Alice in La La Land (3 page)

Everyone looked up at once and scrutinised her. She felt her right eyelid begin to twitch. An imposing man in his late forties got up from his chair to greet her. She noticed Brad, the director, was seated behind him, and was drinking from a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf cup.

'Hello Alice, I'm Joel, how are you?' said the man, sitting back down and picking up her CV. 'You met Brad and Mandy this morning.'

'Hi Alice,' they chorused.

'Soooo, you're an Ossie. And you've been here how long?' he asked, looking down at the CV. Alice couldn't tell whether he was impressed by it or not. She cleared her throat.

'I've been here a week. I did a tiny bit of promotion for
Cornucopia
which opened the Venice Film Festival last September and now . . .'

'Uh-huh,' said Joel, putting her CV to one side, 'Great. So Alice, why don't we take a look at the scenes.'

'Okay, sure.' Alice opened her satchel and plucked out the pages, which, although she'd thoroughly memorised the dialogue, suddenly felt the need to hold.

Brad remained curiously silent throughout this encounter. He was sitting beside Barbara, his assistant, who regarded her blankly. Alice wondered why Brad wasn't helming this casting session. She stood up to begin the audition.

'No, it won't be ready by deadline,' she began, and Joel stopped her immediately.

'Alice. It's too big, I really need you to do less with it,' he said firmly. He obviously had no time to waste. The camera continued to run.

'Absolutely, no problem,' agreed Alice. 'You know, I do a lot of theatre work back home and I sometimes have to remind myself that I don't need to hit the back row with my delivery when I'm working in front of a camera.'

'Omigod, that's . . . interesting,' said Joel looking round at the audience, 'right?' Mandy Weinstein, Brad the director, Barbara his assistant and Jonah all agreed. These were the audience members whom Alice could identify; the ones she was yet to meet also agreed with Joel that it was indeed an interesting observation.

'But we need you to just do way, way less, okay Alice?' he reiterated, bringing the subject of theatre to a rapid close.

'Got it,' Alice nodded, and took another breath to centre herself. Why had she said that? Her mouth felt parched and she gulped at the air.

'I'm sorry, may I have a glass of water?' she asked. Jonah flapped to the water cooler and returned with a small plastic cup.

'Just be a sec,' said Alice, taking a sip. The fifteen people assembled watched her drink. Jonah in particular seemed the most irritated and she wondered what he had against her. She hoped her hand wasn't shaking.

'Ready?' prompted Joel with his version of a comforting smile. He had a large nose and when he smiled he resembled a cartoon shark.

'Absolutely,' smiled Alice and set the cup down beside her satchel.

She took in her reader for the first time. The reader in an audition scenario is the actor paid a small wage to come in for the duration of the session to read opposite the competing performers. It had the effect of eliciting a better performance than if, say, a casting agent was doing the same job. Casting agents often had one eye on the camera and usually they were not very good actors.

The young actor brought in to read the part of the newsroom boss regarded Alice with cool detachment. He was a short handsome guy of the Tom Cruise genus. She wished he'd give her some encouragement; she was drowning here.

Distil, she thought, distil, and took a big breath.

'No, it won't be ready by deadline,' she exhaled, close to tears, using her frustration and insecurity to fuel her delivery. 'It's as if my desk is a black hole that everyone feels perfectly comfortable pouring their detritus into.'

'Then you're fired,' said the actor and Alice could tell his performance style was of the small but hugely charismatic variety that was so compelling.

He and Alice began to volley through the scene. Alice had no need of the pages now, and was free to explore her character further. As she did so, she gradually became less aware of the many people watching her work. She got up to leave in character, using both her satchel and the little plastic cup as props. She spilt water on her jeans but didn't miss a beat, improvising this moment into the scene and making something unexpectedly interesting out of it. When she launched into the final monologue, she referred to the producer, director and casting people assembled as her co-workers, and even Jonah became the janitor. The reader helped her make these small improvised moments work and she was grateful to have someone so good working opposite her.

At the end of the scene, Joel immediately stood up to both thank and dismiss her. She couldn't gauge how she had gone and felt herself being hustled out. She reached for her satchel. The reader permitted her a tiny smile and Brad nodded to her vigorously. She realised she had left all her pages behind with their multitude of scrawled notes, and she hoped the people assembled wouldn't read them now that she was gone. There were some quite embarrassing motivational statements included with her character notes, plus reminders to both 'breathe' and 'think'. They may have assumed upon reading them that she had recently awoken from a coma.

Jonah deposited her into the waiting room, bid her goodbye and collected the Reluctant Kitten who charmingly extended her tiny hand to him.

'Thank you,' said Alice, but they had already gone. She headed back to the lift, handed in her security pass to the receptionist downstairs and ventured into the parking lot. She had completely forgotten where she had parked her car and spent the better part of the next half-hour looking for it.

'No room, no room!' they cried out when
they saw Alice coming.

Lewis Carroll,
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

Alice sat alone in a booth at Mel's Diner eating silver dollar pancakes with maple syrup. It was close to 6 pm. She knew it was an inappropriate time to be eating what was essentially breakfast, but pancakes were what she craved. Fluffy discs of lightly fried batter smothered in butter and syrup were a remedy for just about anything. The intense sweetness of the maple syrup made Alice's forehead sweat.

She thought back over her big screen test. It was impossible to figure out how it had gone. This was always the way with the crucial auditions. Often you'd come out thinking, 'Yes, that went brilliantly, I'm sure to get that job,' only not to even get a callback. Other times you'd emerge miserable, longing to go back in and erase what you'd done, to find they'd loved it. Earlier in her career, she'd tested for a period drama set in the outback. She was suffering from an allergy that day and had to plaster over a facial rash with concealer. Her eyes were red and watery and she felt that merely showing up was going to be a complete waste of everyone's time. The director had loved her bold choice in giving the character a head-cold and went on to cast her in the second-to-lead role.

She'd got off to a bad start for
Rough Beast Slouching
and they'd reined her in for potential hamminess. But once she'd reset herself, she felt confident she'd done some interesting work.

Alice slid the remaining pancake round her plate to sop up the last remnants of butter and syrup. Her jeans' pocket started to buzz.

Rebekah flashed on the caller ID. Alice's heart jumped. Could they have decided already? She cautiously answered the call.

'Hey, Alice,' Rebekah said, her voice casual. 'How are you?'

'I'm well, thank you. These silver dollar pancakes sure are tasty.'

'Oh my God, Alice, you are so eccentric. It's dinner time, not breakfast!'

'Uh-huh, well, I needed to cheer myself up after the audition,' she said, letting the word hang.

'Oh really? That's funny, I don't know why you'd want to cheer yourself up because they
loved
it.'

'What?'

'You're still in the mix, Alice, and as far as I know it's just you and the other British Name I mentioned! I know someone over at HBO who gave me the low-down but it's all hush-hush, okay?'

'Oh my goodness, that's so wonderful!' Alice beamed at the waitress as she cleared her plate away. 'Gee, I thought it would probably go to the Kitten, or the other nice girl!'

'The kitten?'

'Never mind, it's not important, that's great. So when will we know?'

'I've told them they need to move fast as you're optioned for something else, so it should be real soon.'

'Really? Are you sure you should have lied to them like that? I have bugger-all on, as far as I know.'

'Relax, Alice. Order yourself some other breakfast food and celebrate. Oh, and maybe don't say "bugger" while you're here. It can be a little shocking.'

Alice smiled, sat back and looked out the window of the diner to the parking lot. Two swarthy parking attendants in dark green jackets dashed between expensive SUVs. It took Alice a couple of minutes to notice that every single driver emerged with either a cell phone clamped to their ear or was tapping messages into their Blackberry with an earpiece attached. Nobody seemed to be merely handing their keys to a valet. Apparently, time was a precious commodity in Los Angeles. It was as if people, in their eagerness to get ahead, felt they were being underproductive if they were not multitasking at every available moment. Mel's Diner's valet and waiting staff were probably all actors too, waiting for that special break. Alice thought it amazing that even a '50s diner on Sunset had a valet service.

'Anything else?' asked her waitress. She had short black hair and several facial piercings. Her nametag read 'Betty' but Alice figured her name was not as her tag indicated. It was probably Cheyenne or Deniqua.

'No, all done. That was lovely. I'll get the bill.'

'The cheque?' said the girl, sounding bored.

'Sorry, the cheque. There's a couple of cats and a swimsuit model waiting for me at home.'

'Lucky you,' Betty muttered, and raised a pierced eyebrow.

Yes, lucky me, Alice agreed, and made her way to the cash register.

Alice drove the Daewoo down Sunset Boulevard. Lights twinkled and ritzy clothes shops beckoned. She passed the billboard of an ageing Hollywood diva straddling a chair and wondered whether Fenella Farmer looked as airbrushed in real life as she did in the poster. She remembered reading an interview with the actress where she'd said that she needed to hang upside down like a bat to preserve her looks. Even though Fenella was rapidly approaching fifty, she was still showing off her assets in size-nothing clothes that would be better suited to a teenager. The pressure to maintain her looks must occupy her every waking moment, Alice mused. In her blissful state she felt a rush of affection for Madame Fenella and smiled up at her shiny plastic features.

Alice turned right down San Vicente and headed toward the Miracle Mile. It was becoming chilly and she wound up her window. She fiddled with the heater setting and turned the radio to a hip-hop and R&B station that seemed to play only three tunes on high rotation.

Alice shivered as she waited for the heat to kick in. The sooner she could get working, the sooner she could repay her debts and start over. Thinking about her debts led to thinking about her ex and had the effect of a noose slowly tightening around her neck.

Twelve months before Alice's arrival in the USA, she had auditioned successfully for the lead role in an American science fiction pilot being shot Down Under. Americans liked to shoot cheaply in Australia, and had been known to refer to Australian crew members as 'Mexicans with cell phones', an epithet complimentary to neither nationality. The pilot was called
Starmap 3000
and it explored the frailties of human warriors navigating their way through the galaxy.

Alice had decided to turn down the part as the dates clashed with her theatre company's first major production. Bunny, her Australian agent, was horrified. She considered all things American sacrosanct. Co-op theatre in Redfern came exactly last in her assessment of bright career choices.

Con B. Theatre Company was an outfit of two: Alice and her boyfriend, Conrad. Conrad was a gifted writer-director with a cunning talent for harnessing the Zeitgeist. He was also adept at extracting exciting performances from his cast and was considered something of an
enfant terrible
in Sydney's theatre community.

The company was run out of the spare room in Alice and Conrad's rented Paddington terrace. It was a dark room at the front of a north-facing double-fronter. The gloominess was due to a large jacaranda, majestic in the months of October and November when in full purple bloom, but an obstruction to sunlight for the remainder of the year. Within the house, Alice and Conrad had to navigate their way around set-pieces and small backdrops, not only during their production meetings but also in their domestic lives.

Con B. was a co-operative, which meant that when you signed on, you were paid later. The takings at the box office would be split evenly between the cast, crew, writer and director.

Alice enjoyed her role as producer, which put her in charge of the allocation of funds. She'd also performed in both of the company's productions to date. Their first production was staged in the side room of a pub in Woolloomooloo, the dialogue competing with the ting of the cash register in the front bar.

Alice felt it was important that Conrad's talent be nurtured. It seemed everyone knew he was destined for a promising career. The two of them enjoyed a fiery working relationship; it was as though Conrad wanted to convey to the cast and crew that he wasn't granting his girlfriend any special favours. She had left many a rehearsal session feeling excoriated, only to have to switch hats and walk into a production meeting as the producer.

Citrus Days of the Marzipan Pig
had won a coveted spot in Sydney's Belvoir Street Theatre on the strength of the script. This was a proper gig, and they wouldn't have to compete with the rowdiness of beer-drinkers in an adjoining bar. Conrad had written an ambitious contemporary piece in three acts, which straddled subject matter such as alienation, terrorism and globalisation. The production was going to require careful planning and execution. Conrad was meticulous about detail. Casting, set design, contemporary relevance and musical score all had to meet his high expectations. In the pre-production period, Alice had also been offered the leading role in a talking horse movie and Conrad was less than impressed.

'Alice, I don't know whether to say congrats or just . . . I dunno, whinny,' he'd said. 'There's only two months to go 'til rehearsals start for
Citrus Days
and we need that time for planning and casting. Anyway, why would you prostitute your art for a talking horse? You're too good for that, babe. Where's it being shot?'

'It's local for once,' Alice sighed. Ninety per cent of the time, when you signed on for a film, you also signed on for three or so months in another part of the country. 'Conrad, the money from this film will cover our rent and could contribute to the budget of the show. Anyway, apparently the director's good.'

'Really?'

In Conrad's opinion, no director that helmed a talking horse movie could be good.

'Look, I turned down
Starmap 3000
because the dates clashed with our play this February and my agent hasn't let me forget it, okay?'

Conrad snorted. Alice had to agree the pilot's title sounded dumb, but you never knew what would be picked up for a series. She tried another tack. 'So far we only have part of the budget and that's only because my parents have invested. How much money did you say you could contribute?'

'My parents haven't got back to me yet. My mother's got a possible meningioma.'

'Really? I thought it was a cataract,' said Alice with concern.

'Shall we go and see the Vienna Theatre Company's production of Kafka's
Metamorphoses
tonight? The artistic director gave me tickets and wants to catch up after the show.' Conrad turned away signalling the subject was closed.

Dusk fell quickly in Los Angeles and if you were a little way up in the hills, West Hollywood rolled out before you like a moth-eaten document. The polluted air made for spectacularly colourful sunsets; they were visions of toxic radiance. Alice navigated her way easily to the Miracle Mile district and was surprised to notice for the first time that there were some major museums in the area. The Miracle Mile stretched between Wilshire, La Brea and Fairfax Avenue, and was named after miraculous commercial growth during the '20s – according to her city guide which Alice had consulted when initially bewildered by the incongruity of the title; in her mind there was nothing miraculous about the locale at all. She passed a bevy of two-dollar shops and a multitude of tiny condensed malls on the way to her street, and then eased into the narrow passageway to her apartment's carpark. She climbed the back steps quickly, eager to get into her tiny bit of borrowed sanctuary. Dinner had been taken care of at Mel's Diner so thankfully she didn't need to venture into the kitchen. Who knew what foul visions might be awaiting her? She carefully slipped into her room and made sure the door was properly shut, no easy task with all the chains and belts hanging on the doorknob, but it was important to do so because the cats had some heft and could possibly buffet a door open even if it was only slightly ajar. She retrieved her pale blue-and-white-striped pyjamas from under the pillow and was comforted by their clean, cottony smell. She sighed gratefully, got changed and settled into bed to read her favourite American crime writer before drifting off to sleep.

On Saturday morning Alice awoke early, feeling rested. If there had been feline shenanigans in the night, she'd been blissfully unaware of them. She pulled back the heavy red curtains and looked out the window. The sky hung low, a dirty grey canopy. What Alice called 'pollution' the locals euphemistically referred to as 'marine haze'. Anyway, it looked ugly first thing in the morning over a concrete carpark. Shauna's Mustang wasn't in its spot and Alice briefly wondered where she was.

She crept down the hall to the front office, careful not to alert the cats to her presence. She switched the light on. There they were, regarding her unblinkingly, and she shrieked, then shooed them out.

She supposed the front room had a nice aspect but for the most part, it was depressing checking your emails in someone else's office. It felt covert, somehow. Alice logged on. There was an email from Neville, heralding the arrival of bulk cat food. He congratulated himself on the money saved buying in bulk, and requested eardrops be administered to the cats. That was Shauna's department, Alice decided, and wrote her a note.

Next was an email from Amoeba Management. Rebekah! But why hadn't she called? The email had been sent at 8 pm when Alice was already asleep.

Dear Alice,
I tried your cell but it was switched off. We got some news regarding the sitcom and I wanted to let you know as I'm flying to New York first thing and won't be able to talk. Hon, they are going with the Name actress. She is British and they needed at least one star. Apparently the
director LOVED your work, but the network decided to go the other way. Really sorry you missed this one, but you did so well getting as far as you did on your first audition! We have so many more things to send you out on. Expect a courier with a load of scripts any minute.

I'll call you from New York.

Love Rebekah

PS: Bob Dwyer and Shannon Green at CAA loved helping out on this one, but regret they can't take you on as a client at the present moment.

Alice sat motionless at the computer. The back of her throat prickled. Rejection was never easy; even after ten years in the business, it still hit you in the solar plexus. They didn't want you after all. Alice wished she was one of the exoskeleton actresses. At times like these, she really admired their cockroach-like resilience. She gazed out the office window. The trees appeared frozen. Even though it was Saturday morning there was still no one about. Didn't people have papers delivered around here? Didn't they have dogs to walk?