An actor for a season, a reason, or a lifetime?

Reflections on the business of acting, casting, and proactivity.

Are you an actor who has gone the extra mile to be noticed by a specific director for a particular film? What’s your story? Here’s mine and what I learnt from it in hindsight.

 We, actors, are desperate –or at least that’s how it feels before we reach the maturity to understand that we, too, can be choosers. Our quest to show range in our character-building process, desire to shout out to the world “here I am, let me show you what I can do” has to fit into a mold set and designed by the script and then the casting process.

 I have recently come to the realization that I have probably always been a go-getter. Looking back on my colorful life —spanning three continents, four cultures and languages— I recognize that if I ever wanted anything, I would set my mind on it and do everything in my power (and those around me) to achieve my goal(s). Of course, I have not always succeeded in fulfilling all of my dreams, but in retrospect I have come pretty darn close and, upon reflection, I realize certain closed doors were probably blessings in disguise, or it could be that my wish was not strong enough.

 That’s why this is not a story about how if and when you want something, it’s guaranteed you will get it if you give it your all. There is no formula to how the universe shuffles the cards and who gets the ace of hearts. It’s about the process, the journey, the path on which you choose to embark so that you can look back in the rear-view mirror and see for yourself what the point of it all was. So, in a way, it is entirely up to you whether a story has a happy ending or not.

Why act?

I was born an entertainer. My loved ones still reminisce about how, as a little girl, I would amuse them with jokes and impersonations of people and situations we had encountered that day in the form of evening sketches for my family to enjoy. I am told, as a four-year-old, amidst bouts of friendly protests, I would leave them all with cliffhangers (“to be continued tomorrow night!”), always begging for more.

My first love affair with cinema started at the age of 3 when my mother took me to see the marvelous Susan Hayward in a Persian-language dubbed version of I Want to Live (1958) in Tehran. It was sad, dramatic and intense. I still remember the scene when they bring her toddler to see the protagonist in jail before the execution. Not a film for a toddler, I know, but I am still grateful for those early cinema outings that have shaped so much of the aesthetics of my prism and appreciation for the moving image.

And then my parents and I started playing pretend with our super 8mm camera. ‘Walk down the street as though you are in a hurry’, ‘stand by the entrance and pretend you are waiting for a friend who is late’, etc. Looking back on it, I realize those were my very first acting classes —Stanislavski études of sorts— way before we moved to Barcelona and way before I wrote actrice next to the dotted line for my desired profession on an French ID class project in 3rd grade and way before I attended drama school in my teens initially, and then later in my late 20s.   

Even before that, by simply growing up next to a father who breathed the memories of his Anahita Theatre Company days alongside his Stanislavski gurus, Mahin and Mostafa Oskui in the early 1960s Tehran, the feature films in which he had starred and, of course, Stranger in the World —the feature he had written and made by means of punching the wall with his bare fist every time his mother would delay financial support (or so the anecdote goes) and he had to put filming on hold, feeling terrible for cast and crew waiting on set for the new film negative to arrive. 

 My family and I emigrated by choice to Barcelona, Spain, before the Iranian Revolution of 1979 only to return in the mid 1980s at a time when everyone was fleeing the clutches of the new totalitarian regime and when I was going through a typical puberty filled with uncertainty and trying to find my place in our chaotic world. Amidst the confusion, sadness and desolation I was feeling in dark times of war and the type of dictatorship that even dictated what you had to wear in public, I found solace in journaling, writing short stories, poetry, translating poetry, plays and novels first for my own heart, and then, professionally. Yes, I was destined to be a multilingual communicator: as an actor, a creative writer, a translator/interpreter, and a language and dialect coach.

An outing to a Chinese restaurant off of Fatemi Square led us to the doorstep of the Anahita Theatre Company and the beginning of my journey into acting school and, soon after, working professionally on Iranian TV, film and theatre while still nursing my desire to find a way back to Europe, to where my roots had taken shape. It wasn’t until 1992 that I achieved my goal and landed in London to return to drama school and find my path again from where my teens had been interrupted by involuntary uprooting.

Iran gave me great friends who had experienced both worlds that I cherish to this day, warmth from the kindest of people anyone could ever wish to encounter, maturity, and the way to an unconditional way to receive guests at home.

London gave me higher education, independence, international friends and the English language; the last language I acquired, but my primary form of written communication after almost a decade in England and over two in the U.S.A. It solidified me as a linguist, cinema lover and, later, when I returned to drama school, as an actor once again and today, as a language and dialect coach.

DESPERATELY SEARCHING FOR FARHADI or GOING TO GET AND LEARNING TO FAIL

Make it stand out

With Spanish, English, Persian and French, years of professional on stage and on camera experience under my belt at such a young age and an MA in Film, it was no surprise I desperately wanted to connect with Asghar Farhadi when I heard he was planning on filming his next feature in Spain, a co-production with brothers Pedro and Agustín Almodóvar as initially announced. Even if I was not given a part, I thought, surely, I could help with translation and interpreting needs on set. Hell, I would even be willing to make coffee and copies for that matter! And so began my somewhat desperate journey to make him aware of my existence and willingness to help. Aren’t we, actors, encouraged to self-promote and find subtle ways to knock and unlock doors?

 With my detective hat on and my invisible magnifier in hand, I began with my industry contacts in Iran as well as in Spain. Who knew someone who knew someone who had worked with someone who knew either Almodóvar or Farhadi? I asked directors I had worked with, actors of my father’s generation, make-up artists who knew someone who had assisted either director, translators who were old classmates who knew Farhadi’s style of communication and even my agent in San Francisco in the hopes they would contact Farhadi’s in Los Angeles. Everyone responded and everyone tried to make that connection happen for me. It was not unusual to get a forwarded screenshot of exchanged texts to reassure me they were “on it”. And then, an announcement was made on Telegram that Farhadi’s assistant was accepting self-taped submissions for consideration for an “unspecified project”. The most challenging part of taping an introduction when you have had professional experience in the same country as the director way before he became an Oscar-winner is to say so much in such a short period of time, to remain humble, yet highlight your achievements, to still be modest, yet communicate that you are not only a fan, but a fellow industry professional. I self-taped a short introduction, sent it and never heard back.

 A year later, in 2016, I was in Ningbo, China, to star in the feature Waiting for Kiarostami. Some of us had flown over from the U.S. and some from Iran. On our last day of filming, the crew offered to have me sit against a green screen to record a short introduction for Asghar Farhadi to make sure he knew why I was so insistent on joining his project: I was fluent in the languages he’d be using on set to communicate with his cast and crew and I came from the same cinematic family. I belong, therefore please hire me! We shot the video and sent it to his PR who was kind enough to respond to a direct message and wish me luck.  

 I waited and waited to see if anyone would get back to me. I thought, maybe the fact that my father had contributed to the establishment of “House of Cinema” (a SAG of sorts in Iran) and I have been a working actress since my teens will at the very least get me a form of acknowledgement, even if a simple: “thank you, but no thank you”. And so, I waited and continued to wait.  

 Meanwhile, after I had reached out to people at Almodóvar’s El Deseo, the news of a Farhadi-Almodóvar co-production started changing in the press and it was now clear they would not collaborate this time after all. Feeling a little embarrassed, I now started to focus my search and introduction opportunity on Farhadi only. And then, I found out he would be appearing at Mill Valley Festival to introduce his film The Salesman. The screening was sold out, but I found a way to get two tickets through a dear friend who sponsors Frameline Festival. Someone suggested writing a letter in Persian to hand to him personally. And to make two copies of the same.

My mom and I arrived at the San Rafael screening ready to enjoy the evening and to find a moment to make a personal connection with Farhadi. At the entrance, we ran into a very jolly distant relative who is as sweet as honey and as daring as fire and told her about the letters we were holding. “Give me one”, she said. I dutifully did so, but begged her to wait until after the screening. When the lights went down, Farhadi passed by our row, stage left, and waited for the festival director to welcome him and his interpreter on stage. My heart sunk. As the lights dimmed, we noticed a fiery blond-haired figure get up from a center row, dash towards Farhadi like a dart in the dark, place a white envelope in his hand and run back to her seat. Mom and I looked at each other. We were flabbergasted. It was a copy of my letter and that figure was our distant relative!

After the film introduction, as Farhadi was leaving the auditorium the same way he had made his way on the stage, my mom leaned over, called him in Persian, grabbed his wrist and said: “Mr. Farhadi. Read the letter! Read it!”, to which he nodded and smiled.

I was so nervous about wanting to ask a question post-screening, that I don’t recall much of the movie at the time. I also know that I never plucked up the courage to ask a question or to compete with the torrent of people who were fighting for his attention as he was stepping off stage. Instead, I waited in the wings and, when he took the center aisle to leave the auditorium, I stood at the top of the isle until he reached me and I introduced myself. “Are you the one who sent a video?” “Yes”, I replied, happy for an instant sign of recognition. “I have written you a letter. Will you read it if I hand it to you?” Yes, he nodded. I opened my purse and gave him the duplicate copy. And then I waited and waited and waited. But I never heard anything in response to my letter, video introduction, the official submission through Telegram or any of the personal and professional recommendations through common industry professionals.

It is now 2017, the film Todos Lo Saben is in pre-production with Javier Bardem and Penélope Cruz as the leads, and I am in Canada wrapping up performances of my solo show Mimi’s Suitcase and about to head to Edinburgh Festival Fringe for a full run and an exciting month of shows and friendships. I kiss my hubby good-bye at Toronto airport. He is heading back to San Francisco and would join me in Scotland a few weeks later. I get an unexpected text from a family member in Madrid asking me to contact them asap. I do so and learn that Farhadi’s assistant had been dining at their house the night before and to send over any materials I may have. Nervous and hopeful at this unexpected turn of events, I proceed to fight with the bad airport internet connection to record an unsolicited voice memo entirely in Spanish to demonstrate my language skills to the assistant. Hey, look at me. I am a native speaker and I belong to the same industry. I can help! I try so hard to prove myself only to learn shortly after that the assistant does not speak a word of Spanish! I am dumbfounded. 

My relative is unaware of the two-year effort to get noticed and graciously forwards my website to his assistant and promises to let me know as soon as they hear back. My flight is delayed and I am now filled with a sense of hope as well as dread. If I get an interview, would I be willing to turn my back to an entire month of performances at the Fringe and head to Spain for the duration of filming? The answer is yes. But, what about Mimi’s Suitcase? I keep thinking about this moment of serendipity. What are the odds of my relative –who had no idea about my many attempts to make myself known to Farhadi– hosting his assistant in Madrid while they were in pre-production for the film that had me on a goose chase for the past couple of years? Maybe, maybe there’s still a smidgen of hope, my little inner voice assured me.

I landed in Scotland, settled in my room and got a text from my relative with a screenshot of the assistant’s text that showed she had indeed shared my site with him that day. That evening, I was relieved to hear: “he says there are no parts for your type in this film”. I say relieved because it’s always better to know than to be kept in the dark. If I had known that sooner, I would not have insisted or continued hoping. That’s where an assistant could have simply communicated long before: “thank you, but no thank you”.

My run at the Fringe was a success in that my show was reviewed favorably, I made new friends and returned to San Francisco happy about the intense and rewarding experience. Farhadi shot the film and the reception at Cannes was lukewarm. Then the time came for festival circuits.

I heard he would be teaching a Master Class in Screenwriting and Acting as part of an Iranian cultural group at Toronto University. While attending TIFF 2018 that year, I attended his workshops and realized one more time an important fact I had been pondering about for some time: Nobody –nobody– is as important as we think they are because, after all, we are all humans and we are all in this together. So, there’s no point in putting anyone on a pedestal.  

As the two-day workshop ended, I wait outside the university building, suitcase in hand, waiting for a taxi to take me to the airport back to San Francisco. I looked at the bottom of the stairs where a large group of fans had gathered around Farhadi asking questions, hoping for a photo, an autograph. The wind was caressing my hair and it felt good to look up and notice the sky, the birds, the breeze that made me feel alive. When the taxi arrived, I grabbed my suitcase, made my way down the stairs past the fans, got in the car and looked straight ahead as the car pulled out of the campus. Now more than ever I knew that no one is as glorious as we think they are and that we actors are not “nobodies”.

I look back on it all and realize two things: that I am still the impressionable teenager I always was and that, deep down, despite the desperation and uncertainty that inevitably goes with being an actor, I have never lost my ability to hope because, as Morgan Freeman once said in an interview with the late James Lipman at Inside the Actors’ Studio: “If you keep going, someone will always, always give you a hand. Always. But you gotta keep dancing, you gotta keep your feet moving.” It has to be mathematical: If you dance long enough, someone, somewhere, will take notice and then the possibilities can be infinite. And it is that chance –as tiny as it is– that makes it worth pursuing your craft and to never stop dancing. 

Looking back on my life and thinking about the balance between the effort I have put into achieving goals and dreams and what I have gained in return, this comes to mind: maybe I haven’t danced long enough or, better still, maybe the best part of my dance is yet to come.