If in ten years I wake up to discover that I haven't made it, I will know exactly why. It won't be because the odds were stacked against me, or there's no rhyme or reason to who makes it in show business, it will be because I wasn't willing to bleed for it. That is the honest truth of it. To become good in something non-trivial requires sacrifice – to become great requires great sacrifice.
At my father's recommendation, I went to see "Every Little Step" with a friend of mine from the UCSC theater department. "Every Little Step" is a documentary about the creation of the original "A Chorus Line" and the casting process of its latest Broadway incarnation. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to act for a living, especially if having your name in lights on Broadway is part of your "5-year-plan."
It is simultaneously inspirational and humbling. The film shows the process of taking an audition pool of thousands and painfully whittling it down to the dozen or so performers in the final production. All of the performers can dance – that's ensured at the first audition. All of the performers can sing, they put the birds to shame. All of the performers can act – they'll bring you to tears with a monologue you've heard so many times you thought it's been dead for 30 years. Each of them is a certifiable triple-threat.
It is so clear they practice their craft daily for hours at a stretch. Making the splits look easy is not something you achieve by drinking coffee, talking about art, and going to dance class once a week. Nor is hitting a high B. Nor is just about anything a performer does at the professional level.
Each actor who made it to final callbacks has a story that could break your heart. An actress who emigrated from Japan is on her last unemployment check and will likely go without food if she isn't cast. Another has given almost every waking moment of her life for the past 10 years to prepare for this role.
Perhaps the most gut-wrenching story is told by the father of one of the performers. He was a professional ballet dancer, he danced every day for 30 years. In his early forties his right knee went out during the run of a show. He went to the doctor who told him he would have to replace the knee and that he could no longer dance. When you define yourself by what you do – by the art you create, what happens when someone say you can't do that? Three weeks after his surgery, this man received a call from his show's director "When can you be back?" The dancer immediately grabbed his bag, jumped on the subway and took part in that evening's performance. He was in excruciating pain throughout – but he didn't show it. After the curtain call, he hobbled to the wings to find that his right boot was full of blood. Never to dance again. What is a dancer if he cannot dance?
That's what it takes. You have to be willing to bleed for it.
Am I willing to bleed for it?
I might be willing scrape an elbow, or get a splinter under a toenail. But a boot filled with blood?
No.
So what's the point then? If you're not willing to pay the pound of flesh, why pursue it? That question keeps me up nights.
The answer I've found, at least the one that brings me some solace is: If I don't do this. If I don't at least expend the same effort I would into earning graduate degree – I'll look back in ten years and wonder "What if..." and that's going to gnaw at me far more than the comfort of knowing I've made the "right choice" will bring me.
"But wait!" you exclaim, "That doesn't actually answer the 'what if', you haven't addressed the heart of the question. You'll still feel regret because you were never committed enough to be in the running."
Well, I tell myself a little lie. I say: "Hollywood isn't Broadway. To make it in Broadway you have to bleed. To make it in Hollywood, you just have to show up on time, be friendly on set, and be slightly more engaging than a mannequin."
Keaneu Reeves, you are my guiding light. Because of you, I hold out hope.
