Hanging Up Childhood Dreams on Wire Hangers

While performing the role of receptionist for an uninspiring financial company, a job as bland as a rice cake, boredom inspired me to explore an online job board where I stumbled upon a particular listing that caught me by surprise. It was a casting call for a Joan Crawford look-alike.

Having been told by friends that my bone structure was similar to Ms. Crawford’s, I emailed the production company a photograph of myself wearing oversized shades, taken the previous day at an outdoor barbecue. I suppose the large sunglasses that I was wearing in the photograph, which had hidden my eyes, highlighted my bone structure, and emphasized our resemblance.

Truth be told, dread about an upcoming milestone birthday had given me the kick in the pants I needed to respond to that ad. I was thirty-eight at the time. Even though this was two years prior to the big birthday, I was already worried about turning forty.

In my youth, I had dreamed of becoming an actor, and I’d even worked as an extra appearing in many films, TV shows, commercials, and a music video. I started the extra work in my twenties. Too lazy, or perhaps too fearful, to pursue the craft with true tenacity, I never actively sought major roles, although I’d been fortunate enough to have been offered some minor ones. I worked on numerous projects, appearing on a few occasions in silent roles on some American TV series. Ironically, all of these were filmed in Montreal. For a period of time, the exchange rate made filming in Canada attractive to American producers.

Within minutes of sending my makeshift Joan Crawford ”head shot”, the phone rang. It was the producer. She wanted me to audition for the lead role playing Joan Crawford in a docudrama that would be interspersed with actual footage of the actress.

Joan Crawford, whose real name was Lucille Fay LeSueur apparently detested wire clothes hangers so much that she’d have a hissy fit whenever she came upon any. Delighted with the prospect of angrily throwing wire hangers about, I took a day off from my lifeless office job to attend the audition at a production company located in a small refurbished building on the outskirts of Montreal.

After setting up the camera to film my audition, the director said, “Pretend that you’ve just received a phone call informing you that you’ve won a trip. When you realize that the phone call is a scam, you will get angry and tell the caller off.”

When asked if I needed a moment to prepare, I was so anxious that I declined. I reasoned that nothing good ever came from overthinking.

The director called out, “Action!”

I improvised some dialogue, displayed a full range of emotions, from surprise to joy, curiosity to disappointment, and, ultimately, let myself get overcome with anger.

I left the audition feeling satisfied with my improvisation. Even if nothing were to come of it, the experience had given me the opportunity to take a baby step in pursuit of a dream I had shelved long ago.

The moment I left the makeshift studio, located in the basement of the production house, I felt like I could breathe again, as a sense of relief washed over me.

A few days later, to my surprise, I was called back for a second audition. I was at work when I received the call and elated to get the news. Not only was I pleased to hear that my first audition had gone as well as I’d hoped, but I was going to need to take another day off work.

On the morning of my second audition, on my way to the production house, I found myself at the mercy of a cab driver who apparently lacked rudimentary driving skills. After arguing with them over the concept of yielding and narrowly escaping several collisions, my shoulders were practically glued to my ears by the time I arrived.

Fortunately, the second audition required me to enact three anger-fueled scenarios, even if none of them involved throwing wire hangers around. Instead, I was handed a pair of scissors. “Pretend that the scissors are an axe, and that the chair is a tree,” the director said.

I unleashed my anger, turned on the crazy, and fake cried, all while hacking and chopping at the chair. My screaming knew no bounds, and I had no shame.

By the time I left, the stress from the drive over had completely dissipated. In that moment, I discovered the surprisingly therapeutic benefits of performance.

One week later, I was called back to the studio for a photo shoot. This time around, it was for a makeup session to see what I would look like when made up to resemble the actress herself. The transformation lasted nearly 4 hours. Becoming Joan Crawford required having my long black hair curled, my eyebrows greatly exaggerated, and red lipstick applied to my lips with surgical precision.

Standing before the white screen in the studio, I was asked to pose for photos. While screaming at the top of my lungs and acting like a lunatic hadn’t posed a problem for me, having my photo taken rendered me as stiff as the Tin Man. I found myself wanting nothing more than to disappear. Obviously, being photographed and inspected were components of acting, but all I wanted to do was become invisible.

Despite my awkward ineptitude to perform at the photoshoot, the following week I received a phone call from the director instructing me to re-read the book Mommie Dearest by Christina Crawford and to watch as many Joan Crawford films as possible. The goal of this production was to depict the private Joan Crawford at home, the woman the public didn’t know. Thankfully, that meant I wouldn’t be required to emulate her mannerisms perfectly.

At last, I received a large script in the mail with a congratulatory note from the production team. It was official: the role was mine. I was going to be Joan Crawford.

And that’s when the horror set in. I’d been so focused on the audition process that I hadn’t much contemplated actually getting the role. After all, I wasn’t an actor. How appalled would the late Joan Crawford be to learn she was being portrayed by some random office worker?

The night before the shoot, I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if I had outgrown my childhood desire to be an actor. Maybe the concept of acting had appealed to me more than the reality of the job itself. Had I ever honestly considered what it might mean to be an actor? Existential dread aside, I wasn’t exactly feeling super confident.

On the morning of the shoot, a production assistant picked me up and drove me to a big house in the suburbs, somewhere on the outskirts of Montreal, where we’d film that day’s scenes.

Upon arrival at the set, looking and feeling less than ideal after my sleepless night, I was handed a bathing suit by the stylist.

Now, no one had given me any indication or heads up that I would have to show some skin. In my previous experience as an extra, I had flat-out refused jobs for which I was asked to wear a bikini. In a panic, I firmly asked the wardrobe team for a cover up. Much to my relief, they complied and handed me a long, black, old-fashioned cover up.

As I sat in the makeup chair having my Joan Crawford face applied, I noticed the young daughter of a crew member spending the day on set.

She came up next to me, pointed at my face, and said, “I want to have makeup put on just like her!”

The little girl’s father replied, “But you’re pretty! You don’t need makeup!”

I smiled and nodded at the little girl, displaying my agreement with her father. Given how delirious I was with exhaustion and anxiety, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over his comment.

In the first scene we shot, I lounged by a swimming pool, silently flipping through magazines. Relaxing at last, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude. Taking in my surroundings during the scene, I was able to appreciate how much more thoroughly enjoyable this job was compared to my office work.

As soon as I had a moment to enjoy it, though, we were on to the next scene.

“You are a one-shot wonder,” the director said.

I made my way to the next location at the house, where I handed out cones of vanilla ice cream (mashed potatoes) to some extras playing Joan’s fans. After that, I finally got my chance to throw a closet full of wire hangers onto the ground, screaming my head off, and drinking lots of whiskey (room temperature iced tea).

On that second shooting day, the prop master handed me a plastic axe. I was instructed to shout and cry as I pretended to chop down a tree. It was then that I realized movie star treatment wasn’t exactly conducive to crying. No pre-shoot argument with a dangerous taxi driver to get me riled up that day. As a result, I struggled to bring up the emotions required and realized that my acting technique could use a bit of help. In that moment, I felt a great deal of respect for real actors, capable of conveying emotions antithetical to those they might be feeling in the moment.

Even so, I finally managed to let out a scream, even if it was better suited to a horror film, while chopping away with the plastic axe, which I promptly broke.

Embarrassed, I suggested that the money for the prop be deducted from my paycheck.

“Don’t worry about it,” the prop master said. “This is Canada, not Hollywood. You won’t be earning much anyway.”

Her kind words helped put a smile on my face.

On the third and final day of the shoot, our scenes were shot inside a school.

After shooting my last classroom scene, the director yelled, “Cut!”

In an instant I was finally absolved of my acting duties.

Refusing the offer of a lift from a PA, I ended up walking the three kilometers home in full makeup under a drizzling sky, as Ms. Crawford faded and I slowly returned to myself.

Walking back in the rain, I realized that my childhood fantasy of working as an actress had finally come to fruition. I would no longer have to live with any regret on the subject or wonder what might’ve been.

Truth be told, I felt I could face my upcoming birthday without regrets. Although I may not be a real actress, I did get to play one on TV.