. The 1940s! The decade all my after-school TV viewing had been preparing me for! It was meant to be. My character was an older aristocrat in her early fifties whom a bunch of young theater hopefuls are trying to impress so she’ll give them money to put on a show. The fact that I was ten years younger than the people playing the “young” hopefuls was no problem! This was The Theatah, and I was an actrice, up for any challenge! I’d simply bring my years of high school experience putting on old-age makeup to bear, because everyone agrees that drawing all over your face with a white greasepaint pencil to simulate wrinkles looks convincing as hell.
My character sits in a chair near the end of Act One while the young hopefuls keep trying to impress her with increasingly frantic and ambitious musical numbers. What they don’t know, but the audience sees, is that during one of their numbers Marjorie is stabbed through the back of the chair (hahaha?) by a mysterious villain. So while the performers think Marjorie isn’t responding to their audition because she’s not impressed, in reality she’s not responding because she’s not alive. The crowd dissolves into giggles (supposedly). The trick of this entire gag is that Marjorie, although dead, keeps her eyes open. That’s why the audition kids go on singing and dancing for so long. Hilarious!
There was only one problem. Well, actually, there were at least three problems: that I was playing thirty-five years older than I was, that I’d apparently learned nothing from the previous summer’s Snak-Ens diet, and that, too late in the rehearsal process, I discovered that one of my special skills was not an ability to keep my eyes open for as long as was required. I don’t know how the person in the original cast did it. After twenty seconds, my eyes started to water, and after about forty-five seconds, no matter how hard I tried not to, I had to blink. I think we can all agree that in general, dead people don’t blink very much. The audience was supposed to laugh at the enthusiasm of the young hopefuls’ frenzied auditioning, but on opening night, the biggest laughs came from my supposedly dead Marjorie having dry contact lenses.
In the first professional review I ever received, the Kalamazoo Gazette said that while my character died at the end of the first act, they wished—for my sake—that I’d died sooner. (AHAHAHAHAHA—more tears behind the theater.) “Look at it this way,” the director said later. “Your reviews can only get better from here.”
But I’d never know, because I haven’t read a review of myself since that day. I’ve also never Googled myself. What good can come of it? I’ve learned over the years that when someone says something really nice about you, in print or otherwise, it has a way of reaching you. Friends and agents can’t wait to tell you when someone says something positive. When the papers say something not so nice, your friends (and agents) get a shifty faraway look, or say nothing, and that tells me everything. What more details would I possibly need—“I wish she’d died sooner”?
In high school, my acting teacher, Brian Nelson, told us there were only two important pieces of feedback in the theater: if someone told you they liked what you did, or if they said they couldn’t hear you well enough. As an actor, “speak up” is a pretty objectively helpful piece of criticism. The rest is just one person’s opinion. (Though the one thing I’d add is “pronounce words correctly.” And try to know the difference between a stringed instrument and a fish.)
Years later, I would finally make it to BroadWAY after all, and it was just as thrilling and exhilarating as I’d imagined—quite literally a dream come true. But my name was on the poster, and I discovered there was a lot of pressure and responsibility that came with that. And even though I was honored to play Miss Adelaide in the revival of Guys and Dolls and loved being a member of that incredible company, a part of me also longed for simpler days, back when it was plenty thrilling to just be in the chorus of Oklahoma! and Brigadoon, when the furthest my imagination could stretch—the biggest success I dared wish for, the closest I thought I’d ever get to the dream of becoming like my idols from The 4:30 Movie—was to have my picture hanging in the lobby of a small theater in Augusta, Michigan.
