The Strawberry Call Back

By Matt Landers

I hardly ever get commercials. It seems like I’ve auditioned for thousands but I am rarely hired. When I worked on Broadway, invariably some cast member would show up at half-hour bragging about the commercial spot they booked and how they’d have to take a personal day or sick day off to shoot it. I was always so jealous. Then you’d see them on TV in between innings of the ball game or during sit-com pee breaks in some silly ad. And you knew they were making residual money.

It’s cool to be on TV. People come up to you and say,
“Hey, I saw you on TV last night!”

Like all of a sudden you’re somebody. They slap you on the back or buy you a drink and you feel like you have a new buddy. No one seems to realize it takes a lot more talent, training, hard work and is a much bigger accomplishment to get cast in even the chorus of a Broadway musical.

So, I got a commercial agent in New York and after many, many calls, book a McDonalds commercial. We shoot it at a McResturant in Union Square. It is stupid. It is more important the French fries look good than I get my lines right.

The money is good and so commercial auditions become a regular part of my experience. But, deep down I hate going up for them and it must show, because audition after audition they seem to never pick me.
Here is an incident in LA that epitomizes my feeling about commercials. I audition and am called back for this goofy product – to play the role of a Strawberry. No, that’s not right. The Strawberry.

The casting director tells me it’s between me and another actor, Joe. I see him at all the commercial calls; he books a lot. A shot of fear and anxiety runs through me. Somehow, I just know Joe will beat me out for the coveted role of the Strawberry.
I don’t understand what the Strawberry is supposed to do. I ask the casting director.

“Just be a strawberry.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”

She looks at me like I’m dense.

She tells us to show up for the final audition in a red hooded sweatshirt. Ostensibly so the producer/clients can better ascertain how we will look in the red strawberry costume. We are to wear the sweatshirt with the hood up and the drawstring pulled tight so the material of the hood frames (encircles, really) our faces.

I don’t own a red hooded sweatshirt; I only have a blue one. I am expected to purchase or borrow a red one for the callback. I really don’t want to go out and fork over eighteen to twenty six bucks for a new red hooded sweatshirt. I mean if I don’t get the job, the once-worn sweatshirt will become a constant reminder of my failure. I can’t handle that. Additionally, I’m not the type to buy one and return it to the store after the audition and demand a full refund. It all seems like too much trouble to go to for the role of a strawberry I really don’t want - and that Joe is probably going to get anyway!

The fateful day arrives. I walk into the casting studio for the call back and there is Joe wearing a red hooded sweatshirt with the hood up and the drawstring cinched tight.

“Look at this guy,” I think, “He deserves this job. I’m sunk. He’s not even embarrassed to be seen in the waiting area in a red hooded sweatshirt trying to look like a strawberry.”

I go to speak to him but - I stop myself. I’m in a quandary.
“Wait a minute. Is he trying to psych me out?”
He doesn’t appear to mind being made to wear the goofy get-up. He has this shit-eating grin on his face. He looks like he is enjoying himself! Unbelievable! I couldn’t even wear my sweatshirt on the way over. I brought it in a bag.

No. I won’t say anything to him. Two can play at this game. I sneer at him. Our eyes meet. I pour the hate into him. The disdain. I see a flicker of insecurity in his face when he notices I’m not wearing a sweatshirt. Sure I think,
“You psych me? I psych you!! I don’t even need a hooded sweatshirt.”
It’s working. I see it. He’s worried. He’s worried I’m gonna go in there and do a Method strawberry, that I might give them the Brando strawberry. That I’ll internalize so utterly and completely the feeling of an organic strawberry that, by contrast, they’ll view him as a shallow, superficial strawberry.

I slouch in my chair seemingly unconcerned about my performance; so confident am I in my abilities. The more I glower at him the bolder I feel. I sit up. I take a good look at him. Curious. The more I look, the more flawed he seems.

Then it hits me. I don’t buy him as a strawberry for a minute! He looks more like…a tomato! He’s all soft and pulpy, dying on the vine. He doesn’t have the edge to be a strawberry - or any kind of berry.
The casting director comes in, all smiles and calls his name. Joe, looking so doofy, gets up and waddles in.
She looks at me with the big smile.

“Matt, you’ll be next.”

A look of panic furrows her brow.

“Where’s your sweatshirt?”

I hold up my bag. Hand to her heart, she heaves a sigh of relief. The phony smile returns. She follows Joe into the room. I hear her say,
“Everyone, this is Joe.”

She closes the door.

Now I am alone. An actor prepares. How do I prepare to be a strawberry? The doubt enters in. I fight it off.
I’m good in the face of challenge.
This is a big challenge. It is no longer about getting the commercial. It is about integrity. I want to go in there and give the best damn audition for a strawberry I am capable of. I center. I focus. I breathe. I wring my hands. I rack my brain. I’m lost. Let’s face it; I have no idea how to be a strawberry - or any kind of berry! I’m just not a good enough actor. I’ll have to resort to my bag of tricks. I just hope I can pull it off.
Joe comes out. He’s no longer smiling. He walks right up to me and removes his hood. There is a red line all the way around his face. I guess he cinched his hood too tight.

He says,
“They’re all yours buddy”
I think,
“That’s right, you fucking tomato.”
I go in. I have my hand in my bag. Ready.

There is a camera operator, the casting director, the director, the producer and the clients all seated in various positions in the rarified air on the other side of the camera. I stand on the crisscrossed pieces of tape on the floor. The operator says,
“Slate please?”

I say my name and agency. Then quick as I can, I tear open the bag and I put on my blue sweatshirt with the hood up. I cinch it real tight. I look squarely, openly, honestly into the heart of the camera lens with a look of bewilderment and I say,
“Strawberry? I thought you were looking for a Blueberry!”

Get it? I’m wearing my blue sweatshirt.
Now, I think this is very funny, brave, bold, quirky, original, self-effacing and good for some kind of laugh from the clients or the producers or, at the least, a little chuckle from the director.

Wrong.
Silence. Zip. Not a peep. Nada. The director frowns. The clients and producers are nonplussed. They look like someone took a giant crap in the middle of the room and they didn’t know where to put their noses.
The director shoots an angry look at the casting director. As if it’s all her fault. Like,
“Didn’t you tell him strawberry?”

To get her off the hook, I step up and take the blame (actually I blame my agent), I mumble,
“I must have been misinformed.”
I thank them (why do I do that?) and slink away.
“Fuck’m they can’t take a joke.

Needless to say, Joe gets the spot. A few weeks later I see the commercial on TV. There is Joe walking down the street with that ridiculous grin on his face, wearing a huge red strawberry suit with just his face sticking out. He has a little stem hat on top, fake arms at his side and red leggings down below.
I am so relieved it isn’t me.
I gotta admit it: Joe is very believable as a human strawberry. I finally realize why he has that grin on his face – he is laughing all the way to the strawberry patch.