What not to wear

My role is supporting. At times a plot device with legs.

My job is to give him character.

So when I met for a costume meeting last week, I came with ideas--I saw Bob as a colorful character, who wore colorful clothes--not outrageously so, but Hawaiian shirts, and at least one "conversation piece" that literally helped him start conversations. I'd discussed this with the director and he agreed.

He's the life of the party, and the life of the party doesn't wear Brooks Brothers. Sorry Brooks Brothers. Send me free clothes and prove me wrong, OK?

I personally have a lot of clothes. One normal-sized closet and one small closet. Both stuffed. I love clothes. I buy most of mine on eBay or at thrift stores, which is how I can 1) find unusual clothes, and 2) afford them.

So I had a lot for the costumer to choose from. I brought three suitcases full. One filled the trunk of my Miata, while the other two filled the passenger seat.

I got to the set and lugged my bags upstairs to show the costumer. I took them out, spread them on a bed, and she looked slightly ill.

"Oh, we're not going that colorful direction now," she told me, after I had spent the night packing, and today schlepping three bags full of colorful clothing.

"Nobody told me," I said, honestly.

"These things aren't going to work, they're not going to be happy with me," she said, looking at me like it was my fault that I didn't get the memo (if there was even a memo).

There were a couple of sedate Hawaiian shirts that might work for a scene later on, and finally one shirt emerged as a possibility: A beautiful blue silk shirt with flowers woven into it--very Japanese looking. It's got deep color and subtle pattern and stood out as "not boring."

The pant situation was, apparently, tragic, as I've brought black pants because they were the only pants I could find that didn't have cargo pockets and she wanted something dressy.

I should say that all my pants have cargo pockets--even the "nice" dressy ones. I have them in all colors and fabrics and even wore black corduroy cargo pants to my niece's wedding without anyone being shocked, appalled or nauseated.

But I do have pair of simple black pants I wear as part of my Barbershot Quartet costume, so I brought them.

"Remember I said 'no black'?" she said, accusingly.

"I thought that only applied to shirts," I said, honestly.

"No, black disappears, it'll make you look like a blob."

"I have looked like worse." I replied, which she ignored.

I ended up in the blue shirt with the black pants and a black leather belt with small silver concho's of fish I thought was right for the character, who fished.

I went down to the set. The director said, "Is this what you're wearing?" as if these were my daily street clothes.

I got called back upstairs and the costumer said, "We have to change the shirt." I heard different stories--the DP said it wouldn't photograph well, and worse, someone else had said it looked "Gay." Oh.

So she put me in gray, which everyone else was wearing but was was totally wrong for my character, and I saw the director pull her aside and talk to her. I couldn't hear the conversation, but I imagine he said that Bob, my character, is supposed to be colorful while the rest of them are gray. So back on went the blue shirt, but now the costumer added an almost neon purple/pink tie.

The result? The only explanation I can think of is that somewhere along the way it was decided that my character was colorblind. I went with that one.

I came downstairs and people looked at me as if I was an anime character who'd exploded. I just smiled. At least I will stand out.

At lunch I complained about the outfit. I said that I knew Bob, Bob was a friend of mine, and this isn't how my Bob would dress. My Bob had enough money that he was secure in his wealth and didn't have to impress anyone and he would wear nice cargo pants to welcome home a friend from the hospital.

That night I went through my closet again, this time trying to find shirts that were mildly colorful and lacking in pattern. And sweaters, she'd asked for sweaters. I have a lot of sweaters but they have a lot of pattern and many are so heavy I can't wear them unless it's freezing and I'm not ever going inside, which means I'll never wear them.

I filled up just one suitcase with possibilities and brought it with me on day 2.

I dragged it upstairs and was greeted with, "I hear you were complaining at lunch that I wouldn't let you wear cargo pants," the costumer said.

"No, I was saying that according to my knowledge of the character, Bob would wear cargo pants. I understand you have a different view, but I can only see it from my character's viewpoint." I explained, calmly.

"I have to see it from the perspective of what everyone else is wearing, how it's going to look against the furniture and how it fits into my vision of the entire structure of the film, and you aren't making it easy" she replied.

"I understand that you have a different viewpoint, but I am supplying my own costumes, I can only bring you the clothing that I have in my closet. I have brought more clothes than most men own and if these don't work for you, there's nothing I can do about it." I said, again calm.

I had brought a pleasant surprise--I'd found a pair of beige silk Tommy Bahama pants I'd just gotten at a nearby thrift store. She was thrilled with them.

But the shirts, not so much so the plain but colorful shirts were out.

Let's see--patterned shirts were out. Plain shirts were out. Colorful shirts--out. Drab shirts--out. This didn't leave a lot of options.

And the sweaters weren't colorful enough.

So--following through with the "Bob is colorblind" theme, she combined a blue shirt with a triangle print with a green sweater and I wore them with the beige pants. Well, actually, at first she let me wear my black cargo pants. Then, at the last second, she decided I would be too blobby and had me put on the beige ones.

The outfit had the effect of making me look even more like a colorblind Macy's day balloon than is really necessary, and also made me even warmer under all the lights.

I would really rather be a small black blob than a larger beige one, but that's just an actor's vanity talking.

Remember, the scene takes place at 7:30 AM someone close to Bob has been killed. Bob has, apparently, heard the news and had time to put on layers and silk pants.

I'm not saying she was wrong--she wanted us all to look upscale and was more upscale than what I'd see Bob wearing in such an event, which would be cargo jeans and a sweatshirt--or whatever he picked up on the floor on his rush over to help his best friend.

Remember--Bob's hobby is restoring old cars, Bob works on a construction site (he manages a construction company but he is onsite a lot). My Bob is not a dressy guy. Her Bob, is.

That night I went through my closet and found more clothes that tread the increasingly find line between plain and pattern, color and bland. And, just for fun, I included a few outrageous things which were totally inappropriate, just to see her reaction.

Day 3: I came in with more clothes. She way she looked at me made me imagine she was thinking, "Why can't you just bring in normal clothes?" These were as normal as I got. I'd been reduced to eliminating anything with character and bringing in the things I only wear when I want to be invisible.

Two silk shirts were acceptable, if I'd wear them under a jacket. I mentioned a khaki cotton safari jacket I hadn't brought thinking it was too information and she said, "I'm definitely feeling that," which is what she said when she thought something would work, which means it was only the second time I'd heard it, the first being the blue shirt that was tried, replaced, and then tried again.

I wore beige cargo pants from Old Navy with lots of pockets and I'm not sure if she was simply worn down at this point or what, but she said," those'll be fine for the construction site with one of these silk shirts and the safari jacket. OK.

Next we had to discuss what I'll be wearing next week at the "faux-LA" scene which is a party for investors (and hookers).

I can't be "too LA" and bright for some unknown reason (yes, I met with Asian investors earlier in the day but I would have plenty of time to change for the hookers), so I'll be wearing a dark blue jacket that doesn't fit well enough to close it (I warned her--so I'll also bring a green tweed blazer just in case, as well as a tan suede jacket that's really nice even if she said "too many other characters are wearing suede" as if there's some kind of rule about how many characters in a movie can wear leather), a light blue shirt, the beige silk pants, and my one pair of nice brown shoes, these beautiful Spanish-made Barrets 1890 wing tips (which I bought at a discount store solely because they are beautiful and have only worn once, otherwise they are decorative accessories in my office, rather than fashion accessories on my feet).

That sounds like a pretty boring outfit to wear to a party with hookers, but clearly it's not my vision of Bob.

And--since I must admit to having never actually been to a party with hookers, my fashion knowledge in this sphere is sadly lacking and I really don't know what's appropriate for such an festive occasion.

I will bring some interesting shirts, on the off change I can slip one under the jacket and take the jacket off when the costumer isn't looking. I'm bad, I know, but don't forget, I'm also at a party with fake hookers, so I'm clearly bad to the bone.

I can feel my jaw for the first time in over 20 years...

I've had a beard all my life, except for when I was a child and unable to grow one, and was also in a "clean cut" singing group and was unable to have one, and then was married and my wife didn't want me to have one.

I'm not sure when I put my foot down and my follicles out, but I suspect it was sometime when I was sick and getting over something and didn't have enough energy to stand and shave.

The result--a beard. Not always the best beard--the kinds that are either wonderfully slick, like an animal's coat, or beautifully curly like those on Greek statues. Mine was always a little fuzzy, kind of like a well-worn (and loved!) teddy bear. This wasn't a bad thing but it was more "cute" than "macho."

No mind, I kept it.

I shaved it only once, in 1988 when I was cast in a comedy horror movie and the director wanted me to shave. I actually had to think about it. "Um, let's see, I can have a leading role in a movie if I shave, or I can not shave... which should I do?"

I shaved. I didn't like the way I looked and as soon as the movie was over I grew it back and it's been back ever since, which is almost 20 years.

Now I've been given a similar choice--a good part in a movie or a beard. Can't have both.

In this case, I'm trying a different approach. I'll shave the beard down to a goatee--and also die it dark brown--to match my naturally dark brown eyebrows. That suits my character's backstory better than clean shaven, it makes it easier for me to move into my next role which shoots only a few days after this one wraps where I should have facial hair, and if all else fails, I'll shave and then hope it grows back as fast as it seems to do when I don't want it to.

See before and after pictures here...

So, I shaved, met with the director who felt it was fine for the part (good, really, since the lead didn't have facial hair), but he wanted me to die what little hair I had on my head, too. I resisted, but relented, taking five whole minutes to do it using "Just for Men" haircolor, which, I have to say, is easy enough for any male primate, and actually looks natural--rather than that "Ronald- Reagan-esque-all-the-same-color-shoe-polish look" seen on so many.

Everyone told me I looked great! Ten years younger! Which only made me ask, "How bad and old did I look before?" and make me wonder how hideous I had been for many years before this transformation.

The weird thing is--I don't care how old I look. This is a very bad attitude in Hollywood and I shouldn't be admitting it in writing, but I am. So I might play somebody's grandfather, so what? I'm old enough to have grandchildren if I'd had children at an early age and they'd procreated early as well!

But now I've discovered that with a razor and $14 worth of hair and beard color, I can also look young enough to have young kids (instead of grand kids). $14 for a decade--what a deal!

Re-animated, A re-actor's life

Last week I was cast in two lead roles in two feature films. This is not normal and I couldn't be happier about it.

This story really starts four months ago, give or take 40 years.

I started acting when I was a kid--I just wanted to do it. I wanted people to look at me--at least when I was on stage. Off stage I wished they'd stop looking at me.

Why did I act as a kid? I didn't have grand desires, I just wanted to be loved by everyone in the world. That's all.

When I got older I moved to LA. I tried to work as an actor. But I had a little problem. I hated rejection. I hated it so much I couldn't put myself in the position to get it, which made it nearly impossible to go to auditions, which made it nearly impossible to get work as an actor.

I have pretty good people skills, though, so one gofer job would lead to meeting casting people which lead to me getting extra work, which lead to meeting more people on the set which lead to me hamming it up so much I met a director who wrote a part for me.

And then I had to audition for the famous Roger Corman. In his office, with its shag carpet deep enough to lose a cat in. You can read about my audition here. It's full of useful tips for when you audition for a major movie producer. Make notes.

I managed to get through this audition by arriving dressed like the character and acting like the character the entire time. That way they just thought I was the character and wouldn't have to act. I highly recommend it, except when you are trying to get the part of a serial killer, in which case they will avoid casting you if they think they might actually kill them.

It's said of movies that like this, "It wasn't released, it escaped." Very few people saw it which was at once a blessing and a curse. But for me it meant I failed to get my expected Oscar nod, and my phone didn't ring, except when the call was from a telemarketer.

I switched to writing, something I could do by myself, and something where rejections only arrived by letter, not in person.

That worked for me for many years. I wrote many books which sold hundreds of thousands of copies and countless magazine articles. I was busy. During this time I also became a professional graphic designer, designed many logos and books and later web sites which you can see here.

Clients came to me. I could write and design, by myself, in my little office, without having to go out into the world and have people look at me funny, say "no" or reject me. It worked great for many years.

One day in 2005, my friend, Jeanne C. Davis (go look at her photo, she's lovely) who I'd met in a writing class, emailed to say she'd written a part for me in her movie. No audition. This is what I'd been waiting for! Read about my experiences on this movie, and my many brilliant insights about acting here.

I made the movie. I had a great time. It was a totally different experience then I'd ever had. It felt different. I didn't perform, I let go of my ego, lost myself and "acted." I loved it.

The movie premiered at the Santa Barbara film festival and was well received. Again, few people saw it. And again the phone didn't ring... oh, wait, maybe I had the ringer off... nope, it's on. Oh, well.

Now, if this blog was a bad movie, this would be the part where the screen gets all wavy and there's kind of wavy violin music, you'd see a montage of me designing web sites, working for dot com companies, mostly without ever leaving my room, and if it was a very bad movie, you'd see calendar pages flying across the screen to show you that the year is now 2007.

May, 2007.

My birthday is coming up. I'm about to turn one of those pivotal ages. In the past I'd tell you what it was (30, 40, that kind of thing) but now, being an actor, I must resist so I'm not typecast as a certain age, especially when I've recently learned I can look 10 years younger by shaving.

And I was having a mid-life crisis, the kind you hear about but never believe until you experience it yourself (and if this is my mid-life, I'm going to live to be a century old... whoops, gave it away to anybody with a modicum of math skills).

I didn't want to spend the years I had left doing just what I'd been doing all these years. I wanted them to be more interesting and better. Why not? What could I do about it?

So I was whining on the phone to my friend Karen Linden (who worked with me in the movie, two years previous) and she said, "What do you want to do?"

I'd been asking myself that question for at least 10 years and never had a good answer. Well, I did have an answer, but I didn't like the answer. The answer always was, "I want to act." But that answer wasn't realistic, wasn't a way to make a living, wasn't... blah blah blah.

As an aside, Octogenarian Actress/Writer Ruth Gordon once said, “Get the knack of getting people to help you and also pitch in yourself. A little money helps, but what really gets it right is to never ... I repeat, never, under any conditions, face facts.” ~ Ruth Gordon

A year ago I started singing again, first with a barbershop chorus, then a quartet. I didn't expect to make a living at it, I was doing it because it was fun, and I loved doing it. Period. Life lesson alert--that's the best reason to do something.

Bingo.

Why not do the same thing with acting--do it because I wanted to do it, without expectations for what might happen. I couldn't have seen then that four months later I'd have lead roles in two movies. Yet if I hadn't taken that leap into the "blah blah blah," if hadn't stopped facing facts and trying to be realistic, I never would have.

While we were talking I Googled and found an interesting film school in San Francisco that offered acting classes where you got to appear in student films--so it was real experience, not just classroom work.

Two weeks later there was I, twice as old as anyone else in the class... but with way more experience, too.

A few days later I was at my first audition, carrying a head shot I dug up from my hard disk and a resume (all real) I'd pulled together--and doing a monologue I wrote myself. All in three days.

The acting class was excellent, the best I've ever had. Thanks Hester Schell. I learned tools and techniques, but more importantly, felt confident that I could act--I knew how to do it.

And I saw everything differently--how I approached it (from the inside), how I looked at auditions (fun--a chance to perform!), and how I know I can only do my best, and other people make the casting decisions for so many reasons (they have something in mind, or they hate that you look like the guy who sold them that lemon of a Volvo) and all that's beyond my control. Which suddenly makes it so much easier and more pleasant.

Now all I have to do is go to as many auditions as there are parts that fit my type. It's like those ugly guys who manage to get dates with attractive girls. They do it by asking 500 girls, and then maybe 5 say yes. So now that I could stand going to auditions, and actually found them fun, I could go to many auditions and possibly get a few parts.

But, surprise, I got cast in a lot of parts. I got in four short films in about six weeks. Characters ranging from an insane man who thought he was an actor (what I pretty much thought I was just four months ago), to mob killer named "The Butcher," to a Barista, and finally the head of a film school!

Then I heard about an audition for a film that was a parody of dance reality shows, like Dancing with the Stars and So you think you can dance.

I Googled the director--and he turned out to be a former US Latin Dance champion Tytus Bergstrom. Good, someone who knew what they were doing. I submitted my headshot and resume and wrote a note saying I had a dance background myself, and he invited me to audition.

I went to the audition (dressed in a suit, right for the character) and just let go. My character was having a melt-down, so I had a melt-down. I was in a little room having a holding-nothing-back childlike tantrum, complete with screaming. When it was over I was exhausted. The director said, "That's just what we needed," and I left, a little dizzy, wondering if he was being serious--but knowing I had done everything I possibly could, with no ego involved, no concern about how I looked or sounded.

I got a call back for a second audition where I had to melt down again. And finally a third, this one in an even smaller room. And again, I just let go, let fly, and tried not to think about how much I really wanted this part now! More about that later.

Between that first and last audition I was offered another part, by Celik Kayalar, the head of the acting program at the San Francisco Digital Film School. He'd seen me give several auditions for the student directors, watched me in class and on the set--but I'd never auditioned specifically for his film, Moonlight Sonata.

Still, I was right for the part (the description said Bob was "Cute and cuddly"), and in casting that's half the battle right there.

He'd seen I could act, I fit the part, and I got the part. That's how this stuff works. If I'd been the greatest actor he'd ever seen and looked like Brad Pitt, I wouldn't have gotten the part, because I wouldn't have fit the role. Then again, if I looked like Brad Pitt I would be offered parts I never will be looking like me. That's how it works...

And so now, just a few months after I made the decision, I am a paid working actor.

That's an unusual thing in the life of most actors. But I made a decision, followed through, gave it my all, and it's working for me...

Read on about the filming of Moonlight Sonata...