claytoncast

I can remember when catching up with people involved a telephone with a cord long enough to lasso a small pony. You’d run it into the bathroom, light a candle, pour a glass of Muscadet (very important, the Muscadet), sink into a bath so hot you had to top it up twice, and talk. Properly talk. An entire evening could vanish in steam and stories. There was no “seen at 21:04.” No typing bubbles. No curated lighting. Just voices. Pauses. The occasional slosh. These days, connection lives in a folder on my phone. I sometimes wake up and, rather shamelessly, look forward to clicking it. Birthdays. Promotions. New jobs. Holidays. A day out somewhere photogenic involving brunch. It’s rather lovely, really. And yet. Instagram is alarmingly positive. Everyone appears to be: • Falling over attractively. • Applying skin serums under perfect lighting. • Driving something fast around a corner. • “Thrilled to announce…” • “Grateful to share…” Happily, of course. Even X (which I still ...

It is the first week of January. The agent’s office has been open for roughly the length of a kettle boil and already — ding — the first self-tape of the year arrives. Covid may be history, but self-tapes are clearly immortal, like cockroaches and Keith Richards. Actors are divided. Some loathe them. Some tolerate them. Most of us quietly question when “turn your flat into a television studio” became part of the job description. Ring light, neutral wall, no sign of personal happiness in frame. Personally, I don’t mind them. Casting gets to see actual acting, not just a headshot where I look either startled or mildly guilty. And sometimes — brace yourself — a job follows. I’ve had two old-fashioned, in-the-room meetings this year. Both became jobs. I’ve had rather more self-tapes that became… character-building. This latest one was for a show I genuinely love, heading into season two. Good character description. Promising notes. Then the script arrived: four pages, four characters, a...