Jaumear

It’s been months since the last time I wrote in my blog, but it is not due to a shortage of news, WTJ or assorted stupidities to say. After I finished my voiceovers course I’ve been busy trying to find my luck in different studios all around Barcelona. Soon I will post some anecdotes and even some videos where you will be able to listen to my voice dubbing a manga character from the tv series: “Death Note”. But that’s another story. Today I would like to inform about the opening of the play “Disparejas” (something like “Uncoupled”), written by Rodi Carrasco, at the Teatreneu. We start next Sunday at 18:30 and we will be on every Sunday from November 14th and until December 5th (if it works we will get more days) The play is in Spanish, by the way.

The play has four scenes where different couple situations of all ages take place. They will have to solve certain problems such as to show everybody how perfect their relationship is, avoid being caught in bed by the parents or try to make a stubborn roommate leave the place so the date can take place with no interruptions. To sum up: seventy minutes of laughs and a little dancing in not-so-fashionable underwear. You can’t miss it!

Here you have the link to Teatreneu’s website where you can purchase the tickets if you want to watch the play: TICKETS FOR DISPAREJAS

This story begins with a visit to a website for actors which name is not relevant. There I find a casting RTVE (Spanish National TV Network) is going to do in order to find the cast for the musical version of Spanish well known tv series about the life of a family after the civil war called “Cuéntame” (Tell me), and which title is going to be “Cántame” (sing to me). I send my resume and some pictures where I look handsome (I don’t know how, but my friends are genius photographers). Two days after I receive a call from the studio to give me an appointment for the last March the 17th at 8:30 in the morning. I’m told to rehearse three different songs. So far so good. Weird things start: the girl who called asks if I’m going alone or with company. “Eeeeeeer… alone”, I reply. She tells me that I can take relatives and friends with me so they can dance and make the chorus while I sing. I flip. I recover, nevertheless, thinking of something rational that would explain such suggestions. Something rational I can’t recall, of course. I put down the phone and I stop turning it over in mind.

It’s the 17th. I’ve got all I need for the casting. I wake up at 7 to shower, get dressed and have enough time to reach the train station and grab a train to the place. It’s so cold in the street. I rehearsed three songs, including Robbie Williams’ “Angels”. I, poor dreamer, think I will impress them. After the train journey and a little five minutes walk I reach the studio. There are people queueing, but it’s still 8:15 in the morning so It doesn’t bother me much. Fifteen minutes later all remains the same, only now there are more people queueing behind me. I hear conversations of the people around me: some ladies brought their husbands and even some daughter (chan-chaaaaan), I have a feeling that this isn’t just right: are these people pros?

Nine o’clock. More people queueing. We still can’t go in. It is so cold I can’t even feel my feet. I feel a little breeze of madness coming up my throat. I breath. And swallow. Nine thirty in the morning. I no longer feel my calves. People starts singing the song “Cuéntame, cómo te ha ido…” (from “Formula V”) but changing the lyrics with “we wanna get in” and other stuff. We are all pissed off. I can see in the distance a worker from RTVE placing at the entrance of the main building a banner which goes: “Cuéntame, the musical”. This happens about twenty feet away from where we stand. I must add: in the freaking street. Chan-chaaaaaaaaaaaan. Second warning, that banner is not for us, it’s probably because they are about to film this whole circus. It’s some kind of talent show.

Nine forty-five. Four camera guys exit the main building, everyone accompanied by another sound guy with mics and all. No chan-chaaan no crap, this smells like scam. Some girls with papers in their hands also appear and they start speaking with the people outside. One of them begins her interviews with the people who stands three spots ahead of me. It’s a woman and her husband. Interviewer question: “why did you come to the casting?”, woman’s answer: “because I always loved singing”, thought in my head: “Where the hell am I?”. Next group of people. Another woman. “You came alone?”, “no, my husband is over there, pretty upset for the waiting”. And which was the interviewer’s answer?

Option a: I’m very sorry, madam, but we had some trouble getting started.
Option b: He better get used to it, madam.
Option c: Mint is my favourite ice-cream flavor.

Hint: the girl didn’t have much manners and it was certainly too cold to think of ice-cream. So yes, the only answer left is b. That’s right. No apologies nor shit, they are a big TV channel and they begin the castings whenever they please, hell yeah. Another wave of madness comes to my head. On the other hand, the woman just replies with a slight laughter. She wasn’t professional either. Next: the girl just in front of me who comes accompanied by her father. “Can you sing?”, and pay attention here, because the answer is absolutely true and must not be missed: “yes, I can, in the shower”. No words. I’m out. My turn.

I ask: what is the schedule?
She answers: we will stay here for some time.
Me: time, how long?
She: whatever it takes, that’s the way castings are.
Me: no, they are not.
She: well, those for TV are.
Me: eeeeeer, no. I worked for TV and their are not this way either.
She: god knows what TV you were in. But, hey, good start…
Me: (an answer pops to my throat: in a TV where castings started on time; but I hold my horses) ok, you’re right, I’m an asshole. The only thing I want to know is how long do you plan on ending the casting.
She: don’t even thing of going back home until ten p.m.
Me: well then, I’m out. Thanks for everything.

And that is the way my little trip to RTVE lands ended, ladies and gentleman. Be nobody is rough. If some day this happens the other way around, I hope to remember this day. The big ones should be there to protect the little ones. They step on them instead. Greetings and good luck, you are going to need it if you are a little fish.

A morning like any other. Well, at least that’s what I think. The world outside must be the same as yesterday… Nope, there it is, that power some will call God and others climatic change, to show me the universe might be a lot of things but predictible. I walk out the room towards the bathroom and a snow rain (literally, none porno metaphores), falls at the other side of the living room’s window. Awesome. I go back to my room: “hon, it’s snowing”, I say with an unknown heat in my voice after waking up. She, still in the mental struggle to defeat the cold and rip the sheets out of her body, answers with a half dead “aha”. Like it happens all the time! If I said the backstreet boys were in the living room completlely naked, things would be very different.

A couple of hours later we step on the street with clear minds, clean bodies and our best antifreezing suits. This is what appears before us:

It’s snowing. It’s snowing hard. And at sea level. It occurs to me maybe destroying the ecosystem wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The camera gets wet. “Come on, run”, “comiiiiiiing”. People covers with no success under jaquets, waterproof coats and umbrellas.

¡It’s war! Everybody walks on the streets in a flurry. Those who work stare outside from inside their customers empty stores. Waiters, on the other hand, move crazy from table to table, serving hot chocolate, coffes and other stuff, not even noticing the snow. We head to the dubbing school, inside our coats and dodging pedestrians, under the miserable protection of a broken umbrella. We arrive to the metro station. “Do we get in or do we go on foot?” We can’t make a choice. Anyway we start walking while I argue something stupid about how close we are. Two steps further we turn back and enter the metro, like absorbed for a friendly force: the subterranean heat. My feet are wet. I put my hood away and some snow falls into my pullover and slides through my back: Good morning, friends! After a line transfer and three or four stops we are in the street again. What we see is not much better.

The floor is slippy, all covered in mood and footsteps. A viscous and brown fluid which used to be white and fragile fills the sidewalks and the asphalt. Little avalanches fall on the pedestrians like cluster bombs from balconies and roofs. This is better than medal of honor. We reach the school at last. We go in. “Hi, wassup…” We record a take, “come on, we are closing because nobody came”. The official version is they close for the students safety. I don’t clock in until eight, so we stay in the bar talking about life, love and other nonsense stuff with some school mates and the teacher.

Great day. I hope yours was even better.

It turns out, for no specific reason, there was a casting on the last wednesday for a hands advert for a certain brand which name I can’t remember (if they hire me, maybe my mind clears up) I couldn’t attend. Friday evening comes. I’m out from dubbing classes and find out some missed calls from the models’ agency. I call back: the brand… (I’m not telling unless they hire me, don’t insist) contacted us to know if they could meet you this evening or tomorrow morning. I answer there is no problem and they tell me to wait five minutes, so they can tell me when to go. By the way, the place where the casting takes place is in Santa Coloma de Gramenet and I am in the very center of Barcelona. Anyway, it’s far as hell. Phone rings while I’m walking home, I pick it up, it is not going to be today but tomorrow morning. Great. And I’ve already arranged a party tonight. Night comes: I go out anyway, but avoiding anything pointy with my hands: I’m sorry baby, but I can’t touch you up, you could injure one of my ligaments or worse, but taht doesn’t mean you can’t… Why go further. The point is next morning arrives. The alarm clock wakes me up. I could seriously hurt the guy who invented the beeps for this stuff. It’s nine o’clock. My head hurts and my stomach wants to exit my body through my mouth. I manage to get to the bathroom. No way that guy in the mirror is me. I’m blink twice, raise a hand… Shit, it is me. Looks like I’ve been in a huge fight. Rings under the eyes: deep and dark. Beard: three days long… Face: pale as death. But the most important, hands: in perfect shape. Maybe somebody will give me some coins in the subway, but my hands look awesome. Shower and dress. Exit. The subway journey feels eternal. Then the walk to the spot. All this for 240 euros less the 20 percent the agency takes and what taxes suck. I feel like a jerk. And that is if they hire me, don’t forget it’s a casting. I finally get to the place. I ring the door. A guy opens. I am Jaume Aguiló, my voice sound like crab. Come in, come in. He makes me fill a casting form: name, I.D., someshit… Height, Shirt size, Trousers… Do you really need this? Yes, yes, he says. I shut up and keep writing. I’m really fond of the form’s question: are you free on the designated filmind date? Hell, I hope so, after the shitty day I’m having. But the greater was yet to come: I finish filling the data and he asks me: Do you snowboard? Eeeeeeeeeem… Now I don’t follow. I come for the hands. Aaaaaah! He says. I knew it. Come inside, we’ll do the casting. The stuff is hard. It is about holding a rectangular pad before the camera in an unbelievable position even for a kamasutra expert and turn its pages with a certain speed so the printed images on them can look like moving. Ok, it’s fine so far. The trick is the so called movement has to be put on top of actual characters who are sitting in the back. That is, you can see real people’s legs in the back and their torsos are printed on the sheets of the pad and I have to make it look like they are actually moving. On top of that the torsos on the imprinted stills move too from side to side, which means I have to adapt the positions with the real characters in the back. In that moment I feel God’s hatred towards me. In the end, the guy likes how I did it. I take a look to the clock: one hour. David Mamet used to say actors were whores, lucky me he never spoke about hand models. I go bakc to the subway, taht huge non cybernetic social network. There I find a woman who is supposedly talking to her mother through the phone and who reveals to me an unquestionable truth: mom, she says, there are fights in every marriage, and those who say there aren’t is because they don’t love each other. Fuck me. I figure the United States are a very love giver nation. The world’s teletubbies. I bomb you because I love you, buddy. Meanwhile I notice I cought a cold in the street and feel snot running down my nose. So I do what every man or women with studies but without handkerchief would do. I wipe myself with the back of my hand. And this way, with snots and bombs I give an ending to this post. I know it has been a while since the last one, but there was a little logistic misunderstanding which has been already solved.

¿Does anybody remember the tv series Doogie Howser, M.D.? A guy who knows what he is doing, but whose youth incites criticism. This blog is rather the opposite, a guy who has no idea and is too old to start blogging. Welcome to my little personal universe, I hope you find something interesting in it.