When I’m chilling on Planet Gorgeous, basking in the spotlight of beauty, I will make myself a champagne cocktail, put on my reading glasses and page through my old scrapbooks. My legacy. Newspaper clippings, faded photographs from fashion shoots, magazine articles, programmes from dance shows and theatre productions, reviews and crits – a lifetime of performances held together by glue and tape. But as I get older the publication dates of scrapbook content get further and further apart, and I try to remember what happened in between the spaces. Maybe another champagne cocktail will jar my memory and activate past adventures not documented by the media?
I got a small part in a television series for NBC. I am playing a Boardmember. I do not need a script, as I have no dialogue. The last time I had a non-speaking part was when I was an extra for a movie in the early seventies. I was a Drama student and whole drama class was used, but I got the close-up and the director asked me on a date after the shoot, but I couldn’t go because I had a rehearsal for our annual student production, so I had to turn him down. Casting couch premonition?
The day of the shoot.
Calltime: 7h30. I get up at 6h00. It takes a while for my face to settle down and erase the sleep-creases. Age! You bitch! I wash and blow dry my hair. I put on some make-up (I never leave the house without it). I pack a bag – just in case. As a professional performer I am always fully prepared with extra clothes, jewellery, make-up, shoes, false-eyelashes, nail polish, cotton buds, hair pins and clips, cotton wool, toothpicks, safety-pins, cigarettes and a spare lighter. I am ready.
I just love being on a film set: The crew running around, carrying stuff, swearing, drinking coffee; the make-up department with make-up on their hands and not on their faces; the costume department keeping themselves busy with stitching, sewing, steaming, ironing and bitching about the actors gaining or losing weight; the art department cleaning and moving props and furniture to and from the set; the extras sitting in a corner filling in call-sheets…ooo!…call sheet!…I need to find the production co-ordinator.
I am horded off to the wardrobe trailer with the other ‘Boardmembers’. My costume is miles to big for me. I look like a baglady. Not a good look for someone from my planet! After much deliberation, frustration and countless costume changes, the wardrobe department decided that I should rather wear my own clothes, and being prepared, this was of course, no problem.
Now off to make-up. “So we did our own make-up now did we?” I smell sarcasm.
“I never leave my house without my face on, darling”, I reply sweetly. I have to be nice. This guy could turn me into the Wicked Witch of the West with the stroke of a blusher brush if he feels like it. He examines my face.
“You seem to have a stray eyelash…wait, I’ll get it…” And he proceeds to violently rip my lash from my eyelid.
“Ow! Fuck! My lash extension!” Involuntary tears start to run down my cheek.
“Sorry,” he mumbles and proceeds to powder my face. We are not going to be new best friends.
The next words spoken is Mr. Make-up Lash Terminator calling the hairdresser to “do something about this ‘mane’.” She quickly combs, teases, sprays and whips my hair into a French twist and puts enough hair grips in my hair that will make it impossible for me to go through a metal detector at an airport.
Ready for my performance (and my close-up Mr. de Mille), I wait patiently for direction and instructions. I am dressed in expensive, Italian black pants and matching jacket, red stilettos (my own special touch – very Dorothy), glasses perched on my nose, hair in an updo, face powder, one red swollen eye and a briefcase. We are shooting the scenes on a wood panelled, carpeted set with a long wooden boardroom table, flat screens sporting the ‘company’ logo and plush swivel chairs. Who needs reality?
“Boardmembers on set please!” I’m off to see the Wizard…
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Factory Worker
On Planet Gorgeous I am still a famous soap star. Here people look at me admiringly and wish they were me. They nod and smile and point in my direction. At restaurants and shopping malls people stop me for my autograph and I always smile and ask their names. I love my public. They send me letters, cards and gifts and I always reply personally and enclose a signed photo of myself.
Yesterday I had to leave my planet because my agent sent me to a casting for an ad. Factory worker. Middle aged. Wear white. Okay. White…. I put on my tailored designer white shirt, my tight white capri pants and black stilettos. Perfect. I arrive at the casting ready to blow them away with my gorgeousness and talent.
“What are you here for?” the receptionist asks with a raised eyebrow. “Factory worker. I’m in white, lovey,” I reply surprised. Is this woman blind? She gives me a number that I have to stick on my wonderbra-ed boob and a form to fill in. Name, address, agent, age (!), dress size, shoe size, pant size, weight, height, oh my god, I was surprised they didn’t ask for my blood type and a urine sample. Hobbies. Hobbies? Why do they want to know what my hobbies are? I’m here to act, not do a sudoku. I pity the person who does taxidermy in their spare time. These people are ruthless. Previous experience. What?! Don’t they know who I am? My CV is thicker than “The Iliad”, and they want me to write down a lifetime’s experience in two lines? How do I do that? SMS speak? No, this was getting to be too much, so I took a lip gloss break.
I sit down on one of the chairs lined up against the wall with all the other white clad auditionees. Some of them peek at me from under their fringes, others just stare blatantly. Do they recognise me from television or is it because I’m the only one with cleavage and black stilettos? Whatever. I smile and they look away. Okay, be like that. I’m not here to make friends. Then an old woman, okay, she was probably my age, leans over discreetly in my direction and asks: “Didn’t you used to live in Richmond? I’m sure I’ve seen you before?”
“I’ve never been to Richmond.” I answer politely. She looks away.
“Number 27!”, someone shouts through a door. That’s me.
“Please stand on that mark over there for a video ID.” No good morning. No hello. No introduction. Clearly this pre-pubescent woman is having her period.
“Name?”
“Boefie Bronkhorst.”
“Height?”
“Darling, I’m five foot four, but in heels I can be any height you want me to be.” She pops her head out from behind the camera, looks me up and down and disappears behind it again.
“What do you do?” Did she just snap at me? Am I detecting a bit of acid seeping out from behind the video camera?
“Excuse me?” I’m not sure I heard this question correctly. Did she just ask me what I did? I’m confused. Would I be auditioning for an advertisement if I was a bank teller or a librarian? Maybe things have changed over the years. Maybe it’s the economy. On Planet Gorgeous things are so much simpler.
“What do you do?” More attitude from the chick behind the camera.
“I’m an actress, darling. That’s what I do and what I have been doing my whole life.” Out she pops again.
“Can we do this again? It’s for our clients in France. And keep it short.” She rolls her eyes and lets out a sigh. Why is she upset? I’M upset. I’m confused. I’m still trying to figure out why they want to know what my hobbies are.
We repeat the whole process again. I smile politely with each answer and I try to keep it short. Dignity, always dignity.
“Next!” What? Is that it? No script? No lines? No improvisation? Not even a little bit of miming?
As I walk through the ‘holding room’ with all the other ‘factory workers’ I’m thinking of warning them that the casting agent has PMS and that they should be afraid…very afraid…
As I pass the woman from Richmond, she grabs my arm and whispers: “I figured it out. You look just like an actress I saw on television years ago.”
Dazed I drive back to Planet Gorgeous.
Yesterday I had to leave my planet because my agent sent me to a casting for an ad. Factory worker. Middle aged. Wear white. Okay. White…. I put on my tailored designer white shirt, my tight white capri pants and black stilettos. Perfect. I arrive at the casting ready to blow them away with my gorgeousness and talent.
“What are you here for?” the receptionist asks with a raised eyebrow. “Factory worker. I’m in white, lovey,” I reply surprised. Is this woman blind? She gives me a number that I have to stick on my wonderbra-ed boob and a form to fill in. Name, address, agent, age (!), dress size, shoe size, pant size, weight, height, oh my god, I was surprised they didn’t ask for my blood type and a urine sample. Hobbies. Hobbies? Why do they want to know what my hobbies are? I’m here to act, not do a sudoku. I pity the person who does taxidermy in their spare time. These people are ruthless. Previous experience. What?! Don’t they know who I am? My CV is thicker than “The Iliad”, and they want me to write down a lifetime’s experience in two lines? How do I do that? SMS speak? No, this was getting to be too much, so I took a lip gloss break.
I sit down on one of the chairs lined up against the wall with all the other white clad auditionees. Some of them peek at me from under their fringes, others just stare blatantly. Do they recognise me from television or is it because I’m the only one with cleavage and black stilettos? Whatever. I smile and they look away. Okay, be like that. I’m not here to make friends. Then an old woman, okay, she was probably my age, leans over discreetly in my direction and asks: “Didn’t you used to live in Richmond? I’m sure I’ve seen you before?”
“I’ve never been to Richmond.” I answer politely. She looks away.
“Number 27!”, someone shouts through a door. That’s me.
“Please stand on that mark over there for a video ID.” No good morning. No hello. No introduction. Clearly this pre-pubescent woman is having her period.
“Name?”
“Boefie Bronkhorst.”
“Height?”
“Darling, I’m five foot four, but in heels I can be any height you want me to be.” She pops her head out from behind the camera, looks me up and down and disappears behind it again.
“What do you do?” Did she just snap at me? Am I detecting a bit of acid seeping out from behind the video camera?
“Excuse me?” I’m not sure I heard this question correctly. Did she just ask me what I did? I’m confused. Would I be auditioning for an advertisement if I was a bank teller or a librarian? Maybe things have changed over the years. Maybe it’s the economy. On Planet Gorgeous things are so much simpler.
“What do you do?” More attitude from the chick behind the camera.
“I’m an actress, darling. That’s what I do and what I have been doing my whole life.” Out she pops again.
“Can we do this again? It’s for our clients in France. And keep it short.” She rolls her eyes and lets out a sigh. Why is she upset? I’M upset. I’m confused. I’m still trying to figure out why they want to know what my hobbies are.
We repeat the whole process again. I smile politely with each answer and I try to keep it short. Dignity, always dignity.
“Next!” What? Is that it? No script? No lines? No improvisation? Not even a little bit of miming?
As I walk through the ‘holding room’ with all the other ‘factory workers’ I’m thinking of warning them that the casting agent has PMS and that they should be afraid…very afraid…
As I pass the woman from Richmond, she grabs my arm and whispers: “I figured it out. You look just like an actress I saw on television years ago.”
Dazed I drive back to Planet Gorgeous.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Welcome to Planet Gorgeous
I am fifty and gorgeous. Okay, gorgeous is in the eye of the beholder not living on my planet. It is my duty as a menopausal middle-aged woman to strive for gorgeousness.
I do not know when I started going grey, because the last time I saw my real hair colour was at sixteen. Blonde! I love being blonde. When I went brunette for a role, people in the real world expected me to be sensible, together and intelligent. As a redhead, women hated me and men were scared of me. On my planet, only being blonde works. It makes me feel hot. Wanneer my kar breek smile ek net vir die mechanic en pleit blond en onmiddellik is daar vyf mans besig om na my kar te kyk.* Even the car salesman and the guy from accounting. I can go to a party and not speak to anybody, strategically place myself in the room (with back lighting), sip a champagne cocktail and look mysterious. Because I’m blonde, I am allowed to. I don’t have to laugh at a joke if I don’t want to. I’m blonde! Maybe I did not get it… (or maybe, asshole, your joke sucks!). I can wear any colour I want. No Redhead, you cannot wear pink! And you, Brunette, black makes you look old and accentuates the circles under your eyes. At any age!
I have my plastic surgeon’s telephone number on speed dial. Shoot me up doctor! I want to smile without having the roadmap of Johannesburg manifesting across my face. My ears are pinned back (hence my hearing impediment – the sound waves seem travel past my head after this ‘corrective’ surgery) and my breasts are ‘done’ (no, I do not have to wear a bra and yes, they are perfect). In the words of Marilyn Monroe: I don’t care about the money. I just want to be wonderful! I have lash extensions (saves me a fortune on mascara and I can start a gale force wind just by batting my eyes) and French manicured acrylic nails that would inspire Dolly Parton write another country song. Janice Dickenson says: Everything about me is fake. That’s why I’m perfect. Eat your heart out Janice! You have not been to my planet yet.
When I was in my twenties I could walk into an audition and walk out with the role. I presented television programmes, emceed beauty pageants and fashion shows, danced in show cases wearing dental floss, played leading ladies on stage, film and television. The entertainment industry loves twenty year olds. Leading ladies are always twentysomethings. All of them! Lucky bitches! They can play anything from damsels in distress to high powered executives to mothers to best friends to romantic leads. I know. I’ve been there.
Then I turned thirty. I played the part of a prostitute with a drug problem, a troubled mother of the leading lady (a twenty year old), a social worker, a recovering drug addict (what’s up with all the drug roles?), as well as the crazy aunt of the leading lady (another twentysomething bitch). But I still looked gorgeous and young for my age (no, I am not being facetious, I am blessed with good genes), so I had to spend lots of time in make-up in order for them to ‘age’ me. Can you spot the irony here? And then IT happened…I started to lie about my age. To lie about your age is not a hobby. It is a full-time job. You have to do mathematics all the time. I do not do maths. I am blonde. Going for an audition for the role of a 25 year old and filling out the audition sheet is a daunting and difficult task. Take the year you were born in, subtract 25…, no, take your age and subtract 25 and then take the sum off your birthdates…., no, ask the twenty year old sitting next to you at the audition when she was born then subtract that from your…age?… fuck… I don’t know. Leave the space blank…. Thank god on Planet Gorgeous you are only as young as the man you danced with last night.
At forty my agent said I was difficult to cast, because I did not look like someone’s mother and I am too old to be a leading lady. Of course I do not look like someone’s mother! (Not even my daughter’s!) I am much too glamorous. I decided that this was bullshit, so I decided to choreograph, direct and (Lord help us) teach. I had to settle down. Grow up, Buy a house, Get a cat. Good bye hobohemian lifestyle! Hello adulthood! Nooo! Identity crisis! What now? Become a ‘has been’? But I am much too gorgeous! Call my plastic surgeon! Dr. Price! Dr. Price…!
I’m fifty. I look amazing for my age. Not like a middle-aged woman, but more like a thirty year old after a night on the town. A gorgeous glamorous hung-over tired thirty year old.
Welcome to Planet Gorgeous, where age is not a curse or a cancer. Where you are allowed to be glamorous and live in a constant state of denial….
* When my car breaks down I just smile for the mechanic and plead blonde and immediately five other men will appear to look at my car.
I do not know when I started going grey, because the last time I saw my real hair colour was at sixteen. Blonde! I love being blonde. When I went brunette for a role, people in the real world expected me to be sensible, together and intelligent. As a redhead, women hated me and men were scared of me. On my planet, only being blonde works. It makes me feel hot. Wanneer my kar breek smile ek net vir die mechanic en pleit blond en onmiddellik is daar vyf mans besig om na my kar te kyk.* Even the car salesman and the guy from accounting. I can go to a party and not speak to anybody, strategically place myself in the room (with back lighting), sip a champagne cocktail and look mysterious. Because I’m blonde, I am allowed to. I don’t have to laugh at a joke if I don’t want to. I’m blonde! Maybe I did not get it… (or maybe, asshole, your joke sucks!). I can wear any colour I want. No Redhead, you cannot wear pink! And you, Brunette, black makes you look old and accentuates the circles under your eyes. At any age!
I have my plastic surgeon’s telephone number on speed dial. Shoot me up doctor! I want to smile without having the roadmap of Johannesburg manifesting across my face. My ears are pinned back (hence my hearing impediment – the sound waves seem travel past my head after this ‘corrective’ surgery) and my breasts are ‘done’ (no, I do not have to wear a bra and yes, they are perfect). In the words of Marilyn Monroe: I don’t care about the money. I just want to be wonderful! I have lash extensions (saves me a fortune on mascara and I can start a gale force wind just by batting my eyes) and French manicured acrylic nails that would inspire Dolly Parton write another country song. Janice Dickenson says: Everything about me is fake. That’s why I’m perfect. Eat your heart out Janice! You have not been to my planet yet.
When I was in my twenties I could walk into an audition and walk out with the role. I presented television programmes, emceed beauty pageants and fashion shows, danced in show cases wearing dental floss, played leading ladies on stage, film and television. The entertainment industry loves twenty year olds. Leading ladies are always twentysomethings. All of them! Lucky bitches! They can play anything from damsels in distress to high powered executives to mothers to best friends to romantic leads. I know. I’ve been there.
Then I turned thirty. I played the part of a prostitute with a drug problem, a troubled mother of the leading lady (a twenty year old), a social worker, a recovering drug addict (what’s up with all the drug roles?), as well as the crazy aunt of the leading lady (another twentysomething bitch). But I still looked gorgeous and young for my age (no, I am not being facetious, I am blessed with good genes), so I had to spend lots of time in make-up in order for them to ‘age’ me. Can you spot the irony here? And then IT happened…I started to lie about my age. To lie about your age is not a hobby. It is a full-time job. You have to do mathematics all the time. I do not do maths. I am blonde. Going for an audition for the role of a 25 year old and filling out the audition sheet is a daunting and difficult task. Take the year you were born in, subtract 25…, no, take your age and subtract 25 and then take the sum off your birthdates…., no, ask the twenty year old sitting next to you at the audition when she was born then subtract that from your…age?… fuck… I don’t know. Leave the space blank…. Thank god on Planet Gorgeous you are only as young as the man you danced with last night.
At forty my agent said I was difficult to cast, because I did not look like someone’s mother and I am too old to be a leading lady. Of course I do not look like someone’s mother! (Not even my daughter’s!) I am much too glamorous. I decided that this was bullshit, so I decided to choreograph, direct and (Lord help us) teach. I had to settle down. Grow up, Buy a house, Get a cat. Good bye hobohemian lifestyle! Hello adulthood! Nooo! Identity crisis! What now? Become a ‘has been’? But I am much too gorgeous! Call my plastic surgeon! Dr. Price! Dr. Price…!
I’m fifty. I look amazing for my age. Not like a middle-aged woman, but more like a thirty year old after a night on the town. A gorgeous glamorous hung-over tired thirty year old.
Welcome to Planet Gorgeous, where age is not a curse or a cancer. Where you are allowed to be glamorous and live in a constant state of denial….
* When my car breaks down I just smile for the mechanic and plead blonde and immediately five other men will appear to look at my car.
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