The Mystic Art of Casting

Faye Dunaway, long before Bonnie and Clyde, couldn’t get past Arthur Penn’s casting director, who said she “didn’t have the face for movies.” Casting experts, it seems, are sometimes wrong . . . and sometimes more than a little blunt. But it’s all in the line of duty. What drives casting directors is the need to find the perfect actor for each and every role.

To an outsider, being a casting director (please don’t call them casting agents!) sounds like fun.  You sit in a room, while attractive people cycle through, each one aiming to please. They read the lines, you thank them politely, and jot down some yay-or-nay notes when they walk out the door. In fact,  it’s extraordinarily wearying to hear the same words over and over, while trying to maintain your objectivity in the face of so much barely-concealed desperation.

Of course, casting has its amusing moments, along with its weird ones. When I worked for Roger Corman at Concorde-New Horizons, I could always tell at a glance which film we were casting. As I entered our tiny lobby, it would be full of buttoned-down businessmen, or homey grandmas, or girls who were no better than they should be. All of them were actors, of course, and they knew enough to dress the part when they showed up to audition. Once, walking up the street near the Concorde offices, I spotted a young punk sitting in his car, busily adorning himself with chains and leather. For a second I was puzzled, until I realized that we must be casting biker-types that day.

Sometimes producers and directors of studio films announce that they’re seeking a young unknown for an important part. I’m not sure how much of that is publicity gimmickry, but I do know what happened in 1967 when articles appeared across the nation saying that the makers of a small film called The Graduate were seeking a college-age young actor. Résumés and headshots flooded in, both from low-level young professionals (Harvey Keitel and the late Edward Herrmann among them) and from young men whose only qualification was a high opinion of themselves. Some sent in lengthy hand-written analyses of the Benjamin Braddock character; some indulged in rants about the way life was treating them; some let it be known that anyone failing to cast them was making a big mistake. Hoping to trade on their college experience, some enclosed graduation photos or wrote on fraternity stationery. Proud parents recommended their suitably mixed-up sons. One hopeful, with no professional photo at his disposal, scotch-taped snapshots of himself on a piece of notebook paper and sent it along. Another included in his cover-letter the following recommendation: “Previous acting experience--none, however my quality of personality is above average.”

Remarkably, all these applicants were treated with courtesy. All eventually got polite kiss-off letters explaining that the role they sought had already been cast, but that their information would be kept on file just in case.

Of course the part of Benjamin Braddock went to a professional actor, one wholly unknown in Hollywood but busily earning respect on the Off-Broadway stage. Yet sometimes a casting director achieves a real coup. Casting veteran Jane Jenkins remembers, when she was working on Mystic Pizza, how a nineteen-year-old actress showed up late in the day, badly dressed and unfamiliar with the script. Jenkins, spotting potential, urged the girl to return the following morning, dressed appropriately for the role. Overnight, Julia Roberts studied up, and traded in her baggy jeans for the sexy miniskirt the part demanded. The rest, of course, is history.

Korean Wedding Guests: Put a Ringer on It

Jon Stewart just said his goodbyes. Donald Trump and his fellow Republicans – all sixteen of them -- just crowded the stage for their first debate. There’s blood in the streets at home and abroad. So why am I thinking about weddings in South Korea? 

Well, everybody loves weddings, especially those who stand to profit from them financially: caterers, florists, musicians, wedding guests. Huh? Wedding guests? Well, apparently in South Korea huge weddings are all the rage. The one time I visited Seoul, back in the Sixties, middle-class families didn’t even own what we Americans would consider basic household necessities. In a Korean kitchen, instead of a refrigerator, you’d see a giant ceramic jar filled with kimchee: that’s how you’d have (pickled) vegetables to eat in wintertime. How times have changed! Thanks to a tech boom, the Korean economy is soaring. And conspicuous consumption is now the name of the game.

If you’re throwing a lavish wedding with all the trimmings, the last thing you want to see is empty seats at the ceremony and around the banquet tables. Fortunately, some creative Korean business types have stepped in to fill the void. There are agencies that, for a fee, will provide you with professional guests, guaranteed to exude good cheer and good manners. Presumably they will not get slammed at the open bar, make fools of themselves on the dance floor, start fights with members of the wedding party, or otherwise make a scene. We’ve surely known movie comedies in which all of the above happens (and maybe experienced it in real life too.). But count on Korea’s guests-for-hire to emulate our better selves.

The Korean guests know how to behave because they’re professional actors, adept at meeting the requirements of a role. Their agencies book them into back-to-back weddings, especially during the summer months, but they have other, more lucrative gigs as well. They’ve been known, in sticky situations, to impersonate a boss or a visiting relative. If someone is applying for a bank loan, they can stand in for a missing spouse.

I think we Americans are losing out on a good thing. Actors always need work, and there are times we could all surely use additional charming guests at our parties and loyal sidekicks in our entourage. There are more specialized needs too. For instance, single guys looking to curry favor with sympathetic family-oriented women would benefit from having an adorable kid or two in tow. Why not rent? (Yes, I too see the dangers of this option. But let my fertile imagination take me where it will!)

Though South Koreans are paving the way, it’s true that Hollywood—fittingly—has always enjoyed depicting weddings that are not quite for real. In the wake of such movies as The Wedding Singer (1998) and The Wedding Planner (2001), this year we’ve had The Wedding Ringer (2015), about a guy who rents himself out to social nerds to pose as their life-of-the-party best man. Most underemployed (and who isn’t?) actors would consider this a dream gig.

Of course there’s a time-honored tradition of hiring a claque to cheer your performance, whether you’re appearing in a play or a political debate. Yes, politicians, all of whom are actors in their own right, sometimes need to manufacture an enthusiastic crowd. Let’s take this one step further: if there are fake crowds, why not fake politicians, who are in fact actors hired to fill a particular ideological slot? Give them a few position papers, toss in a few snappy lines, and watch what happens. Hmmmm, maybe this explains Donald Trump.

 

Honey, I Shrunk the Hero, or Mission: Infinitesimal

Sometimes in mid-summer I have a desperate need to see a lightweight popcorn movie. Ant-Man certainly qualifies. It features, along with such likable actors as Paul Rudd, Michael Douglas, and Bobby Cannavale, a goofy story about yet another threat to mankind as we know it. The trailers leading up to this film contain plenty of those: it’s clear that this autumn Fantastic Four and Superman v. Batman will have a lot of world-saving to do. But I suspect those films won’t reduce their heroes to insect size, nor will they call upon armies of helpful ants to defeat the inevitably bald-headed villain, played with a glower and a great wardrobe by Corey Stoll. (I’ve heard there are hair-challenged men out there who’re forming a new Anti-Defamation League protesting the assumption that all bald white guys are up to no good.) At any rate, if you like your derring-do tempered with deadpan humor, Ant-Man nicely fills the bill. Special kudos to Michael Peña as a lovably dim sidekick, and to Disney for its willingness to poke fun at its Marvel-ous connections. (It’s a small world, after all.)

Of course, some folks like their thrill rides to be a bit more realistically scary. I’m told that the brand-new Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation does a great job in that respect. Frankly, Tom Cruise scares me at the best of times, but (given his enormous physicality and his love for doing his own hair-raising stunts) he truly owns this particular genre. The weekend box-office numbers suggest that, despite his weird marital  history and offbeat religious affiliations, Cruise must be doing SOMETHING right.

But of course it’s hard for me to associate Tom Cruise with Mission: Impossible. You see, I’m an old-fashioned girl. And when I think about Mission: Impossible, I’m remembering a TV series that ran from 1966 to 1973. All of us college kids were rooting for the Mission: Impossible team, covert operatives who each week thwarted bad guys on behalf of the U.S. government. There was stalwart Peter Graves, as James Phelps, the grey-haired leader. There was Martin Landau as smart, tricky Rollin Hand. There was Landau’s wife, Barbara Bain, as Cinnamon Carter, Hand’s equal as a master of disguises. There was the hulking Peter Lupus, the team’s designated muscle. Finally, there was Greg Morris. In that era, when civil rights issues were on everyone’s mind, it was important to have a black man on board.  And he had to bely old stereotypes by playing a role that was intellectual rather than chiefly physical in nature. So Morris was the team electronics expert. I never knew exactly what he was doing as – under duress -- he switched wires around. But he’d always sweat beautifully, so it was clear that this was very hard work.

Of course, part of the thrill of Mission: Impossible came from Lalo Schifrin’s throbbing theme music. And the series also had a weekly opening that was ripe for memorization and parody. After an exciting montage featuring a burning fuse, Peter Graves would play a mysterious tape recording briefing him on the job at hand. It always contained the words, “Your mission, Jim, should you decide to accept it . . . .”  (I certainly don’t recall fearless Mr. Phelps ever turning anything down.)  Then came the best part: the tape, as promised would automatically self-destruct.

Years later, when phone machines were new and exciting gadgets, my voice recording told callers that their mission (should they choose to accept it) was to leave a message, or risk automatically self-destructing. Well, it seemed pretty clever back then.  

Speaking of threats to the world as we know it, here’s a link to a piece I just published in the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists (yes, really!) on the very serious matter of nuclear radiation, as it pertains to Nevil Shute’s novel (which became Stanley Kramer’s film), On the Beach. 

Mike Nichols Graduates to “Carnal Knowledge”

Having won acclaim and an Oscar for directing The Graduate in 1967, Mike Nichols soon moved on to bigger projects. The first, an ambitious adaptation of Joseph Heller’s darkly comic anti-war novel, Catch-22, got mixed reviews. For the second, Nichols returned to the funding source (Joseph E. Levine’s Embassy Pictures) and the subject matter (love and sex) that had worked so well for The Graduate. Carnal Knowledge, released in 1971, represents a fascinating follow-up to the affairs of a young man named Benjamin Braddock, who looks to sex to solve all his problems.

Carnal Knowledge, scripted by the ultra-hip Jules Feiffer, starts with not one young man but two. At the film’s beginning, as they yak about girls in their dorm room, they’re a long way from graduation. Jonathan (Jack Nicholson) and Sandy (a surprisingly effective Art Garfunkel) are callow Amherst freshmen, and their discussion of sex is purely theoretical. But college life, post World War II, brings its rewards. Sandy is soon head over heels about the smart, savvy Susan (Candice Bergen), a Smith freshman with dreams of law school. Touched by his sweet naiveté, she permits him some . .  er . . . liberties. But it’s Sandy’s bolder roommate, Jonathan, who gets her in the sack.

We jump ahead to about 1960. Sandy is now a busy doctor, with Susan as his homemaker wife. He describes their life together as idyllic, but he’s secretly looking to get laid by someone new and exciting. Jonathan, a financier, has been playing the field, but the voluptuous Bobbie (a sizzling Ann-Margret) seems exactly what he craves. As he puts it, “Believe me, looks are everything.”

You should be careful what you wish for. In short order, Sandy’s in thrall to his domineering new squeeze, and Jonathan has lost all passion for Bobbie, who wants marriage and family at any cost. The film jumps forward once more: it’s about 1970 and the men are forty years old. Sandy, now shacking up with a flower child, seems as fundamentally clueless as ever. Jonathan has been reduced to cataloging all the “ball-busters” he’s dated over the years, while forking over $100 bills in return for sexual pleasure at the hands of a pro.

It’s not a pretty picture, in more ways than one. Nichols, who brilliantly captured the look and feel of Southern California in The Graduate, goes a different route here. The Graduate was all sunshine and swimming pools: the visuals made a strong contribution to a story about affluent suburbanites (like Ben’s parents) who give things instead of love. Carnal Knowledge is an east coast story, without that same dramatic sense of place as a catalyst for the characters’ behavior. An Ivy League campus is merely some leafy woods and a dorm room; the characters’ later lives in New York City boil down to some lighted skyscrapers, a cushy office, and a nondescript apartment.

If visuals are not tremendously important, Nichols banks here on sound, both the period pop tunes on the soundtrack (like “I’m Getting Sentimental Over You” at the first dorm mixer) and the voices of the two men in earnest conversation. In fact, the opening credits roll over a black screen, while we listen to them gab about the sexcapades in their future. Later scenes are basically monologues, in which one or the other takes the pulse of his current sex life.

One sad thing: the female characters, once wed or bedded, completely disappear from the narrative. It’s a man’s world, and women like Susan and Bobbie—apparently without jobs or purpose—have no long-lasting place in it.