I'm Ready For My Closeup Mr. Wang
Sooner or later practically every Caucasian in Beijing, and especially students, will be asked if they would like an acting job, for no other reason than that they are not Chinese. There’s no flattery involved. You could speak some unheard of and dying, mountain dialect of Albanian and it wouldn’t matter; they’re going to dub over your voice anyway. As long as you fit the particular stereotype and can actually move your lips, you’re an actor. It would make an L.A. waiter have a foot-stomping hissy-fit.
There are numerous talent scouts running around town, ready to pounce on unsuspecting foreigners and the standard victim’s reaction is something like “Hmmm. I always wanted to be in the movies: big money, lots of women (or men). Always wanted to say ‘We’ll do lunch’”. “Yeah, sure!” And before you have a chance to ask about a single detail, you’re whisked off to a hole-in-the-wall photo studio for a few pictures and a curt “We’ll let you know.” Five minutes later you’ve been dropped at the nearest bus stop and while trying to read the schedule find yourself wondering “What the hell just happened?” Like all great con games, it all depends on keeping you off-kilter and slightly confused.
As both a want-to-be actor and a gullible laowai (foreigner), you’re a cheap commodity whose time is worth nothing. Even if you should get the chance to ask the simplest question, either no one knows or it’s not important. Of course even the talent scouts aren’t always told the pertinent details. Either that or they’re just not very bright, which would explain my first photo shoot. Granted, I may not understand all of the nuances of the Chinese marketplace as well as they do, but I think it is probably a universally bad idea to consider a 48 year old fat guy as your spokesman for hiking gear. That was an hour I’ll never get back, two if you consider how long I took to figure out which bus to get on.
A year went by and, sure as hell, I fell for it again. Sam (I’m getting the hang of this Chinese thing now and I’m pretty sure that’s not what his parents named him) whisked me straight from class to the same photo studio once again. Apparently I wasn’t convincing as an excitable sports fan, even though I went through two photo shoots a month apart. Something about resembling a rabid dog. They just don’t understand American sports.
I’d made up my mind to forget the whole film-star dream when, two months later Sam called me up and said he had a job for me the next evening, although he couldn’t say how long it would take or how much it paid. I said that I might be available, depending on the details. Big mistake. I was just asking for him to lie to me, something for which he needed no encouragement.
Assured that the pay was 400 Yuan ($56) and would only take two hours, I hopped in his car and headed across town to a deserted office building. The elevator button for the 14th floor was dead so we got off on 13 and walked up. I wish I was superstitious and had read something into that. We walked into the office to find seven people sitting around, drinking tea, snacking and smoking. Although I’m sure they meant it as an honor, they really didn’t need to wait for me to arrive before doing a damn thing to prepare. Another hour I’ll never see again.
For an hour I stood around drinking tea and shooting the breeze with another scout, who had brought a Chinese girl I would be working with. Together we watched the crew turn the waiting room into a medical lab, finished off with three large mazes on top of the table and a container full of white laboratory mice. What the hell?
In the finest theatrical tradition, no one ever gave me a straight answer but this is what I pieced together. It was to be a sales presentation in the form of an interview with a respected scientist (yours truly) about some new medication that would make mice smarter and run faster. I’m fairly sure that it has other applications, but you can never tell. What I failed to anticipate was that I would spend the next three hours handling mice who would rather be left alone.
I put mice in jars. I held them up for the camera. I caught them when they escaped and the entire female staff ran shrieking from the office. I put them in the maze and took them out again. I even had to stop a few of them from cheating. I was handed a large and very sharp hypodermic needle and told to pretend to give them shots while holding them by the scruff of the neck. I had sweat running out of every pore in my body because of the lights and I had to hold a pissed-off mouse while trying not to jab either of us, preferably while avoiding being bitten. We did this dozens of times.
I was able to vent a little during the “interview” portions of the program. I was simply supposed to talk for X amount of time while looking serious. We did this dozens of times as well, ranging from 4 seconds to 1 minute. After a couple of experiments, it was obvious that no one spoke a word of English, so I expounded on the various, painful things I would do to Sam when we were done. I talked about getting drunk afterwards. I talked about taking the winning mouse out with me and buying him a beer and a shot. I think I even promised to get him laid. I really hope that film is seen by someone who lip-reads English.
I was drenched when we finally finished. Between shots the crew would run up and start fanning me to prevent heat stroke. When I took off my rubber gloves my hands looked like those of a 90 year old who lives in a Jacuzzi. I was so thirsty that I had three beers in me before I realized how hard they were going to hit me. I didn’t even slow down.
It was when we left that I realized Sam was not just a talent scout. He wasn’t even really an agent. PIMP! That says it all. He insisted on paying me outside and I realized that no one else had even mentioned money. They paid Sam and he paid me later. For all I know, he made twice as much as I did, and while I was sweating and fearing rabies he was in another room playing chess.
I think Sam is in for some last-minute renegotiations when I get my block-busting lead in a hemorrhoid commercial.
There are numerous talent scouts running around town, ready to pounce on unsuspecting foreigners and the standard victim’s reaction is something like “Hmmm. I always wanted to be in the movies: big money, lots of women (or men). Always wanted to say ‘We’ll do lunch’”. “Yeah, sure!” And before you have a chance to ask about a single detail, you’re whisked off to a hole-in-the-wall photo studio for a few pictures and a curt “We’ll let you know.” Five minutes later you’ve been dropped at the nearest bus stop and while trying to read the schedule find yourself wondering “What the hell just happened?” Like all great con games, it all depends on keeping you off-kilter and slightly confused.
As both a want-to-be actor and a gullible laowai (foreigner), you’re a cheap commodity whose time is worth nothing. Even if you should get the chance to ask the simplest question, either no one knows or it’s not important. Of course even the talent scouts aren’t always told the pertinent details. Either that or they’re just not very bright, which would explain my first photo shoot. Granted, I may not understand all of the nuances of the Chinese marketplace as well as they do, but I think it is probably a universally bad idea to consider a 48 year old fat guy as your spokesman for hiking gear. That was an hour I’ll never get back, two if you consider how long I took to figure out which bus to get on.
A year went by and, sure as hell, I fell for it again. Sam (I’m getting the hang of this Chinese thing now and I’m pretty sure that’s not what his parents named him) whisked me straight from class to the same photo studio once again. Apparently I wasn’t convincing as an excitable sports fan, even though I went through two photo shoots a month apart. Something about resembling a rabid dog. They just don’t understand American sports.
I’d made up my mind to forget the whole film-star dream when, two months later Sam called me up and said he had a job for me the next evening, although he couldn’t say how long it would take or how much it paid. I said that I might be available, depending on the details. Big mistake. I was just asking for him to lie to me, something for which he needed no encouragement.
Assured that the pay was 400 Yuan ($56) and would only take two hours, I hopped in his car and headed across town to a deserted office building. The elevator button for the 14th floor was dead so we got off on 13 and walked up. I wish I was superstitious and had read something into that. We walked into the office to find seven people sitting around, drinking tea, snacking and smoking. Although I’m sure they meant it as an honor, they really didn’t need to wait for me to arrive before doing a damn thing to prepare. Another hour I’ll never see again.
For an hour I stood around drinking tea and shooting the breeze with another scout, who had brought a Chinese girl I would be working with. Together we watched the crew turn the waiting room into a medical lab, finished off with three large mazes on top of the table and a container full of white laboratory mice. What the hell?
In the finest theatrical tradition, no one ever gave me a straight answer but this is what I pieced together. It was to be a sales presentation in the form of an interview with a respected scientist (yours truly) about some new medication that would make mice smarter and run faster. I’m fairly sure that it has other applications, but you can never tell. What I failed to anticipate was that I would spend the next three hours handling mice who would rather be left alone.
I put mice in jars. I held them up for the camera. I caught them when they escaped and the entire female staff ran shrieking from the office. I put them in the maze and took them out again. I even had to stop a few of them from cheating. I was handed a large and very sharp hypodermic needle and told to pretend to give them shots while holding them by the scruff of the neck. I had sweat running out of every pore in my body because of the lights and I had to hold a pissed-off mouse while trying not to jab either of us, preferably while avoiding being bitten. We did this dozens of times.
I was able to vent a little during the “interview” portions of the program. I was simply supposed to talk for X amount of time while looking serious. We did this dozens of times as well, ranging from 4 seconds to 1 minute. After a couple of experiments, it was obvious that no one spoke a word of English, so I expounded on the various, painful things I would do to Sam when we were done. I talked about getting drunk afterwards. I talked about taking the winning mouse out with me and buying him a beer and a shot. I think I even promised to get him laid. I really hope that film is seen by someone who lip-reads English.
I was drenched when we finally finished. Between shots the crew would run up and start fanning me to prevent heat stroke. When I took off my rubber gloves my hands looked like those of a 90 year old who lives in a Jacuzzi. I was so thirsty that I had three beers in me before I realized how hard they were going to hit me. I didn’t even slow down.
It was when we left that I realized Sam was not just a talent scout. He wasn’t even really an agent. PIMP! That says it all. He insisted on paying me outside and I realized that no one else had even mentioned money. They paid Sam and he paid me later. For all I know, he made twice as much as I did, and while I was sweating and fearing rabies he was in another room playing chess.
I think Sam is in for some last-minute renegotiations when I get my block-busting lead in a hemorrhoid commercial.
* Thanks! I really enjoy writing when I get the time. As far as the day job, I don't know - I just started looking for one. A book? I have to admit that the thought's been stumbling around in the back of my mind for a long time. Anyone know a publisher? (Comment this)