Sketchy Pickpocket, Parts One and Two

PART ONE

In the pantheon of "Strange Things I Have Done to Make Money in NYC", auditioning for a TV commercial features pretty prominently. Your correspondent is not an actor in any shape or form — the extent of my adventures in thespianism are a stuttering rendition of the Porter's speech from Macbeth in Year 10 English and a spirited attempt at a South African accent while doing voiceover work in Bombay.

Still, the rent is too damn high, and as such, I'm always open to new ways to make cash. (Within reason, etc etc.) So when a friend who works for a casting agency offers to put me on the company's books — "just in case!" — I get my girlfriend to take some headshots and sent them over.

It's not like I expect anything to come of this, so I'm rather taken aback this week to receive an email inviting me to audition for a role in a TV commercial for a large electronics company. My initial excitement is quickly tempered by reading that I will be auditioning for the role of, ahem, "Sketchy Pickpocket" — apparently  I have a "good look" for the part, a statement that's both promising or mildly insulting. Quite what sketchy pickpocketing has to do with large electronics companies is unclear. But anyway, ours not to reason why, etc etc.

The casting studio is in a relatively nondescript office building on W 19 St. The elevator opens onto a lobby whose walls are adorned with framed posters for The Life Aquatic, Lost, Signs, Cars 2 and a bunch of other films. I fill out a form with my details, leaving the section that asks for my agent's details blank, and sit down to wait. Several other hopefuls are already here, presumably for the same audition, although none of them look much like pickpockets: there's a well-dressed young black man with diamond earring and BlackBerry, a white guy who looks more suited to the role of "sketchy Silicon Valley 'innovator'" than "sketchy pickpocket", and a girl who looks about 14. I identify a suitably dodgy-looking Eastern European type as my most likely competition, and start wishing Macbeth on him.

Time passes. The black guy scrolls back and forth through the emails on his phone. The pimp plays endless games of solitaire. I google idly and discover that one of the very first silent films catalogued the arrest of ... a sketchy pickpocket. Clearly, I am part of a proud cinematic tradition here.

More people arrive. You can tell the serious actors from the amateurs because the former group have casting cards and names to write in the "agent" section. A young Adonis, clad entirely in black, sits down next to me. If petty criminals are allowed to be unfeasibly attractive, he's got this one in the bag.

Eventually, the studio door opens, and a woman with a clipboard steps out. "Thomas?"

I stand up.

"Role?"

I take a deep breath and announce proudly, "I will be auditioning for the role of Sketchy Pickpocket". There's a ripple of laughter. I remain standing for a moment, then sit back down, uncertain of what to do next, as the others rattle off their roles. It turns out that we're not all thieves — there are cops and innocent victims and various other parts, too. It dawns on me that I may be required to, y'know, act. I think of Naomi Watts in Mulholland Drive. I bet she never had to audition for Sketchy Pickpocket.

Eventually, I'm summoned into the studio with the black guy — who's playing Police Interrogator — and the Eastern European I had pegged as a fellow criminal. It turns out that he is neither Eastern European nor a prospective pickpocket — he's from New Jersey, and is the leading contender for the role of Innocent Victim. The three of us are plonked in front of a camera, have our pictures taken, and then told to "do a bit of improv." Oh god.

The first scene comprises Sketchy Pickpocket surreptitiously lifting the wallet of Innocent Victim while the latter pretends to talk on his phone. I dutifully remove his wallet from the non-Eastern European's trousers and leg it. The second scene involves being grilled by Police Interrogator, presumably after being apprehended because I was spotted by the security camera.

By this stage I am genuinely terrified, mainly because I hate being on camera and Police Interrogator is rather too good at his job — he keeps haranguing me about why the wallet was in my possession and why the ID therein didn't match my face and etc. The whole thing starts to feel like I really have lifted someone's wallet, and I end up insisting feebly that I'm not saying any more until I speak to my lawyer. Method acting, y'all.

We're cut short after a couple of minutes. I ride the lift back down to the street with Police Interrogator, who turns out to be both lovely and really impressive: he's friends with several real-life NBA players and has just made a film with Wyclef about the Trayvon Martin shooting. I walk back to the subway, feeling like the dilettante I am, and expecting never to hear from the agency again. However, it seems my actual terror is  mistaken for competent acting, because two days later I get another email, this one inviting me for a "callback". 

The callback involves filling out a proper actor's profile card — which has boxes for all sorts of esoteric body measurements ("Under Chest", "Inseam", "Nape to Floor") that I have no idea how to complete — and then undergoing the entire improv process again. This time, however, the performance is in front of the director, a raucous type who looks a bit like Gary Ross, along with various other important looking people who I guess are from the large electronics company. Before we begin, the director compliments me on my 'look" and thanks me for taking the trouble to dress the part. I'm wearing exactly what I wear every day, mainly because I only own one jacket and one hoodie. I smile winningly and say something to the effect that it's all part of the job.

This time, the improv process is a little less uncomfortable — the first take is with the Police Interrogator from last time, whose presence makes me feel somewhat better after our conversation in the lift. The second is with another hopeful for the same role, a large black woman in a bob wig. (She later tells me that the wig "was the only way I could think of to look conservative".)

The director roars with laughter as I try to convince Police Interrogator #2 that I found the wallet on 6th Ave in broad daylight. I'm not sure whether this is a good sign or not. The whole process is entirely inscrutable. Still, as I leave, the director slaps me on the back and tells me he'll be in touch. I ride the lift back down to the street again, on my own this time, thinking of Withnail and the wolves. What a piece of work is man, indeed.

Apparently I find out over the next couple of days whether Sketchy Pickpocket will be my first step on the road the TV stardom. Wish me luck, eh?

PART TWO

Regular readers of NY Conversation may remember from last month's column that I found myself auditioning for a role in a TV commercial. Well, here's the punchline: I got the part. Yes, NY Conversation will soon be appearing on a TV near you as a briefcase-lifting criminal in an advertisement for a large electronics company's line of security cameras. Life's never dull, etc etc.

The entire process of filming is as fascinating as it is weird. For a start, I'm only in the ad for about five seconds all up, but filming takes two solid days. Curiously, I'm told to report for the first day's filming to  the New York Giants' football stadium in New Jersey. The reason for this becomes clear when I arrive: the ad in which I appear is just one of a whole suite of ads for the large electronics company's various product lines, and one of these involves a scene in which everyone will double as a football crowd.

My call time is 10am, which means dragging myself out of bed at 7.30am to get the PATH train out to Jersey. When I arrive, there's already a crowd of actors milling around the entrance — security is hilariously tight, and everyone is awaiting the arrival of the sniffer dog, which will check our bags to ensure we're not carrying bombs, or unauthorized booze, or something. In the meantime, everyone is having their IDs scanned. I present the security guard with my Australian driver's license, and am told to wait with the rest of the crowd.

Minutes pass. The crowd dwindles as IDs are returned. I notice people who arrived later than me getting their cards back. There's  no sign of mine. Until...

"Vic Bentleigh?"
Silence.
"Vic Bentleigh? From..." The security guard frowns. "...Australia?"
I realise what's happened.
"Uh... I think that's mine?"
"You Vic Bentleigh?"
"No, I'm Thomas Hawking. See, that's my name there."
The guard frowns again. "Why does it say 'Vic Bentleigh?'"

As I explain the concept of Bentleigh, the sniffer dog arrives. It is a majestic beast, perched like visiting royalty on the back of a golf buggy, and once it has sniffed my trousers, I'm ushered through the gates into the stadium. First stop is Wardrobe, where the director happens to be hanging out. As I walk through the door, he spots me, and shouts gleefully, "No wardrobe for him! He's perfect just as he is!" He cackles loudly and slaps me on the back again. It seems that I am born to be Sketchy Pickpocket.

My first duty as SP is being interrogated by a detective after being spotted on a security camera lifting someone's briefcase. We're shooting in some sort of sick bay in the bowels of the stadium, and it's fascinating to watch how quickly the crew transform it into a convincingly spartan interrogation room: the room is stripped and re-dressed in maybe 20 minutes. The sheer number of people involved in this process, and the shoot in general, is amazing to me — there are grips, key grips, runners, lighting guys,

the props guy, a make-up artist and her assistant, several costume types

and a battalion of people in folding canvas chairs with laptops, who

are clearly important but whose exact role remains unclear. When they're done, everything in the room is transformed, and the sick bay looks exactly like one of those rooms wherein cops slam their hands onto the table and shout at cowering prisoners. Even the ambience is perfect: the lighting guy pulls off one particularly impressive trick with a large folded piece of black canvas and a couple of lights to approximate the effect of having a single globe dangling from the ceiling, film noir style.

The initial concept for the shot was apparently that it'd be seen through a security camera that's mounted on the wall above me, and is made by the large electronics firm. Unfortunately... well, it's not working Multiple underlings come and go, each fiddling with cables and interfaces and software to little effect, until the director gives up and uses a gigantic movie camera instead. Once the camera is up and running, I spend half an hour being grilled by the detective, who turns out to be the same guy with whom I auditioned. He makes a very convincing cop, so much so that by the end I'm feeling very chastened for being foolish enough to think I could get away with lifting someone's briefcase and legging it.

When we're done, we're treated to an impressive spread for lunch, and then sent back upstairs to dick around for a bit until it's time to shoot the crowd scene. This turns out to take ages, for some reason, but eventually I'm ferried back to Manhattan and told to report to a street corner in Chelsea the next afternoon and "look for the mobile home." The next morning is another early start, and on arriving in the riverfront street in Chelsea that's today's location, I'm delighted to discover that the "mobile home" is in fact a genuine proper movie star trailer, furnished with a hair and make-up station, a comfortable couch, and — thank god — a coffee machine.

Today's shoot involves my other two scenes — snatching a briefcase from an unsuspecting victim, and getting arrested by a passing cop after my crime is caught on camera. We shoot the latter scene first, and it's at this point I start to question the wisdom of this whole affair. Getting arrested, it turns out, is no more fun on camera than it is in real life. Specifically, it involves getting my head shoved into the bonnet of a large Buick SUV. Again. And again. And again.

The first take is OK, because the clean-cut kid who's playing the policeman does his best to be gentle. Unfortunately, this obviously shows on the tape, because the real-life policeman who's directing traffic to allow us to film is sent over to show us how to "do it right". He does so with gusto. "Doing it right" involves twisting my arm up behind my back, pushing my face down into the car bonnet with no small amount of force, and "stand[ing] to one side so he doesn't kick you in the balls."

There's a touch of the Stanford Prison Experiment about the whole thing, because by the time we finally get the shot right, half an hour or so after we began, my clean-cut companion is performing the arrest procedure just a little too convincingly. I'm left with a sore neck, a belting headache, and a renewed love of writing for a living.

Thankfully, the remaining scene doesn't take long to shoot. This scene involves me sneaking up behind my victim, grabbing his briefcase, and legging it. My first attempts reveal that I'm no more convincing a petty criminal than the guy arresting me was a cop, because our friendly neighbourhood cop steps in once again. "You gotta push the guy, man," he tells me, demonstrating a remarkably deep knowledge of the optimal way to steal a briefcase. "He ain't your friend. He's a rich guy. You want that briefcase. Take it off his ass! Push that motherfucker, grab the case and run." He demonstrates by giving the actor playing the rich guy a shove that nearly sends him to the pavement.

And so I push that motherfucker, I grab the case, and I run. (Note to any fellow sketchy pickpockets reading this: it's a throughly effective method.) It seems that I'm a natural, because this scene only requires a couple of takes. And then we're done, so it's back to the trailer for a nice hot cup of tea and some complimentary biscuits. I resolve that if I'm ever required to act again, I'll insist — despite my ideological reservations — on playing the cop. In acting — as in life — it seems that it's better to be the hammer than the nail.
 
CODA

Update, May 2013: A couple of readers have asked if the commercial in which I, um, starred last year is online anywhere. The answer to this question is, "I have no idea!" As far as I know, the commercial was to screen during the Olympics last year, but as I don't have a TV, I was never able to verify whether this actually happened. It doesn't seem to be on YouTube, either. But! The important part is: I got paid.*

* Disclaimer for immigration purposes: By "I got paid", I do not mean that I got paid.