CripTales: Audition
Disabled actor Mat Fraser relives his best and worst auditions
In this monologue from the series CripTales, disabled actor Mat Fraser sits in the waiting room before an audition, dreading how it will turn out. He relives some of his best and worst moments in auditions in the past,
taking us back to his childhood, where he unlocks the reasons for his fears, before finding the way to triumph. Or does he?
CripTales is a series of fictional monologues, based on factual research and the lived experience of disabled people spanning British history since 1970. Funny, inventive, dramatic and sexy, each one places disabled voices centre stage.
Originally recorded for television, ±«Óătv Ouch is sharing three of the monologues to mark 25 years since the Disability Discrimination Act was passed.
Subscribe to this podcast on ±«Óătv Sounds or say "Ask the ±«Óătv for Ouch" to your smart speaker.
Transcript: Audition
ÌęMat -
Hello. This is the Ouch podcast and Iâm Mat Fraser, mostly known for my role in âAmerican Horror Story: Freak Showâ, and I used to present Ouch with Liz Carr back in the day. Itâs truly exciting to be back after almost ten years to introduce to you âCripTalesâ, a series of monologues that Iâve curated, all by disabled writers, directors and actors. They were made for ±«Óătv America and ±«Óătv Four, and if you want the pictures you can see them on iPlayer until the end of the year, but they donât need to be seen to be enjoyed. Ouch will feature a selection of the monologues over the next three days in their week of podcasts marking the 25th anniversary of the Disability Discrimination Act.
Liz Carr and Ruth Madeleyâs episodes are to come, but today itâs all about me. âAuditionâ is about many of the weird, wonderful and often awful auditions Iâve had over the last 20 years, with some deep memories that surface to explain some of my inner turmoil, revealing a path⊠to success? With laughs, tears and even a song, I hope you enjoy it. The set is a film studio, lights in the background, as I sit on a chair with a blue shirt on, nervously awaiting my turn.
Ìę
[heartbeat sound]
Mat -
I look old to you, yeah? Well, older. I know I do. I am, so I must do. Thereâs no space to see the full picture so youâre concentrating on my face. Have a good long look. I look old to you, yeah? Well, older. I know I do. I am, so I must do. Auditions are for me the single most nerve-wracking aspect of acting, more terrifying than a first night on stage or a first scene on a new set. Like most actors I canât 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. [screaming]
These babies over the last 25 years, theyâve 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 Iâve 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? I used to do Edmundâs speech from âKing Learâ but it all got a bit self reff-ie, you know? Like, yes Edmund dude, I hear you loud and clear, and so do the 2004 casting director and director. [puts on âactorlyâ voice] âWhat a cunning choice. Ha! Heâs speaking about himself in society through a Shakespearean character. How lovely! Clever too.â Hmm-hmm. No.
I got here too early. Itâs better than being too late, thatâs worse. Anything that causes more tension in the room counts against my getting the job. I say more, because itâs often already quite tense in there. âWhat if he sees me staring at his hands? What if heâs crap and I find it embarrassing? What if we fumble the greeting handshake? Oh, God, the handshake. What if the audience canât believe him in the role? Oh! What if I canât believe him in the role? Because his body looks weird. His body isnât normal. His body, his body, his body, body, b-b-b-b-b-buh-buh-buhâŠâ Bam! My flippers intervene. Pow! My hands got shaken in between your very practised smile and theyâre normal, I defile. Slam! Dunked in your expectations, my refreshing permutations.
Iâm 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 the job. But the jobâs the thing, the only thing worth having from this. I certainly donât do it so they can have their first experience of auditioning then passing on a disabled actor. This oneâs a real actual part, one of two characters involved in essential narrative, school sweethearts that meet again on Skype after 30 years because somebody died on Facebook. Itâd 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. Donât 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. âHow did you get here? Howâs your agent? Do you know a random disabled actor they didnât give a job to five years ago?â âYes, I think I do know them.â âHa, lovely guy.â
I can just see them sitting there behind 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 wouldnât⊠work. Iâm beginning to sweat. My heart rateâs too fast. Iâm in a state of anxiety. Damn! Iâm even starting to question my clothing choice. This says long lost lover. Right? Iâve got to get a grip. Harder with no thumbs but not impossible.
When I was 12, Mr Proctor, our fashionable English teacher, who I loved, because I thought that he liked me, asked us to write a narrated version of a famous fairy tale. I wrote a version of âGoldilocks and the Three Bearsâ, describing an imaginary Goldilocks and had three mates miming the bears. When they saw Goldilocks sleeping Baby Bear said, âLook.â Mummy Bear said, âOh, my.â But then I had Daddy Bear do his own line. âPhwoar!â Mr Proctor roared, and I was hooked for life to the best drug in the world: audience appreciation.
In that moment I didnât feel like the only disabled kid in the school, I felt wanted, appreciated, valued. And it made Carole Anne laugh. Next term Mr Proctor announced a 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. âGreat.â On the day I waited for my turn to audition. Carole Anne was sitting in 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 Iâd been taught at home, I saw Carole Anne laughing. She looked embarrassed. It drilled into my skull like self-hating trepanation.
Howâs this for a character breakdown. âFather, 50, could be disabledâ. Never seen that, never. I have on my lucky underwear briefs. Stripey ones that are fraying, but Iâve got three jobs in them and now ten years old, are reserved for auditions. [gasps] Thereâs a small hole where my ball skin sometimes gets painfully trapped in the leg elastic, but itâs usually worth the risk.
Four minutes to go. Feeling okay. Should I gesticulate during this 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 burnt my eyebrow which everybody saw but pretended not to notice. Didnât get that job. Eyebrow grew back after a couple of months.
Maybe I could lightly flirt with one of them, so they can see Iâve got that kind of traditional man sexuality and charisma. That too hasnât 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. âI donât know if Iâm meant to be here, it says that the roleâs for a character with CP.â âWell, if you could read the lines anyway and try to portray cerebral palsy.â [speaks inaudibly] âWow, that was amazing. So moving.â No, itâs not amazing, itâs not even acting, itâs mimicry, nothing more. Donât get angry man, leave it outside the room. You donât 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 âThe Age of Aquariusâ. 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 to the facially supportive pianist, undermining the last of my confidence with his look of poor man, heâll never make it, and launched into my high energy rendition of the rock musical classic. [sings] Aquarius, AquariusâŠ
I worked the room, moving through the space as if singing it on stage, as all three jaws opened as one to my high spirited performance. I finished. There was silence, as three open mouthed conservative musical theatre toughies all looked blank, then shut their cake holes. âThank you, Mat, for that. [nervous laugh] Thank you, that was er⊠Thanks.â My hands are the work of the devil for some people. Iâve got short arms as a result of my mum taking thalidomide, a morning sickness drug. âIt says on your resume that you have prosthetic arms. Do you ever use them?â I wonât get the job because they donât want to send the wrong message. I will get the job because the real message is that thereâs no message, because disabled actors cannot be bad guys because itâs interesting casting for a bad guy. Because the casting agentâs scared of what the director might say, because the casting agent has resolve and the director lives in the present century.
Then the aftercare emails to really drive home the point they donât even know theyâre making. âYou didnât get it, sorry, but they were really glad you came in.â âYou didnât get it, sorry, but they really liked your performance.â âYou didnât get it, sorry, but they said how much you brought to the role.â âI checked in with casting and you got some really lovely feedback on your self-tape. They were really happy and excited about it. You didnât get it, sorry.â
All those roles that could have been. All that audience understanding achieved, that equality imagined. Career highlights. Spilt milk. Age seven, my mum took me somewhere official. I could feel it in her air. She kept looking away. We sat down in a waiting room. Opposite and around me were loads of kids with short arms. Iâd never seen anyone that looked like me before. They called my name, but Mum wasnât 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, âCome and sit in the chair opposite.â They asked me questions. âEverything all right? Howâs school? Do you know any of the random children outside?â Then one of them told me that in the top drawer of a filing cabinet stood about five 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 pinstriped double breasted suit, holding open an ink pen, wrote, âÂŁ15,000â. Iâd just been means tested by the people that deformed me. A compensation assessment by the drug company. They didnât ask me to tie up a shoelace 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 agonising way up the filing cabinet and then failed to get any chocolate. I might have been only seven but Iâm the son of two actors for Godâs sake. Yes, I am. Itâs in my blood, in my heart, filling my head with calm assurance. Iâm 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.
[sound of door opening] âMat?â âYeah?â
Ìę
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