Original subtitles

♪♪

[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.