Posted by Tiferet Peterseil
As an actress, I am expected to be a chameleon, to camouflage my self for the good of the role. Sweet and innocent as I am—without warning—I may be required to play a victimized teenager or cut-throat lawyer, without batting a natural eyelash.
I can handle a wide range of roles without a problem; transform from femme fatale to the girl next door at the drop of a hat. I’m a professional actress. My job is building a character, and I’m good at it. But often, how good you act can’t even get you to first base unless you meet the pre-acting criteria – good (as in sexy, sensual, stunning) looks.
Okay, I can accept that. To paraphrase that wise old king, “There’s a time for looking good, and a time for looking yourself.”
For me, getting in touch with my feminine side means being comfortable. I am at my best, and most confident, dressed in corduroy pants, T-shirt and sneakers.
And therein lies the rub! I always assumed that who I am and the roles I play are two separate things. I am only an actress on set. But apparently, things aren’t as simple as that… well at least according to Jim.
Last night, I’m waiting in the rain, at our usual meeting spot when Jim’s Cherokee pulls over. I run to take cover inside his jeep, but as I pull on the handle, the door locks go down. I look inside at Jim, and tap the window. But still, the doors remain locked. Getting wetter by the second, I bang angrily on the window, yelling “Open up, I’m drowning out here, you idiot!” Finally, the window rolls down and Jim stares angrily at me as though I had done a terrible thing.
“I’m not letting you into my car, and certainly not taking you to the party looking like that!” says my very metro-sexual (although he insists, straight) friend, dressed like a true Tel Avivi. I grab the door handle from the inside and pull it up. As the door opens I rush inside.
“What’s your problem? I’m fine!” I wring my hair out, secretly enjoying Jim’s shocked expression as rivulets of rainwater soak his precious leather seats.
“Tiferet, didn’t I tell you this was an up-scale party?” he scolds me, disgusted by my nonchalant attitude. “And didn’t I tell you we’d be meeting big-shots there? Didn’t I also tell you that there would be media there? And to look your best?!”
“Uh huh,” I nod, drying my face on his $400 cashmere scarf. “You did. That’s why I’m wearing my best water-soaked sweater, and best water-logged boots!” I raise a boot onto the dashboard for him to see. A little waterfall splashes onto his carpet.
Jim cringes. “I meant wear a little black dress! You need to show some skin! Show some class!”
“Are you crazy? It’s freezing outside! I’m not gonna’ be cold just for the sake of looking sheek! YOU come in a little black dress if it’s so important to you.” And match the tights and necklace to go with it, I mumble under my breath.
“What %@#&!” he curses, shoving my boot off the dash. “And you’re supposed to wear heels!”
“I don’t do heels.”
“What is that supposed to mean, every woman does heels!”
“Not me, they’re dangerous.”
“No they’re not. I never heard of a woman getting killed wearing heels.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s everyone around me. I have no balance in heels. I trip over or under anything in my way. Ask my date of last week. He called yesterday to say that ‘the doctors think they can save my toe’. Is that what you want?”
“Don’t be silly,” he answers, starting the engine and driving in the wrong direction. “But look at you, Tiferet,” he suddenly blurts out, almost in tears, “You may as well have come out in pajamas!”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you. Me coming to the party in baby-dolls or a silk – Hey, where are you going?”
“To the mall, I’m not taking you to the party looking like this. And look at your hair, it’s not done up at all. You’re an actress, you’re supposed to look Sheek, not Shuk!” (the Hebrew word for marketplace). Then he squints at me as though seeing me for the first time.
“Woman, have you just landed from Mars? You’re not even wearing any makeup! YOU need a makeover.”
“Venus,” I point out.
“Men are from Mars, women are from Venus. Shows what you know.”
Jim isn’t sure whether I’m kidding or not. Or maybe he’s never read the book. I can’t decide which.
“Look Tiferet,” he explains, parking the car in the mall, “as your best friend, and what some might consider a fashion guru, I can’t allow you to walk around Tel Aviv looking the way you do. It’s sacrilegious!”
I didn’t even know he believed in God.
So I had to ask myself the hard question: Is acting a full time job? Do I have to look my best all the time, even if it means I won’t necessarily be feeling my best?
To Jim, the answer is clear. An hour later I am “resplendent” (his word) in my new clothes and accessories. The only hang-up seems to be my feet. I’m petite in most ways but I’ve inherited my father’s feet. Who made up the rule that women’s feet have to be small? (Probably one of those Chinese geisha’s with their dainty tied-up feet during the Ming Dynasty.) But this saleswoman is determined to cut off my circulation. She’s trying to stuff my size 10 foot into a size 7 shoe – and succeeding. The 5 inch heels mean I am also in a ballet position hanging on to Jim for dear life.
“Ouch! It’s pinching everywhere!” I whine.
“Don’t we women have to put up with a lot?” the saleswoman confides, handing me the empty shoebox.
“Tiferet!” Jim commands, steadying me, “Stop complaining and walk in them a little.”
“This can’t be safe, walking on these pointy sticks like this… I’m gonna’ break my ankle,” I pout, staggering along the store hallway.
“Occupational hazard,” Jim says dryly.
“No pain no stardom,” he mumbles. “You’re walking like a drunk. Chin up, eyes straight ahead, shoulders back,” he orders.
“Stop giving me runway instructions!”
“Eyes forward!” He demands, following me in his comfortable loafers. “You’ll get used to them in no time, every woman wears them.”
I pause in front of a mirror, not recognizing the woman in the reflection. The tight fitting dress and high heels are bad enough, but Jim has me made up so that I barely recognize myself. I feel like I’m in character, and ready to role.
I pull down the dangerously short dress Jim has chosen for me.
“You look sexy!” Jim drools. It’s times like this I wish Jim was as gay as the impression he actually gives.
“Look at my face!” I implore, rubbing at the uncomfortable makeup. “I feel like I a four-year-old just magic-markered all over it! And this jacket feels like a girdle. I can barely breath. And these Cruella Devile shoes are for the toeless. I’m falling all over the place. If we ever get to the party our host better not have anything expensive lying around.
“And why do I feel like I have to rush forward all the time,” I complain, suddenly feeling sorry for my one year old niece just learning to walk. Why isn’t anyone “ooing” and “ahhhing” me as I take my first steps?
“You just have to practice” Jim advises, “Walk in them an hour a day.”
We buy the shoes – I could never have pried them off anyway.
At the party, all heads turn as I clickity click through the door and onto the Italian marble floor. I keep myself from shouting “Bolero!” but I get the distinct feeling some of the people are asking themselves “What the hell is she made up for?”
But Jim’s right. People notice me. And I get cards with those star-studded words, “Call me” scribbled on the back, with both home and cell numbers. And there were some directors (2) and producers (1) at the party, and to be honest, one casting director seemed really interested in me (hopefully for my acting potential).
I left early, because of the pain. Crossing the street, my heel got stuck in a crack and I careened forward into the street, barely missing a car, and visa versa. The driver yelled a quick “Shikor!” (Drunk!) and kept driving. But the good thing was that it took me half the time to walk home because I was in perpetual forward motion.
As a victim of the beauty-on-demand era, I feel obligated to pose the question: Are we paying too high a price for what we’re after?
Obviously, in every profession there are sacrifices to be made to get where you want: doctors study seven years or more just to be able to practice; lawyers have to work 18 hour days; and psychologist – well, psychologists have to sacrifice their sanity so they can identify with the insane.
But none of those professionals have to do it in heels!
In an industry where how you look means more than how you act, and the years of hard work you spent polishing your craft are second to the clothes you wear – how do you know where to draw the line?
It would be one thing if only the actors suffered, but millions of people gaze expectantly at celebrities, copying their every clothing move. We set styles, but do we set a good example?
And between our hair extensions, three-inch makeup, nips and tucks, girdles and high heels – how can any married man (or woman) know who they’re REALLY getting?
Think of the wasted hours spent by women (and more and more men) putting their faces, stomachs and buttocks together each morning. Think of the obsession young people have with being young because their idols never seem to age. Think of the divorce rates that continue to soar because the ratio of how a woman looks when she goes to bed compared to how she looks when she wakes up is 1 (year) to 20 (years)—after only 1 year of marriage!
Would Rodan’s “The Thinker” been have as thoughtful if he’d had Botox injected into him every day?
I’m still trying to figure out where my red lines are – when I should sacrifice comfort for appearance.
Ah, well…It’s time for me to go practice my heel walking now. But from my pigeon-toed, fifth position, five inch altitude, I’ll be wondering:
When exactly, is the price for beauty too HIGH?
8.5.13 at 8:18 am | Hollywood East returns with a special Guest. . .
3.6.12 at 3:44 pm | Is the Purim Megillah a tale of feminism? And. . .
3.23.10 at 2:32 pm | Is it time for Israelis to be in the nude?
1.28.10 at 12:27 pm | A fun night out in Tel Aviv takes a disturbing. . .
1.5.10 at 3:18 pm | Positive Thinking -- Negative Thoughts
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11.2.09 at 2:18 am | How many "takes" does it take to find Mr. Right? (4)
1.28.10 at 12:27 pm | A fun night out in Tel Aviv takes a disturbing. . . (4)
11.5.09 at 3:00 pm | When is the price of being beautiful simply too. . . (3)
November 2, 2009 | 2:18 am
Posted by Tiferet Peterseil
Dating is just like the movies.
I used to study screen writing, and it seems to me that every one of my dates follows the template of a grade B script.
Like any writer, the date knows he has about 5 minutes to grip (not physically) his audience and leave her begging for more. If he’s successful, she’ll be riveted (not physically) to her seat and for the next couple of hours he’ll get the applause he deserves. If he’s boring, too talkative, spaced out, or takes himself too seriously, then he’ll lose his audience and any chance to really touch (sometimes-but-rarely physically) me. In short, like any movie-goer, if I paid for a ticket (or even if my date paid for it) and the movie’s lousy I’ll force myself to stay until the end—but you can bet your bottom dollar wild horses (flowers, candy, even an apology) won’t get me back for the sequel.
But I’m moving ahead of myself. Let’s analyze for a moment the dating script.
Mr. (wannabe) Right starts with his introduction (the story of his life), moving on to the main characters and supporting roles, (his friends and family) who reappear (disjointedly) throughout the plot. Then there is the first turning point, where I will be (sometimes) pleasantly surprised to learn there is more to him than meets the eye (ears, nose and…). If I’m lucky, I find he has personality, maybe even aims, ambitions, goals, and (rarely) a method for reaching his objective. It looks like clear sailing.
At this point, as with any basic no-brainer movie plot, I let myself relax, realizing that this could be enjoyable. There’s even moments when I think “He’s sweet, a real gentleman (so far) and actually listening to me almost as much as he is to himself.” But then the next sequence begins:
The Revelation, (or second turning point).
In a movie, this is the part where, after following the cop who’s hot on the trail of a serial murderer and seems to be ready to crack the case wide open, we’re suddenly confronted with “the revelation” that the killer is actually his partner, and now the stakes have just gone up, and everyone has a lot more to lose.
Well, on a date “the revelation” itself can often murder any chance you have of finding out if Mr. (wannabe) Right is the “one”. On a date, those “surprises” that bring you to the edge of your seat in the movies, are rarely exciting and never fun. Because on a first date (even the first couple of dates) who wants to know what “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” you’re date has suffered or if he’s just plain weird?!
Take the really great date I had with this guy who was “a few” years older than me. I’m just coasting along as he glibly checks off the successes he’s had in his life. I’m so enjoying his clever banter that I almost miss “the revelation.”
“I was only twenty-one when my uncle sent me a ticket to the Academy Awards. Don’t ask how he got it, but he knew that Kevin Costner was my favorite actor. He even sent a plane ticket. Do you know how many Oscars his movie won?”
“Seven,” I answered nonchalantly. You can’t be a serious actress and not know the Oscar Winners.
My date was impressed. I was appalled by “the revelation”. Dances With Wolves won the Oscars in 1990. I was no math whiz but if he was twenty-one in 1990 (when I was turning seven) then he was FORTY years old!
Kudos to his plastic surgeon.
Of course, not every revelation is so dramatic. Take my knight in shining armor – great body, full head of hair, piercing blue eyes, and a Jewish background that mirrored my own – who just had to admit that he’s very into me… but that he’s also very into men.
How about cutie who took me to dinner and while ordering the main, informed me that he had an enviable track-record of three failed suicide attempts after being dumped by previous girlfriends (I left before dessert).
Or Mr. nice-guy who “forgot” to mention he has a girlfriend who he’s currently living with and would I mind if he checked in with her – she gets lonely without him.
And my personal favorite – the 30 year old datemeister who suddenly excuses himself as he answers an “emergency” call from his mother. Emergencies are emergencies, but then I actually get to “hear” the revelation as his speaker-phone turns on in the middle of his conversation.
“And sweetheart,” his mother says, with a wonderful Hungarian accent, “don’t be shy. If you need an advance on your allowance, just ask. I know how pricey these restaurants can be. Is she worth it? Oh and did you take the key? Should I wait up? Don’t eat dessert. I baked your favorite cookies. I’ll leave you a few to munch on before you go to sleep.”
As all eyes focused on the both of us, I sheepishly smiled, wanting to shout out “I WAS FIXED UP! THIS IS A BLIND DATE! PLEASE BELIEVE ME!”
Just once I would like “the revelation” to be “Oh, and besides being head over heels in love with you, I’m a millionaire and my plane is even now being warmed up to take us to Paris.”
Or how about, “Yes, Tiferet, I’m bald, but that’s because I donated my long, blond hair to Locks of Life.
So, last Friday, when I met my blind date I was glad I had experienced the above scenarios. I thought I was prepared for anything.
But Murphy’s Law saw fit to trip me again.
After a lovely dinner, with a wonderful bottle of wine, just as we were having our dessert and I truly believed everything would be at least okay, “the revelation” arrives.
“And this is my dog, and this is my nephew,” he moves closer to show me the pictures on his cell phone. “And… oh man, I must have forgot it. I was sure I brought a picture of my baby.” He shrugs and places the phone on the table.
“Who’s your baby?” I ask warily. “A sports car? Harley Davidson?”
He looks at me, confused.
I cringe, choking on my ice-cream dessert. He gets up to gives me the Heimlich Maneuver. I cringe again. “No thanks,” I say under my breath, “I’d rather die.”
“Pardon?” he says.
“I’m sorry, I thought I heard you say you have a kid,” I answer out-loud.
“I do,” he looks at me, as though I had said something strange. “Didn’t Liza tell you that when she set us up?”
“No. She told me that she had a great guy for me… who was everything I was looking for – and more…” I smirk. “I don’t suppose More is the name of your son?”
“Well, didn’t you catch my hints along the way?”
“If by hints you mean when I told you I babysit in my spare time, and you said that was good to know – No. I didn’t realize I was being interviewed for an actual position.”
“What about when I said that I was sure you could teach me a few things?” The image of me teaching him how to use Wipe n’ Dipes honestly never crossed my mind.
“Sorry to catch you off-guard,” he tells me as I desperately try to catch the waiter’s attention for the check. “This must have come as a total shock to you.”
“Oh no, me?” I reply a little too quickly, in a shrill voice that projects anything but calm. “Nah, I’m used to this sort of stuff…. Guys I date have kids, kids I watch have dates…and then there are those kids who eat dates and the dates who eat kids….” I suddenly stop when I realize he isn’t blinking. “But I digress. Enough about me, let’s talk more about your dynasty. Is it one boy or a gaggle of guys? ”
“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “This must have come as a total surprise.”
“Don’t worry,” I reply in a far-away voice I don’t recognize. “I live for surprises… In fact, nothing would make me happier than to learn that you haven’t even finalized the divorce yet.”
Where is that waiter?
I hold back the tears and the screaming person inside me. “See, I love this stuff. Is your son in the car?”
“No, I mean. I never got married. It was… um…. Unexpected.”
“Do you mean you didn’t know whether it would be a boy or girl?” I ask naively.
“No…uhh….. we just went on a few dates…. We didn’t mean to make a kid. It was uh…. An accident.”
There is a strange silence as I finally understand what he’s saying. “Well… I’m sure you learned your lesson….” I say, waving my finger at him. “You’re a naughty boy,” I add, wondering if I could make him sit in the corner (until I make my getaway).
He collects the pieces of cloth napkin that I have apparently torn apart, into his outstretched palms. But in my mind I see him holding a bottle and squirting drops of milk onto his wrist. Then, looking up at me, I think I hear him say,
“Uh…I’m not sure, let’s test it on you” as he squeezes milk onto my wrist.
“Too hot!” I cry suddenly.
“I mean… too much.” Then I quietly add, “I think this is too much for me.” I get up and leave.
But dates, like movies, sometimes have unexpected endings. Later that night, he sends me an email with pictures of his baby. I grab my microwave popcorn, and sit down to read his email. What could he possibly have to write? I thought I had made it pretty clear we were over.
But again, endings have a funny way about them. Sometimes the movie finishes an hour after it should have. And sometimes you find the credits are rolling up the screen way before you were ready for them.
I scroll down the pictures to the text, and read:
“At least let me tell you what I WOULD have wanted to hear—I promise it’s not yours!
You aren’t gonna’ let a small thing – 7 pounds, 2 ounces—stop us, are you?”
As I crunch down on a kernel of popcorn, I grin. Because the truth is, as much as I love movies, I have to admit that sometimes, even after viewing a good one, I come out of the theater a little confused, wondering… could it be I missed the point entirely?
October 30, 2009 | 4:33 am
Posted by Tiferet Peterseil
Tel Aviv and Los Angeles are actually more similar than you would imagine. Both cities are flowing with creativity, packed with interesting people and lately, Tel Aviv has even added palm trees to its skyline. In fact, in both cities I sometimes find myself walking around dazed and confused, wondering if I’m a major character on the stage (a la Macbeth) or just stuck in a minor role (a la Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are…).
But if you ask me, the most similar thing about these two cities is the weather.
This morning, Tel Aviv received the first major rain of the year. Before I had the chance to wake up to the soft pitter-patter of rain drops, I was rudely awakened by honking and screaming.
Coming from Jerusalem, the windy city, what’s a little rain? A little cold? To me, anything short of frostbite is a walk in the park. So I find it fascinating when, at the first drop of water, chaos breaks loose. Pedestrians scramble frantically for cover, cars honk and drivers yell obscenities as they skid along the Ayalon Freeway trying desperately to go from 0 to 60 and brake at the same time. Like L.A., Tel Aviv traffic jams are legendary. I remember my first rain in L.A. The twenty minute drive to work turned into a two hour ordeal and I had that sinking feeling that perhaps I had taken the wrong entrance and was now idling in the middle of a parking lot. But to be fair, there is a difference between Tel Aviv and L.A. In Tel Aviv, when workers come in late because of the rain they claim they had just survived “The Flood” and dare anyone to contradict them. In L.A., on a rainy day, I actually don’t remember anyone else showing up to work….
I stuck my head out the window and inhaled deeply, preparing to smell the fresh fragrance of lilies and roses which always seemed to envelop me in Jerusalem (Okay, so I had lilies and roses growing under my window. Still…) But in a city of half a million people and a million cars, the wet smell of exhaust fumes did more than engulf me, it made me gag.
And there’s another difference: In L.A. I always liked to splash in the rain (a holdover from my not too distant youth) but in Tel Aviv, rain is for avoiding, and splashing in the puddles will result in someone siccing their dog on you.
I really like the rain, the wind and the storm. Why? Because that’s the kind of person I am – romantic, stormy, forceful (I’m assuming none of you have met me) – and it’s this very set of qualities that sometimes creates more waves and ripples than I bargain for.
Take last year. There was a show on television. The kind of show you look at and say, “Why on earth aren’t I starring in that?” and then you realize, it’s because they’ve never heard of you! And why haven’t they heard of you? Because you’re new in town and you don’t yet have an agent. And without an agent you can’t get an audition.
Then I asked myself, in true Talmudic fashion, does the howling wind stop the pouring rain? Of course not. The rain beats down despite the winds. If I don’t have an agent to get me an audition will that stop me? Never! I’ll get my own audition.
I am rain (woman).
So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I tracked down the director of the show, took off a day from my busy schedule of watching television, found his mailbox and gently stuffed an overfull envelope which had a cover letter, pictures, and a self-addressed postcard in it, into his mailbox. Of course, I had to empty out all his other mail first.
Certain that I had impressed him with my earlier material, I returned two days later and placed my showreel and resume into his mailbox – again carefully eliminating all his other (probably junk) mail.
My plan worked. This acclaimed director wrote me a letter saying that he had spoken to the casting director and I was being presented with an opportunity to audition for a smallish part in the show. Strange, but after signing off, the director wrote:
P.S. Can I have my mail back now?
This was my lucky break. I knew it. I was perfect for this series. Within two days I knew every nuance, and had reworked every angle of the 10 lines that would catapult me to fame.
The rain poured by the time my audition came around. I took this as a sign (although it was winter) and told myself I would be the beating rain that takes the Tel Aviv acting industry by storm. It was now or never. The director had opened the doors for me (Yes, I returned most of his mail) and the casting director was giving me her valuable time—blowing this was not an option.
For those thespians among you, as well as for those who have nothing to do with my industry, allow me to introduce you to what I feel is the most important rule in acting: Flexibility. Obviously, an actor must have a clear understanding of her character. But in an audition, or on set, you must become a chameleon, instantly adjusting to the fine nuances in your environment, reacting to your co-star’s energy, and adapting to the director’s instructions. And I knew this instinctively.
The rain beats mercilessly.
And I was great.
At least in my mind.
My knees began to shake and somehow I became deaf, not hearing any stage direction, just watching the director’s lips move as she became more and more agitated. “What’s she saying” I kept thinking to myself? “Can’t she see I’m already doing everything she wants me to do?”
I nodded blankly at her instructions, but repeated the exact acting pattern take after take.
I was the rain.
And I became a drizzle.
I blew the audition.
My first time up in front of a major name, and I couldn’t hold it together. I could barely lift my head up after that. And I silently promised myself to spend more time looking for an agent.
Acting is all about making mistakes: A role you should’ve gotten but you froze up at the audition; a connection you should’ve followed-up on, but you never got around to; a VIP who could have helped you, but who knew you were expected to send her flowers after your meeting?; and sometimes even acting in a role that will only hurt your career in the long term.
A production called “The Pilots’ Wives” (loose translation) has been having trouble casting for about a year. It’s something of a joke among agents and actors: “Yes, they’re still casting.”
The roles on the series are coveted by every actor in the business. It‘s a major, star-studded production.
Last year, I had an opportunity to go on an audition to this show, but I was still too traumatized from the last one, and talked myself out of it.
Now, three days into filming, there are all sorts of rumors coming from the set. One newspaper reported that the actors were complaining that they’re doing 70-80 takes a day. That they’re exhausted and by the time the end scenes roll in, they can no longer muster the energy and focus to act.
Agents are upset, saying they wouldn’t have allowed their actors to participate in the series had they known how inept everyone is. How this will only hurt their clients’ reputation as professional actors. Bridges are being burned all over the place as everyone accuses each other of a lack of professionalism.
Maybe it was good that I talked myself out of competing with all these “names”.
Go figure. That’s acting. It’s not a science. It’s mazal. And making sure the wind doesn’t blow you away.
Sylvester Stallone once said about his pre-stardom days, “I had mastered the art of rejection”. The real art, however lies not in your ability to accept rejection, nor in your willingness to “walk out of an audition forgetting you ever entered it, and leave the experience behind you.” The real art is to take those mistakes and admit, aloud, that you made them. That’s life. That’s acting.
Yes, leaving your mistakes behind you – that takes more skill than most people can muster. But remembering how you went from a torrent to a drizzle, and still somehow reinventing your stormy self again, now that’s the real challenge.
Not to beat a metaphor to death—The rains return even after they let up.
I’m zipping up my raincoat, prepared to begin my day. I’m going to leave the hood off, because I intend to get as wet as possible. I’m even considering sneaking up on that director again….
Which reminds me, anyone know Spielberg’s new address?
October 22, 2009 | 3:47 am
Posted by Tiferet Peterseil
Perfect. The ad described me to a T. Finally, after searching the Internet and newspapers for days, I had stumbled across a general audition for the lead role in a movie. I might even have a chance to work in a few words in my native language, Hebrew. AND they were paying! What more could a new face in LA want? I read the last lines.
Bondage? I didn’t recognize that genre. Could be a typo. Maybe they meant Bandage? But I’d never heard of Bandage movies (spliced movies?) either. I quickly reviewed the types of movies advertised at my local video store, in Israel: Suspense, Action, Drama, Comedy… Nope. I couldn’t remember anything called Bondage. But then again, that WAS in Israel. What do we know back there? Obviously, in the REAL movie industry, here in LA, the genres are much more wide ranging or specific.
This was just one of the problems I faced as an actress raised in Israel by English speaking parents. Maybe I spoke perfect English but that didn’t mean I knew the American culture or lifestyle. Like the first time I parked a car in LA and the meter said Insert Dimes Only. How could I know what a dime was? We had only used Shekels in Israel. So I approached a young woman walking two children, spread my palms out full of coins and asked her, in a flawless English, “Could you tell me which of these is a dime?” She looked at me as though I had just landed from outer space, picked up both her kids and started running. She shouted something that reminded me of one of my mother’s favorite desserts – “Fruitcake!”
But it wasn’t only the different country cultures. I grew up in a Jewish, Orthodox home, where lots of common American expressions were just never mentioned. Like the term “Want to come up for some coffee?” which my date asked me as we left a movie. I had actually been craving a caffeine kick for some hours, but apparently, in LA, “some coffee” was a code phrase for something else. Entirely. As I rushed out of his apartment I realized that his craving and mine were world’s apart.
So I was sure that back home we probably watched Bondage movies all the time, we just didn’t know that’s what they were called in the States.
As the professional actress I considered myself, I sent in my picture, requesting an audition as soon as possible, and assuring the producer/director that of course I was familiar with Bondage. “Why it’s my favorite genre, by far,” I assured him.
After all, wouldn’t it be a shame to blow my big shot at stardom simply because I hadn’t done a little research?
So I sent an email to one of my guy friends in LA, who happened to be a film teacher, asking him for a speed course on Bondage.
He wrote back that he would be more than happy to give me private lessons on the subject, and that he was looking forward to moving our relationship up a notch. He even assured me he had all the props we would need, and that we should meet later.
But later was no good. I needed to learn NOW.
I thought of calling my father in Israel for some information, but realized that the ten hour time difference meant he was sound asleep. As a last resort, I called my cousin, an entertainment lawyer, and told him I needed help preparing for a bondage audition. I practically begged him to help me.
“Come over, now!” he commanded, clearly upset.
When I arrived at his office, he ushered me into his room, saying, “Trust me, Tiferet, you DON’T want THIS audition.”
“But I do!” I insisted, almost in tears. “I was MADE for this role. They’ll appreciate me for myself. Can’t you just give me some pointers so I don’t come off like an idiot?”
“The only thing that will come off in this audition IS your clothes, you idiot!” My cousin buried his head in his hands. “Tiferet, Bondage is…. It’s….” He looked at my eager smile and bit his lower lip. “Do you know what S&M is?”
“A production company?”
“In a manner of speaking,” he quipped. “It’s more like a pre-production company in that…”
You’ll be relieved to know (although not as much as my parents were), that after his detailed explanation of the unorthodox use of high heals and leather belts, I passed on the audition.
This was my first lesson in the pitfalls of the acting industry. It served me in good stead when I packed up and flew back to Israel, ready to make a name for myself in the city that doesn’t let anyone sleep, Tel Aviv. After all, I’m still a small town girl (from Jerusalem) in a big, unfamiliar city (Tel Aviv, or as we Jerusalemites call lit – Sin City). And sure enough, most men here have the same definition of “some coffee” as their brothers in L.A.
So, older and wiser, I was ready for almost anything as I awaited instructions from the Casting Director who was auditioning me and three other girls for a part in a car commercial.
My agent told me to come in sportswear. This was to be an informal audition.
“So girls,” began the director, “although you are auditioning for the part of handyman – woman, in your case—we are actually placing less emphasis on your fix-it abilities and more on your flirting abilities. We want you to look pretty, and inviting.”
Ah hah. There it was. Inviting for WHAT? “Some coffee”, perhaps?
“Also, there is something we forgot to mention to your agents.”
Just as I thought….
“Should you be accepted for the commercial, we will also require you to be available for a photo shoot for our product catalog. Please sign these consent forms.”
I looked around at the other girls. So sweet and innocent, clearly not as seasoned as I was—they wouldn’t know what hit them. It was up to me to uncover this wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Let me ask you,” I said diplomatically, “would these happen to be NAKED pictures we’re talking about?”
Silence. The director’s jaw dropped, and the girls looked at one another.
I had caught him off guard. At least the girls would know –
Suddenly the director and his crew burst out laughing.
“Only if you really, REALLY want to be naked!” the director roared with laughter. “Miss, we’re selling car parts not body parts!”
“Do you think we should tell the company to change its name from Deals on Wheels to Bonkers for Honkers?” his assistant joked.
“Gee, I didn’t know this was that kind of audition,” one of the girls said. “I would have worn a lot less.”
Okay, so I didn’t get the part (neither did she). But I did get an ecstatic call from my agent saying he didn’t know I was an actress who would audition naked, and that opened a whole new set of doors for us…
You know, it takes time to get your bearings in a new place, whether in tinsel town or Sin City. But I was – am – determined to make a name for myself, a name I can be proud of. It’ll take time, of course. But I’m learning.
So, welcome to my life. A wise man once said, You are where you’re at. And I’m East of Hollywood North of Jerusalem, South of Haifa, and West of the Mediterranean Sea.
I’m in Tel Aviv, an actress ready for a career filled with Drama, Action, Suspense, Comedy….
And Bondage? Let’s just say I’m still searching for the guy who can make me a good cup of coffee.