All language subtitles for CripTales.S01E01_English

♪♪

[Heartbeat]

I look old to you, yeah?

Quite older.

I know I do.

I am, so I must.

There's no space
to see the full picture,

so you're concentrating
on my face.

Have a good long look.

I look old to you, yeah?

Quite older.

I know I do.

I am, so I must.

[Sighs]

Auditions are, for me,

the single more nerve-racking
aspect of acting,

more terrifying
than a first night on stage

or a first scene
on a new set.

Like most actors, I can't
control getting the part,

just the acting,
but unlike most actors,

not getting the part
can often have nothing to do

with my acting
and everything to do with these.

Aaaah!

These babies,
over the last 25 years,

have caused commotions,
disruptions, shame even.

Oh, not for me.

I love the power
of my magic hands.

I love my body.

No, really, I do.

It is the only one I've got.

Thou, nature, art my goddess.

To thy law my services
are bound.

Wherefore should I stand
in the plague of custom

and permit the curiosity
of nations to deprive me?

[Sighs]

I used to do Edmund's speech
from "King Lear,"

but it all got
a bit self-refy, you know?

Hi. Yes, Edmund.
Dude, I hear you loud and clear,

and so did the 2004
casting director and director.

"What a cunning choice.
Ha.

He's speaking about himself
in society

through a Shakespearean
character.

How lovely!

Clever, too."

Hmm. No.

I got it too early.

It's better than being too late.
That's worse.

Anything that causes
more tension in the room

counts against
my getting the job.

I say more because it's often
already quite tense in there.

"What if he sees me
staring at his hands?

What if he's crap,
and I find it embarrassing?

What if we fumble
the greeting handshake?

Oh, God, the handshake!

What if the audience
can't believe him in the role?

[Gasps] What if Ican't
believe him in the role

because his body looks weird.

His body isn't normal.

And his body, his body,
his body, body,

bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-ba-
ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bam!"

My flippers intervene.

Pow!

My hands got shaken
in between

your very practiced smile,
and the normal, I defile.

Slam!

Dunked in your expectations,
my refreshing permutations.

I'm going to go in there,
ignore all that crap in my head,

and do my best
acting performance

so I can leave with my head
held high and my self-respect,

if not with a job.

But the job's the thing,
the only thing,

worth having from this.

I certainly don't do it so they
can have their first experience

of auditioning then
passing on a disabled actor.

This one's a real, actual part,

one of two characters involved
in the central narrative,

school sweethearts that meet
again on Skype after 30 years

because somebody died
on Facebook.

It'll be brilliant!

So many ways it can go wrong.

Open door,
smile and close door

with glib ease
for their relief and comfort.

Approach desk and pretend
not to notice

as they all try really hard

to only look at your face...
with partial success.

Possibly take off coat
and put down bag.

Make it look good.
Don't fumble.

They read that as nerves,
which makes them nervous.

Look bright and breezy,
smiling,

as they ask usually
the same obligatory

two or three questions.

How did you get here?
How's your agent?

Do you know a random
disabled actor

they didn't give a job
to 5 years ago?

Yes, I think I do know them.
Ha. Lovely guy.

[Scoffs]

I could just see them
sitting there

on that scary desk
of authority --

casting people,
director, producer.

That desk,
such a physical barrier,

protecting their
ancient normality rituals.

I want to get on top of it,
squat down,

and take a profound dump
right there

so they can see
their own steaming prejudice

in all its hateful glory.

That probably wouldn't...work.

I'm beginning to sweat.

My heart rate's too fast.

I'm in a state of anxiety.

Damn!

I'm even starting to question
my clothing choice.

This says long lost lover,
right?

I've got to get a grip.

Harder with no thumbs
but not impossible.

[Sighs]

When I was 12, Mr. Proctor,

our fashionable English teacher
who I loved

because I thought that
he liked me,

asked us to write an unrated
version of a famous fairy tale.

I wrote the version of

"Goldilocks
and the Three Bears,"

describing
an imaginary Goldilocks

and had three mates
miming the bears.

When they saw Goldilocks
sleeping,

Baby Bear said, "Look!"

Mommy Bear said, "Oh, my,"

but then I had Daddy Bear
do his own line,

"Fwah!"

Mr. Proctor roared,
and I was hooked for life

to the best drug in the world --
audience appreciation.

In that moment, I didn't feel
like the only disabled kid

in the school.

I felt wanted, appreciated,
valued,

and it made Carol Anne laugh.

Next term, Mr. Proctor
announced the school play.

I rushed up to him,

and eagerly announced
my intention to audition,

expecting his typically
warm and generous response.

Instead, I got an alarming
fixed smile.

"Great."

On the day, I waited
for my turn to audition,

Carol Anne was sitting
at the back of the hall,

and I looked forward
to impressing her

with my acting performance.

Mr. Proctor looked so nervous,

and then as I looked up
and out with confidence,

as I'd been taught at home,

I saw Carol Anne laughing.

She looked embarrassed.

It drilled into my skull
like self-hating trepidation.

How's this
for a character breakdown?

Father, 50, could be disabled.

Never seen that, never.

I have on my lucky
underwear briefs,

stripy ones that are fraying,
but I've got three jobs in them,

and now 10 years old,
they're reserved for auditions.

Ah!

There's a small hole
where my ball skin

sometimes gets painfully
trapped in the leg elastic,

but it's usually
worth the risk.

Four minutes to go.

Feeling okay.

Should I gesticulate
during it

so they can see
what that looks like,

or would it put them off?

Perhaps I should do a task,
so they can see I can manage.

I once lit a cigarette
in an audition,

but really badly, and the
lighter burned my eyebrow,

which everybody saw
but pretended not to notice.

Didn't get that job.

Eyebrow grew back after
a couple of months.

Maybe I could slightly flirt
with one of them,

so they can see I've got
that kind of

traditional man sexuality
and charisma.

That, too, hasn't gone well
historically,

even worse with women.

For a while back there,
all six of us

UK male disabled actors,
ages spanning 25 years,

would get called in
for the same audition.

Hi, I don't know
if I'm meant to be here.

It says that the role is
for a character with CP.

"Well, if you could read
the lines anyway

and try to portray
cerebral palsy."

[Slurred]
I need help on the toilet.

"Wow. That was amazing,
so moving."

No, it's not amazing.

It's not even acting.

It's mimicry, nothing more.

Don't get angry, man.
Leave it outside the room.

You don't want to get
a reputation

for being disabled
and difficult.

Worst audition.

I got one for a new musical
about Italian castrati,

and I was out of my depth.

I chose to sing
the "Age of Aquarius."

The look on their faces
as I entered the room told me

that my agent had not informed
them of my glorious physique,

and it took them a while
to remember

that I could see them as well
as they could see me

and alter their facial
contortions accordingly.

This should have told me,
"Get out now!"

But, no.

I handed my sheet music

to the facially supportive
pianist,

undermining the last of
my confidence with his look of,

"Poor man.
He'll never make it,"

and launched into
my high-energy rendition

of the rock musical classic.

I worked the room, singing
as if I would on stage,

as all three mouths opened
as one

to my high-spirited
performance.

I finished.

There was silence,
as three open-mouthed

conservative musical theater
toughies

all looked blanked
and then shut their cake holes.

"Thank you, Mat,
for that.

[Laughs] Thank you.
That was, uh...

Thanks."

My hands are the work
of the Devil for some people.

I've got short arms as a result
of my mom taking thalidomide,

the morning sickness drug.

"It says on your resume
that you have prosthetic arms.

Do you ever use them?"

I won't get the job
because they don't want to

send the wrong message.

I will get the job because
the real message

is that there's no message,

because disabled actors
cannot be bad guys,

because it's interesting casting
for a bad guy,

because the casting agent
is scared

of what the director
might say,

because the casting agent
has resolve

and the director lives
in the present century.

[Thud]

Then the after-care e-mails
to really drive home

the point they don't even know
they're making.

"You didn't get it.
Sorry.

But they were really glad
you came in."

"You didn't get it.
Sorry.

But they really
liked your performance."

"You didn't get it.
Sorry.

But they said how much
you brought to the role."

"I checked in with casting,

and you got some really lovely
feedback on your self-tape.

They were really happy
and excited about it.

You didn't get it.
Sorry."

All those roles
that could have been,

all that audience
understanding achieved,

that equality imagined,

career highlights.

Spilled milk.

Age 7, my mom took me
somewhere official.

I could feel it in here air.

She kept looking away.

We sat down in the waiting room.

Opposite and around me were
loads of kids with short arms.

I'd never seen anyone
that looked like me before.

They called my name,
but Mom wasn't allowed

to come in with me.

When I entered the room,
I saw,

behind a scary desk
of authority,

three men in suits smiling,
who said,

"Come and sit
in the chair opposite."

They asked me questions,

"Everything all right?
How's school?

Do you know any of
the random children outside?"

Then one of them told me that

in the top drawer
of the filing cabinet,

stood about 5 feet tall
behind me,

was loads of candy
and chocolate,

and that I could
just help myself.

So I got up,
clutched the chair,

dragged it over
to the filing cabinet,

stood on top of the chair
so I could reach,

opened the drawer,
got a bar of chocolate out,

shut the drawer,
and jumped back off the chair,

and the three men
looked at each other,

and the one in the middle,

wearing a pinstripe
doubled-breasted suit

holding open an ink pen,
wrote, "15,000 pounds."

I'd just been means tested
by the people that deformed me,

a compensation assessment
by the drug company.

They didn't ask me
to tie up a shoe lace

or do my top button
or lots of things on purpose.

I passed their audition,
but I failed myself.

Had I known that audition
was a means test,

I would have chin crawled
my way across the floor,

bitten my agonizing way
up the filing cabinet,

and then failed
to get any chocolate.

I might have been only 7,

but I'm the son of two actors,
for God's sake.

Yes, I am.

It's in my blood, in my heart,

filling my head
with calm assurance.

I'm going to go into
that audition room

and wow them with a great
acting performance

and convince them that I am
the right actor for the part,

short arms, flipper hands,
no thumbs and all.

Man: Mat?
Yep.