Hello, my 3 faithful PCN readers!

These past few weeks have been a whirlwind of creativity. I shot a TV show and am preparing to shoot a movie and do some voice work. Some of the projects will premiere later this year or next year, but one is available now.

A year ago I had a blast working with Kelly Marie Tran (The Last Jedi) on a fictional mystery podcast called Passenger List. It’s about a plane that goes missing, and Kelly plays a young woman digging for answers because her twin brother was on the flight.

There are 8 episodes and 5 are available now, with a new one released every Monday until October 28. They’re available at Passengerlist.org and podcast platforms everywhere. Oh, and they’re free! (There are ads.) I’m part of a few episodes and guest stars like Patti LuPone also pop up. Let me know your thoughts if you listen!

Running off to practice some stunts and my violin now. Have a great weekend!

Scene from the play: What the hell is going on here? And of course that’s me with veil on head.

In case any of you were considering filing a missing persons report on me, I’m still here, just keeping my head down on a bunch of different projects. I’ve been rehearsing for a play, Eddie Borey’s Christmas in Hanoi, which opens Wednesday, Feb. 13, at East West Players. The official description from the theater’s website (where you can buy tickets):

A mixed-race family returns to Vietnam for the first time since the war. One year after the death of their strong-willed mother, siblings Winnie and Lou travel with their Irish Catholic father and Vietnamese grandfather to reconnect with their roots. Whether they embrace that past or reject it, they are haunted by their own family’s ghosts and by the phantoms of Vietnam’s long history.

Here’s the trailer. Director Stephane Gauger felt it best I was shot from behind, in the dark, obscured by smoke.

On top of this, I’ve been editing, having just wrapped a couple of projects and will soon be receiving Poe, the first collaboration between Brett Battles and Robert Gregory Browne. It’s the start of a new series featuring Alexandra Poe. For more info, go to the book’s Facebook page. I’m so looking forward to it!

I’m also doing some minor work for HEW PR to help launch Charlie Huston’s new website soon, ramping up to the release of Skinner in July. Who is excited about this?! Finally, a new Huston novel! While waiting for the site and book, you can visit Charlie’s page on Facebook.

Enough blah blah blah about me for now. I recently finished some books I’ll review soon, and will post February’s Nerdy Special List later this week, with some good recommendations from my trusty fellow book bloggers.

What’s new with you? What are you reading? What do you recommend?

Photo: Michael Lamont

I have so many reasons to be thankful—the most loving family, friends more generous than I deserve—but luckily those have been true my whole life. This year, I thought I’d mention my thanks to the universe, for sending me a special, unexpected message.

I’ve worked in the arts for many years, as an actress, writer, and editor. I love everything I do, and have had great times and hard times, due to the nature of being a freelancer and subjecting myself to regular bouts of rejection. There’s no job security, but never a shortage of reasons why I’m too this or too that or not enough whatever for some gigs. And that’s when people would actually tell me why. Often there’s just silence.

But then this happened two months ago. Read it if you haven’t already, or the rest of this post won’t make sense.

Are you back? OK. When I recently shared that story with someone who also works in a creative field, she started crying in front of me. I was somewhat surprised, since it’s a very personal story and I thought I would be the only one weeping.

But after wiping her eyes, she said, “We choose certain paths in life and often wonder, ‘Am I doing the right thing? Should we be somewhere else?’ The universe just sent you a very clear sign that you were exactly where you were supposed to be in that moment. Do you know how lucky you are? Some people wait their whole lives and never get an answer.”

I will pause while you absorb that.

Yes, exactly.

I was struck speechless by that statement, and really can’t express it any better. So I’ll just stop here and say thanks to the universe for revealing some of its magic to me.

Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you find the answers you seek.

Photo: Sarah G.

I did. As soon as Bailey started explaining the complicated procedure, I said, “It’s called domino transplants,” minutes before Izzie identified it as such. No, I’m not a doctor. I knew because last year, I guest-starred on a TNT show called Heartland (starring Treat Williams and Kari Matchett) in an episode that dealt with this exact thing. I played one of the donors, Mrs. Chan. Last night, one of the donors was named Mrs. Chen. At one point, my character bailed, putting the whole procedure into jeopardy. Last night, one of the wives backed out, too, until Bailey changed the woman’s mind.

When Chief Webber called this procedure “historic,” I wanted to say, “It was done a year ago by a basic cable show!”

I guess there really are only 7 original ideas in Hollywood.

I’m sitting in a cramped office with blue shag carpeting, facing a casting director who has called me in to audition for a TV movie. I’m reading for the role of a Vietnamese girl who has just gotten off the boat but is running a ranch in the Midwest with her best friend. Since the character is FOB, the description says “must speak with a Vietnamese accent.”

I launch into the scene and think I do a pretty good job. At the very least, I know I nailed the Vietnamese accent. But I look at the casting director after I finish the scene and she has an expression on her face like she’s just bitten down on an extra sour lemon ball. She says, “Your accent is very strange.”

I think, “Huh? This is how I spoke when I first came to America. This is how many Vietnamese people I know still speak. What is this woman talking about?” So I ask, “What do you mean, strange?”

She says, “I’ve never heard that accent before. It doesn’t sound like the accent in those old Charlie Chan movies.”

“That’s because that was Chinese. I thought you wanted a Vietnamese accent.”

“Well, not if it sounds weird like that. And the average person watching will never know the difference. So, can you do the scene again but with the more traiditional accent?” Just to make sure I know exactly what she’s talking about, the Italian-American casting director shows me how to do an Asian accent that sounds about as authentic as Mickey Rooney’s portrayal of a Japanese character in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I say, “Oh. Yes, I get it.” I don’t, but I give it a try. Like she said, the average person wouldn’t know the difference and she has shown she’s definitely average.

I do the scene over, putting on the Charlie Chan accent while casting off a small piece of my dignity. She smiles. She likes it. I get the job!

I show up on the set, ecstatic. It’s one of my first jobs in Hollywood and I get to play the friend of someone who’s a pretty big TV star. I get shown to my “trailer,” which in reality is a small dressing room with my name on the door (I do get my own bathroom). I go over my lines, making sure I have them all memorized. Then I start practicing the accent. I know I got the job because I put on a bastardized version of a Chinese accent but now that I’m on set, I find it difficult to keep talking like that. It just seems so archaic and insulting to Chinese Americans and Asians in general. And I’m supposed to go on film—national television—talking like that!

I debate going back to an authentic Vietnamese accent. But I don’t want the director calling me weird and yelling “Cut!” to teach me how to do it “right” in front of the entire cast and crew. So I decide to try doing it with no accent at all. With all the things the director has to worry about and oversee on a film set, maybe he won’t notice that I’m supposed to sound different.

And that’s exactly what happens. I do my scenes in a perfect American accent and no one notices. I am relieved. I go through the rest of production without worries of insulting Asian Americans or sounding like I just escaped from a Fu Manchu film.

The movie premieres on a Monday evening in September after a lot of publicity. I celebrate by treating myself to a big chicken dinner at Denny’s. My parents get to see it first on the East Coast. When it’s over, my phone rings and my mother asks, “If your character is FOB, how come you have no accent?”

That’s because in Hollywood, very little makes sense. I chose an option for my character that was less logical but felt more dignified for me because dignity is also in short supply in this business. In the quest for jobs, actors will submit to all sorts of humiliating treatment. Everyone knows if they won’t do it, the next person will and that person will get the job. And there are so few jobs and too many actors competing for them.

A long time ago when I was new to L.A., I had an audition to play a hooker in a film.I went out and bought the cheapest-looking dress I could find at Ross.The polyester/spandex hugged me so tightly, I was practically having an affair with it.I squeezed myself into it, teased my hair a little and put on some red lipstick.I looked like a working girl who couldn’t have possibly charged more than $1.99 an hour.

I drove to the casting office on Hollywood Boulevard. Since parking is almost impossible on the boulevard, the closest space I could find was about two miles from the Mexican border. I then had to get out of my car and make the long walk to the casting office, teeter-tottering on high heels. Along the way, I encountered construction workers who whistled, passersby in their cars who honked, and real hookers who just glared, afraid I might steal some of their regular clientele. I had to keep reminding myself, “I have a college degree and come from a good home. And I need to invest in a trench coat.”

I finally made it to the casting office and did my audition. The casting director thought I was too clean; I didn’t look skanky enough to be a crack whore. He thought I looked like a nice girl who came from a good home, despite my cheap outfit. He saw the real me, so why was I so disappointed?

Because I wanted that part. I wanted my big break in a studio film by a famous director, I wanted to work, and I wanted my SAG card (membership in the Screen Actors Guild is imperative to getting any kind of decent job). I wanted to be an actress and at the time, I had no credits on my resume. I had just packed all my belongings into two duffel bags and flown out to Los Angeles to try my luck in show business. To everyone else, I was making a big mistake since I had graduated from the University of Virginia with a degree in communications and had given up a job as an on-air TV news reporter for an NBC-affiliate. But in my mind, I knew no other way.

Ever since I was a four-year-old in Viet Nam, my mother had instilled in me a deep love for the movies. I wasn’t old enough to be in school and my mother was on maternity leave so she would take me to matinees at the Rex movie theater. I sat still for over three hours to see classics like Dr. Zhivago and Cleopatra, endured violent Bruce Lee movies and was exposed to films with sex and nudity that traumatized me (Viet Nam had no movie rating system to warn my mother of adult content). But the one film that probably steered me towards my future adventures in Hollywood was Love Story.

I remember being hypnotized by Ryan O’Neal’s blindingly blond curls and dreamy blue eyes as he looked at Ali McGraw like a lovesick puppy. I couldn’t understand English and was too young to read subtitles but I could tell those two kids were in love. My heart soared as I watched them play football in the snow and laugh as they roared down a highway in a convertible with their hair whipping wildly about them. And then my four-year-old heart broke when Jenny died. That aching theme song didn’t help at all. It hurt so much and Ryan O’Neal’s Oliver looked so sad that I just bawled. I sat there in the theater and cried as if someone had ripped candy right out of my mouth. I think my mother said something like, “It’s just a movie.” But I thought, “I want to move people like that.”

Fast forward twentysomething years. I’ve never played a prostitute nor do I want to anymore (I’m not sure how or if I want to move people in that capacity). I told my agent to stop sending me out for those demeaning roles and have sold that Ross dress on eBay (someone paid me $10 for it, which is more than I paid originally). Instead of repressing my dignity and my intelligence, I now use them, which has resulted in my playing the occasional teacher and a nurse or doctor about 17 times. I don’t think I’ve ever moved anyone the way Ryan O’Neal and Ali McGraw moved me, but I did do something which perhaps affected people in a different way.

A few years ago, I got a small part in Spider-Man 2. This was a huge deal for me since I idolize superheroes and used to wake up at 8 AM every Saturday morning when I was a kid to watch Superfriends on ABC (I preferred to sleep until noon most days so rising early was no small feat). My role in Spider-Man was a violinist who stood in the streets playing her violin and singing the classic theme song from the old TV cartoon, extolling the virtues of the famous webslinger.

When I auditioned for this part, my agent said I just had to know how to play the violin and all the lyrics to the old theme song. Check and check. I walked into the casting office at Sony Studios feeling pretty confident. All the time I spent watching those cartoons during childhood was going to pay off. And then I saw all the other women sitting in the room, waiting to audition for the same role.

They seemed superior to me in every way. Some were beautiful, with Snow White skin and shiny teeth. They were tall and statuesque. Some were warming up on their violins and sounded like they should play first chair for the L.A. Philharmonic. What the heck was I doing there?

I wanted to leave. I had no business competing with these beautiful, talented, tall women. It was a mistake for me to think I had a shot at this part when I was just a geeky girl who spent too much time in front of the TV watching superhero cartoons as a kid. I picked up my violin case and headed towards the exit.

But I stopped before I got there. It dawned on me that if the director wanted a competent musician to play this role, he had a room full of them. But what if he wanted something different? What if I showed him another choice, a musician who was good only in her own mind? Someone who could perhaps provide some levity in a serious action film? Besides, who else in that room could have possibly loved Spider-Man more than I?

I turned around just in time to hear my name called by the casting associate. I walked into his inner office and proceeded to give him a performance of a street musician who sang with a heavy accent and was completely off-key. I threw my head back and sang with my whole heart and in complete abandon. The casting associate slapped his hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t laugh and ruin my audition.

Two months later, I got the role. When the movie opened big and broke all sorts of box office records, I was stunned to read on Internet forums that people singled me out as being among their favorite parts in the movie. One man said he almost choked on his popcorn because he couldn’t stop laughing when I “sang.” One woman said she got to share a nice, big laugh with her children, a rare thing since they always disagreed on their choice of entertainment. One fan said he went to see the movie three times just to hear “that crazy Asian lady sing.” A movie memorabilia company even put me on a trading card.

Recently, when I experienced a slow period, I started questioning my career choice, something I do often when I don’t know when or where my next check is coming from. I had a phone conversation with my old college friend Mike, who’s an aerospace engineer, and I shared my misgivings with him. Is it time for me to get a real job? Should I do something that is more useful to society? He replied, “I work long hours and I’m sure my work helps people somewhere but I don’t get to see how I directly affect their lives. Your scenes in Spider-Man made millions of people laugh all over the world. Laughter is useful. You get to see and hear about your impact in people’s lives and I envy that.”

I clutched the phone hard and suddenly felt tears welling up. Without knowing it, my friend took me back to that time when I was four years old watching Love Story and wanting to move people. Instead of making them cry like Ryan O’Neal did with his limpid eyes, I apparently brought lightheartedness. I lifted people’s spirits for a few brief minutes in a dark theater. I had achieved a goal I set over thirty years ago without even realizing it.

There are times when I might even be affecting people by—dare I say it?—educating them. I try to alleviate ignorance towards Vietnamese Americans instead of suffering it. Once, I showed up on the set of a TV show to play a Vietnamese woman in 1975 Sai Gon who was a secretary at the U.S. Embassy, and the wardrobe person tried to put me in black peasant pajamas (the extras playing civilians were already dressed as such). I politely said an Embassy employee would never dress like that and asked for a more professional outfit. Not only did I get upgraded to a nice blouse and slacks, the director changed all the extras out of their peasant costumes as well so they could look more like city dwellers. Another time, I had a director who asked if I came from Ho Chi Minh City. I said, “No, I came from Sai Gon.” He asked, “Isn’t it the same thing?” I said, “No, Ho Chi Minh City is Communist and Sai Gon was not.”

I still have days when I think this industry is hard for any self-respecting person to work in, but I now believe acting will always be a part of my life in some way. I read somewhere that living out your dreams imperfectly is better than living someone else’s dreams to perfection. Yes, there’s rejection and ignorance and rudeness in show business, but I also find the beauty and joy in it. Someone once told me that actors are brave for stepping up into the light while everyone else watches from the dark. I don’t consider myself brave, but I do want to stay in the light.

Originally published on www.damau.org

So often, actors are late to their appointments. The usual excuse is “Traffic was really bad/There was an accident” but here are the top ten most creative ones I’ve heard over the years:

1. I was in jail.
2. I was kidnapped by my boyfriend and driven to the desert and couldn’t get back until now.
3. My roommate choked me last night so it’s still hard for me to talk.
4. I quit my nanny job and I have no car ’cause my employers had been letting me use theirs so I’ve been walking all night to get here.
5. I was halfway here when I realized I forgot to put on underwear and had to turn around.
6. I have no idea what time my appointment was or why I’m here. What am I auditioning for?
7. I’m on my 45th day of a 48-day fast and it’s just been tough.
8. My shift at the Hustler casino didn’t end until four this morning.
9. Don’t you know who I am?
10. I took the wrong ramp and almost ended up in Mexico.

A production company was looking for petite actors (under 5’5″) to don costumes and play lemurs in a movie. I had no idea what a lemur was but the pay caught my eye: $250 a day for two months. That’s 5 grand a month! Ten thousand total! Plus, the movie would be shot in some exotic jungle location so I’d get to travel and a per diem and put up in a hotel. It’d be like taking an all-expenses vacation while getting paid!

I showed the ad to my roommate Susan (who also fit the height requirement) and she wanted to audition, too. The open call was in a week and we had to show up and “behave like lemurs.” Since neither of us knew what that entailed, we headed to the L.A. Zoo for research.

After getting lost and wandering through the reptile and arachnid areas, we finally found our lemurs. There was a pair sitting on a tree branch looking out at all the people looking in. They had haunting eyes–indignant yet sad.

“Come on, do something,” Susan said.

They didn’t move.

“How are we going to know what they do if they just sit there?” I wondered.

One lemur scratched the other then they huddled together, as though to console each other.

After watching the lemurs do nothing for about 20 minutes, Sus and I called it a day. The audition would be easy; lemurs didn’t do anything.

Day of the call, Sus and I went to the office. When they called my name, I asked if Sus and I could audition together since lemurs are more interesting in pairs (see how I slipped in my zoo research there?). Once in the room, we squatted on the floor and squat-walked around a little but mostly just sat there staring at the producers.

“Do something,” the older male producer said in a British accent. Funny–that’s what Susan had said to the lemurs.

“Um, this is what they do, lots of sitting and lots of staring,” I said.

The female producer spoke up. “Well, we need to see more. Can you roll around or something?”

I thought, What am I, a monkey now? But then I remembered the 5 grand a month.

I did a forward roll, the kind you did in kindergarten tumbling sessions. I didn’t want to randomly roll around on the ground because I had gotten the impression lemurs weren’t that freewheeling and easygoing, at least not the ones at the zoo. I mimed scratching myself a little then did another dainty roll. Sus was doing pretty much the same. The producers eventually thanked us and we left, our legs aching from squatting.

A week passed and neither of us got a call. I was so bummed I wasn’t selected to be a lemur. After seeing them at the zoo, I had felt I could portray them with some authenticity and dignity–well, as much as could be mustered while wearing a furry suit. Now, I wouldn’t get the chance.

Much later I found out the movie never got made so who knows, I could’ve been a contender for Lemur #1. But by that point, I had resigned myself to playing only humans. Which I can do quite convincingly, even without a forward roll.

The good things are typical in most job interviews: be courteous and confident, show up on time, dress appropriately, etc. But over the years, I’ve been subjected to some strange behavior so I’d like to share some pointers on what not to do. If you’re an actor, maybe this will help you get more callbacks. If you’re not, perhaps this will just give you a laugh.

1. Don’t kick the reader. “What’s that?” you say. “People kick you?” The answer is yes, multiple times. In this one scene, the actress was simply trying to get my character’s attention. So she kicked me. Hard. Then the director asked her to redo the scene and she kicked me again. Harder. The director asked her to do the scene a third time and…well, you get the idea. I guess some casting directors don’t like actors physically assaulting their readers because she didn’t get the part. But I did get some X-rays to make sure nothing was broken.
2. Don’t try to make out with the reader, even if the scene calls for it. In one scene, a man was supposed to inject my character with a drug that temporarily paralyzed her so that he could do inappropriate things to her. This man clutched me to him in a death grip and did the whole scene practically on top of me, though I remained seated in a chair. I was supposed to be paralyzed so I didn’t push him away but boy, was it gross. The director thought so, too.
3. If you pass gas, loudly, don’t pretend it didn’t happen. It’s a little embarrassing but just acknowledge it, laugh about it and move on (or start the scene over, if need be). If anything, it will release any tension or nerves you might have and could improve your reading.
4. Don’t bring in props. If you do, at least make them simple. An actor once brought in his cordless phone from home so he could do a scene where he talks on the phone. He pulled it out and began dialing. Problem was, the phone emitted loud beeps in protest every time he dialed. He tried repeatedly, but the beeps would not stop. The producer and director were about to throw something at the actor just to shut the beeps up. The actor finally said, “The handset wouldn’t let me dial because I’m too far away from the base.” Hey guy, how about using your cell phone or just faking the dialing?
5. Don’t kiss ass. This one actor came in with a collage of pictures of every movie poster of every project the casting director had ever worked on. That’s just scary and stalker-ish.
6. Ladies, don’t forget to wear underwear, especially if you’re wearing something low-cut or short. It’s unhygienic for other actors who use the chair after you.
7. Don’t send naked pictures of yourself to casting offices, either, unless you’re sure they’re casting a porno.
8. Don’t be rude to anyone in the casting office. An actress once yelled at a young man in the front office. Moments later, I ushered her into the audition room and she was all smiles. Until she saw the director behind the table. He was the same young man she’d yelled at; he’d just stepped outside to make a phone call.
9. Don’t use your audition as your prep time. An actor came in and asked for a few minutes to get into character. He then proceeded to put on his headphones, go in the corner, shadow box, do push-ups, jog in place, had a snack, change clothes and run through his lines for about 5 minutes before saying he was ready to start. Do that at home or in the hallway, please.
10. Don’t take a bite of the casting director’s lunch without asking permission. Better yet, don’t do it at all.
11. For your headshot, don’t pose with gargoyles, giant balls or in a shopping cart. OK, that’s not something you technically do during an audition but if you’d like to get one, don’t do it.

The thing is–crazy antics don’t help you get the job. Just show up, act, then leave. If you’re right for the role, you’ll get it. If not, at least there’s a chance that casting office will call you in again for something else.

On the first day of work on a TV movie I did years ago, I checked in, then went to craft services to get some breakfast. A PA will usually do this for “talent” (actors) so we can focus on getting into costume and/or learning our lines, but I like to do it myself since I’m picky about how I want my eggs (whites only, scrambled with mushrooms and peppers, doused in Tabasco) and bagel (dry, slightly toasted).

As I approached the table, a PA came up to me. “Hi, extras eat over there,” he said, pointing to an area across the parking lot. I said, “Okay” then proceeded to pick up a plate. He blocked me and said, “The food is exactly the same.” I said, “All right,” and attempted to reach around him for some home fries. I didn’t know why he was going on about the extras’ food.

Then he said, “You are supposed to eat over there. Only principals (actors with lines) are allowed here.” Wait, what?

I explained I wasn’t an extra and he apologized profusely. I wanted to ask why he assumed that but my eggs were calling.

Another time, I’d been working on a TV show for a week when I arrived early on set so I could leisurely enjoy my breakfast. It’s no fun having to cram down an egg burrito in the makeup chair while someone’s spewing hairspray all over it. It’s also hard to eat when you can’t open your mouth while the makeup artist applies lipstick on you. So, on this day, even though my call time wasn’t until 7:30 a.m., I got there at 7:00. Hoo whee, I was gonna eat my pancakes in peace.

I was sitting in the tent where meals were held when a PA named Josh came in with his bullhorn. “All extras please get into costume now!” (Yeeks, bullhorns do not go well with 7 in the morning.) A bunch of people got up and stumbled out, bleary-eyed and clutching their styrofoam cups of coffee. Knowing I still had fifteen minutes before I had to get to hair and makeup, I sat back and savored my super fresh orange juice which I’d just squeezed myself.

Until Josh came over and stood over me.

“You need to get into costume now.”

“No, I don’t. I have fifteen minutes left.”

“You’re actually fifteen minutes late.”

Here’s the thing–Josh and I had been goofing around between takes for the past week, busting each other’s chops for fun. I thought he was playing.

“My call’s at 7:30. I’m early.”

“Your call was at 7:00.”

“Josh, stop bugging me.”

“What extras agency are you from?”

Hold the phone—he really didn’t know who I was?

“Hey, it’s me, Elyse.”

He looked at me for a moment then recognition dawned on him. “Oh, man, I’m SO sorry! I didn’t recognize you out of costume! Can I get you anything? A coffee? Danish?”

“No, thanks. I just wanna finish my breakfast then I’ll be over in fifteen.”

“Again, I’m SO sorry! Let me know if you need anything.” Josh scampered out, bullhorn hanging limply by his side.

There have been many more similar incidents on different sets. Sometimes I’d just sit and eat with the extras because it’s easier and hey, the food is supposedly the same. Protesting too loudly that I’m not one of them might make background actors think I think I’m better than they, and I don’t.

But I did wonder about the constant confusion so I finally said something to my friend Susan. Is it because I don’t show up looking Charlize-Theron glamorous? Why would I? Actors get free hair and makeup on set; no one shows up with a blowout and lipstick. Many actors arrive looking homeless (unshaven, unwashed) until the magic of hair and makeup transforms us into bright, shiny people (probably why Josh hadn’t recognized me).

Susan said, “I don’t think it’s the way you look but the way you carry yourself. How often do actors show up early and insist on getting their own food? PAs are probably so used to diva behavior from principals that if you act normal, they assume you’re an extra.”

Wow. All these years, I’d never looked at it that way. In one fell swoop, my friend succeeded in making me feel great about being asked repeatedly to eat at a “different table,” being rushed through meals, and hustled to cramped holding areas with back-injuries-inducing folding chairs. I now know that crew members weren’t trying to downgrade me, or thinking I’m not worthy of being one of the leads. They were really just giving me a compliment.