I just found out that the director for I, Robot “didn’t respond to any” of the tapes he saw, including mine.
In the mysterious Hollywood lexicon, this can mean a number of things, but it usually comes down to one of the following:

• My interpretation of this character and his vision don’t match up.
• I don’t physically look like what he has in his mind.

These are both very valid, and totally understandable reasons . . . but it doesn’t make me feel any less sad. It’s frustrating to hear “the director didn’t respond to you,” because it’s so nebulous. It’s like being told, “You’re not getting this job. Why? Because. Next!” It also has a sort of negative feeling to it, doesn’t it? It doesn’t help that I have heard “the director didn’t respond” without any real elaboration countless times in my career .
I was very happy with my audition. I wouldn’t change a single thing about it. I know that I could have done a great job with this character, and I would have been really good in this movie.
Whle I didn’t sit in my living room for days, not eating and agonizing over getting this part, I was genuinely excited about the opportunities it presented. Working with Will Smith and Alex Proyas, and getting to play a robot would have been awesome.
Thanks for all the support, everyone.
The journey continues . . .

Spent the weekend playing front yard touch football and whiffle ball with the kids. Tried very hard to care about the Superbowl, but I just couldn’t do it.
Played so much Vice City my thumbs hurt, and I dreamed that I was Tommy Vercetti last night. Very lucid, very strange.
Did lots of work in the garden — it’s been in the 80s here for over a week, so we decided to take advantage of the warm while we had the chance.
Wasted almost 18 hours trying to do several computer things. None of them work. Stupid computers.
Haven’t heard anything about the auditions.

Here’s a quick update on I, Robot:
They put about 100 actors on tape last week. 20 of those tapes were sent to the director, including mine. He will pick a few he likes, and have meetings with them this week or next.
Wish I had more info, but that’s it. Strangely, I’m not sitting here, stomach in knots, agonizing over whether I’ll get it or not. While I would love to work with Alex Proyas (I am a HUGE Dark City weenie) and play a robot, I don’t have the life-or-death feeling that used to accompany auditions.
And as far as I know, they didn’t see anyone from Jimmy Kimmel’s family.

Over at boingboing there is a link about Coppola filming an adaptation of “On The Road.”
This project has been around for almost ten years. The first time around, sometime in 1992 or so, I auditioned to play Neil Cassidy. I read a scene straight out of Dharma Bums.
I was already familiar with most of the Beat Generation, and was a huge fan of Burroughs, but I’d never read Kerouac.
I furiously read “On the Road,” and skimmed through “Dharma Bums.” I wanted to have a good sense of his style, so I could bring his character to life faithfully.
I was already a jazz geek, but I took the opportunity to fill several gaps in my collection, so I could listen to Charlie Parker and Chet Baker while I learned my scenes.
I worked with a coach to develop body language, and dialect. I bought clothes from a thrift shop and went through lots of different hairstyles until I got the correct look.
A little over a week later the audition came. I drove myself to this old church on Highland where they have auditions from time to time, listening to Bird the whole way. I walked into a large empty courtyard, filled with fountains, birds, and a beautiful garden. Only the sign-in sheet betrayed the presence of Hollywood. I sat down, focused and ready to go get this job.
While I was waiting, Emilio Estevez arrived.
Wow, I thought, I’m at the same audition as Emilio Estevez, and I’m about to meet the man who is responsible for The Godfather and Apocalypse Now!
I totally forgot why I was there, and became a drooling fan boy.
Emilio Estevez said hi to me, one professional to another, and I said, “Hey.”
There was a pause, and I heard myself say, “I want to tell you how much I like your work. Repo Man is one of my favorite movies of all time, and Breakfast Club is a classic.”
He went one better:”Wil, Stand By Me is a classic, and I love your work too. It’s really nice to meet you.”
I hadn’t told him my name, yet.
The casting assistant came out, and looked at the two of us. Emilio was on the “A” list. I was on my way to the “C” list, having been off TNG for a few years. She said, “Emilio, would you like to come in now?”
He looked at her, and said, “Wil was here before me. It’s his turn.”
She told him that it wasn’t a problem. They were ready for him.
“Well, if you’re ready for me, you’re ready for Wil, and he was here first.” He crossed his legs, and looked at his script.
I was stunned. He didn’t need to stand up for me, and it really didn’t matter to me who went first, but I thanked him and went in.
The room was large and very dark. Like the rest of the church, it was mission-style, with high, open-beamed ceilings and terra cotta tiles on the floor. Coppola was sitting behind his massive beard, a flimsy card table between us.
I approached him, and extended my hand. He didn’t take it, so I sat down.
“You don’t mind if I film you, do you?” he asked rhetorically, showing a palm-sized video camera he was holding.
“No, of course not.”
He asked me to slate my name, and begin the scene.
I did, and proceeded to give the worst audition of my life.
I’d forgotten why I was there, and was a drooling fan boy. I didn’t want to read this scene, I just wanted to talk about Apocalypse Now, and Rumblefish. I wanted to ask him about Marlon Brando, Dennis Hopper, and James Caan.
All these thoughts flooded my head while I stumbled through the scene. My Inner Voice, that internal critic/director/coach that all actor’s have, was screaming at me that I was doing horribly. I didn’t listen, instead hearing Robert Duvall shout, “Charlie don’t surf!” It screamed louder, telling me to stop and start over, but I was too busy watching John Cazale get on that boat, knowing that he was going to get whacked.
Then I was done, and Coppola was thanking me for coming in. We both knew that I’d blown it. We both knew that I’d wasted everyone’s time. I walked out, head hung low.
I passed Emilio Estevez, who asked me how it went. I shrugged, and told him to break a leg.
I drove home in silence, Chet Baker wondering how deep is the ocean?