Ollie Taylor
Coronavirus has almost entirely put a halt to all dramatic proceedings at Durham. With the exception of the occasional underwhelming and unsatisfying radio play hastily recorded on zoom, Durham Student Theatre has been able to produce very little. As an actor, this has unsurprisingly been most frustrating. Having not acted in a long time evokes a peculiar feeling, like an unscratchable itch, which is very difficult to describe to anyone who isn’t interested in the craft. This is exacerbated by a terrifying undertone: the fear that without practice, you’ll forget how to do it. This feeling builds up so much that you need to find a way of releasing some steam. If I’ve learned one thing from lockdown, it’s that I’m capable of entertaining myself for days and days on end with one big mirror and a selection of novelty hats. Also, there have been many times when I’ve suddenly realised that I’ve been prancing around my room for the last half an hour reciting bits and pieces from old plays. A long internal debate then ensues as I try to work out if I’m in the throes of a cabin-fever-induced bout of madness, or if I’m genuinely a bit of a fruit loop. Actually, it turns out I’m just an actor who hasn’t been doing a satisfactory amount of acting. Just as a revolting, sexually-frustrated adolescent discovers ways of practicing by himself with an old sock, I have found ways to assuage the desire to perform with a mirror and some flair headwear. The latter, however, is much less socially acceptable.
I could very easily sit here and whinge about the pandemic and how it’s ruining everything until the cows come home, but I’m not going to. Not because I’ve realised that I don’t have it as bad as some people, not because I feel it will dispirit you and certainly not because I’ve learned to look on the bright side, but because I can’t be bothered anymore. It’s got to a stage where any mention of the pandemic makes me want to eat my own face, so I’m dealing with it the only way an Englishman knows how- by finding something entirely different to whinge about. I shall attempt to give you a little bit of insight into the horrific career path that I’ve selected for myself. That may seem a little egotistical but I assure you that my thoughts reflect those of many aspiring actors who are all just as self-absorbed as I am.
After leaving Durham, I will be attempting to get into one of the hugely competitive drama colleges in London for a three-year course. The best of these take less than thirty or so in each year. Failing this, I will simply have to try again the following year. The success rate at getting into these places is much higher with slightly older and wiser actors and it is rare to get in at the first attempt. This is one of the many, many reasons why I consider myself lucky not to live in the USA. If I wanted to become an actor in America, I would’ve had to have moved to Hollywood with my family at the age of 8 to try and get a part in an advert for Weetabix, or whatever disgusting, palm-oil filled equivalent they have over there.
There is not really any knowing what happens next. I presume my drama college will help me find an agent to take me on. Early in my career, when I’m in the age range for most of the best parts in film and TV, I will simply have to be a whore for any part I can get. The industry is so competitive, so dog-eat-dog, and can be so harsh that it would be a devastating display of hubris to think of any part as below me. If I get offered the part of third spear-carrier in a terrible production of Macbeth in a tiny theatre in the arse-end of nowhere, I’ll be completely ecstatic, and carry that spear with outrageous vigour and enthusiasm. It is all about being busy, working hard, getting parts in as many things as I can, not becoming disheartened when things look bleak and just enjoying it as much as possible. The dream of getting a so-called big break and all the excitement that it would bring may be what keeps many actors going, but for me the chance to perform as much as possible is motivation in itself. There is always, however, the morbid sense of dread that the phone will stop ringing, the parts will dry up and I’ll have to start introducing myself at parties as an out-of-work actor, which is society kindly offering a way of telling other people that you’re totally unemployed.
People often ask me how long I plan to give acting a go for. There’s no real answer. I suppose as long as it’s financially viable. The myth of the poverty-stricken actor is most definitely not a myth. When I’m in my late thirties living in a tiny flat with five or six other failed actors it might be time to call it a day. Nobody’s done the washing-up in months. The cockroaches and mice we live with seem to be having a competition to see who can be bigger. The place is in serious need of a scented candle or at least some Febreze. No one can really afford to pay rent. We sit around watching TV and complaining that the actors they hire these days are useless. And most of us have some form of alcoholism or smack problem. I have neither a part nor a girlfriend in sight. The dream has melted away. I will then try and utilise my degree in Psychology from Durham and, twenty years after I should’ve, try to get a proper job.
That is my career path in its full. I personally can’t wait. It may be disastrous, it may be an enormous mistake and it may all end in tears but I love acting more than anything else, and life is too short not to make a go of it. It will be a sad moment when I decide I can’t do it anymore, simply because I will not be able to do what I most enjoy. But unlike professional footballers who, after retiring, are never able to emulate the feeling of scoring a goal for the rest of their lives, I’ve been through three lockdowns with no acting, so I know how to entertain myself with a mirror and a few silly hats.
