-•✦--✦--✦•-
Sunday, September 13th, 1998, Hanover Gardens
Things were getting weird. The three Charles Dickens adaptations were all my hopes for getting my name out there. Yet, the first work I even received a callback for was a film I had auditioned for almost two months back. I had been emotional because of constantly getting rejected; it was impossible to feel bad when it seemed that no one wanted to do anything with me. Whether we like it or not, we need a confidence boost every now and then. My confidence may have been at the bottom if not for performing to a large audience most of the week.
Now, I had flipped all the way back. Full confidence because a casting director wanted me to come back for a second audition. Best of all, she had me pinned, which was an industry term for being shortlisted as a top consideration of the casting director. It effectively meant I had skipped over the callback process, which often involved dozens of actors until the CD could make that final recommendation of only pinned actors.
Having been pinned, it was now time for the director and producer to come in, and I would do another audition. It was still a callback even though I'd been pinned. I tried to remember what Adrian had said to me:
"Director will want to see how well you take direction, how well you fit their creative vision. So don't be too discouraged if you don't book. It could be so many things, and sometimes a smile or hair colour can make the difference. Remember, a pin is a win. Don't feel too bad."
That was worrying because Adrian was working on the expectation that I wouldn't book the role. I wondered if that was because I would throw away my theatre extension to work this job. After all, that contract would ensure six months of steady wedge for Adrian. Perhaps, it was too bitter to suspect such things; I still had some prejudice against agents. No, it seemed more likely that Adrian didn't want me to feel down again.
As a boy who had been down in the dumps recently, I really didn't want feeling like that again. Over sixty auditions since the last time I had received any feedback, callback, or a pin. Right before I reached seventy, I had finally been told that I was being considered for a role — finally being rated good or bad — it gave me an impression that I wasn't just casting these auditions out into the void.
My acting had improved, and being cast as the younger version of the lead character was impressive. It meant I could be trusted to carry a portion of the film; that was immense news for my failing confidence. No, it would bum me out to fail to book this one, but I had won something. Like Adrian said, a pin is a win. None of that really mattered because I had a feeling I would get the role. The way Adrian talked about how the Casting Director was stressed and even promised to offer me the job — I was practically guaranteed it. I just knew it! I just had to make sure I delivered.
So, I was ruffling through the small pile I had collected in sixty-eight auditions so far. Some of them were back home in Chester, but this pile contained almost all the roles I had auditioned for. Reading each one reminded me of the day, things I did during the audition. Most recent on the pile was David Copperfield — an embarrassing experience where I ran into my biggest rival, true obstacle to the dream I'd been working for. I had completely broken down, failed at performing and ended up crying.
Oliver Twist was my first self-tape audition — still no news, and I didn't expect anything, not anymore. Untitled Jane Austen film was next — the tiniest of sides attached to it, and the character breakdown only said "ten-year-old boy." They hadn't cared to even send in proper sides; the role must be so minor, and I hardly remembered that audition as my interest was also minor.
Great Expectations — the one I used to be really confident about. Next was side was one of the most fun ones I did, Kid in the Corner, where I had to play a child with ADHD. It was different and challenging; no director wanted a child to carry the show, and so all child roles were mostly just shapeless blobs with no character. So having the opportunity do something interesting was great.
There were so many auditions, scripts, and sides — a trip down memory lane for all of it, a reminder of all the failures, reminder of all my hard work.
Finally, I found the script for the movie I had just been shortlisted for: Tea with Mussolini, a movie set decade before World War II about a British diaspora in Italy. I had forgotten most of what the movie was about, so I refreshed my memories.
I read the casting notice much like the ones I had received every time I booked an audition — it was a document containing a breakdown and basic information about the film or show.
CASTING CALL
TEA WITH MUSSOLINI (F-TWM)
Franco Zeffirelli, dir. and Clive Parsons, Ricardo Tozzi, Giovannella Zannoni, prod.
Shoots: April 18th–26th, May 10th–June 28th (Time subject to shooting schedule)
Tea with Mussolini is based on an autobiography of Franco Zeffirelli; the story follows Luca Innocenti, son of a cloth merchant who is sent to live with an enclave of British women living in Italy just before the start of World War II.
Roles available:
Luca Innocenti (young): Male supporting, 7–10 (Italian accent advantageous).
Luca is a shy, innocent boy with a sad disposition. He has not been loved by his own father due to his bastard status and is hoping for his mother to show up to save him. Unbeknown to him, his mother has been long dead. (Must be comfortable working with dogs)
I remembered how the audition went and even what I was wearing on the day of. There was a golden rule I'd been told — to always wear the same clothes as you wore to the audition to the callback. Might as well follow it now that I got my first opportunity at following that wisdom.
Sides had the rare instruction for me to speak in an Italian accented English during some scenes and then later on in the posh Received Pronunciation (RP) accent. My interpretation of the breakdown was that the British women in Italy were rich aristocrats and diplomats, and all that tendency had rubbed off on the lad.
I didn't know an Italian accent then nor now, so during my audition I had cheated by just putting on my Spanish accent developed during the filming of Children of the New Forest. I would have to repeat the accent because I got the pin doing that; the golden rule still said I should do exactly as I did in the last audition. Casting director was interested in what I did, they would be disappointed if I changed it up.
Chuckling to myself at the absurdity of getting pinned for a role I hadn't even thought of in weeks, I read all my lines and called for my Nain. The dialogue had mentioned a female character who was in her fifties and later on in her sixties, she'd act as my mother figure in the film. If there was one person who could relate to that, it was me. My Nain had been raising me all this time in London — it was easy to imagine my Nain as this Ms. Mary Wallace in the text.
"You know, if you keep making me do this, I might as well start acting myself," Nain quipped as she entered the room.
"You could! Adrian would definitely want you. When Granddad and I went to his place, that board of his gotten bigger — two women your age were there! One fat and one thin; you'd be smack dab in the middle," I said and got my ear cupped. "Ow—"
"Are you calling me average?" Nain asked, tasting the word.
"N-No! I mean that you'd be… normal— relatable!" I finished awkwardly.
"God, you're bad at this, Wilf. Never call a woman anything other than beautiful. You learn that, bach. Now, let's get to reading," she said, rolling her eyes.
Gulping, I took the advice to heart.
Her throwaway joke, it was an interesting concept — Nain had this severe look and no-nonsense attitude that might do great in the industry. She was different from me; I could have my confidence shattered and emotions all over the place. It was hard to control my emotions — try being a child, you'll see how difficult it was. I hadn't even hit puberty yet, I wasn't looking forward to that. But Nain had more composure than most adults, and she had industry connections with Julie Andrews. Huh, was I going crazy, or could this actually work?
Before that thought could go anywhere, I was dragged into reading my lines. The Spanish accent wasn't my native accent yet it definitely fit the occasion better, as it sounded more European than South American. We did a read-through, same as I remembered how I'd done my first audition. Then we watched the tape together.
"This is good," Nain complimented.
"Is it?" I said, my eyes narrowing — something was missing.
"Can I do something different? Let's try scene 21," I said.
"That's the sad one, is it?" Nain said, rolling her eyes.
"Yes, but I want you to think about my mum instead of Luca's mum! She's not coming to London for my birthday. You have to tell me that, you actually told me that as a prank! Do that but bring more sadness. Also, those soldiers in the line refer to people who died in the Great War. Erm…" I said, clearing my throat.
"Out with it," Nain demanded.
"Think of your brothers. Think of World War II — you've lost people then. Mary Wallace lost her fiancee and her father in the war. Bring that emotion in," I directed.
"You're quite demanding, you know that?" Nain said, but her eyes went down to the script again — more sad than the moment before it.
"I want to set up a table here, but it'll be hard, and the audition rooms usually just have a chair, so I don't think it'll work either. Hmm…" I thought out loud.
"Nain, why don't you come onto the frame?" I said, coming up with an idea.
"Oh, we better not," she said, shaking her head.
"Let's do it; I'll pull back the camera a bit. This scene needs the human connection," I insisted.
"Okay, but no sending it off anywhere," Nain reluctantly agreed.
"Sure," I said with a cheeky smile — if she had future in film, it would show in how the camera loved her.
I marked the old spot with tape so I didn't have to bother shifting things again and moved the camera until both of us would be in the frame just right.
Standing to the side and in front of my Nain, I rolled the camera.
"Luca…" Nain said, looking down on me sadly — or at least that's how I imagined; I was looking out to an imaginary horizon.
"I thought my mother had come back," I said, controlling my face to show sadness.
Nain looked around uncomfortably before ripping the bandage off.
"She will not be coming back, Luca," Nain said matter-of-factly.
I turned back to her, my eyes slightly widened and unbelieving — like a kid not wanting to believe those words.
"I don't understand… Why?" I said.
"Do you remember the two photographs you saw in my room?" Nain asked me straight.
"Your soldiers… they didn't come back," I said. Nain seemed to sag under those words. Maybe it was cruel to make her remember the past, people left behind.
Nain then took a deep breath and explained to the boy in front of her.
"But they're always with me, even though they're not here. Love doesn't die."
Turning to gaze over the horizon as I had, she continued.
"And in the same way, your mother will always be there with you… even if she's — "
"—Not here," I finished it for her.
Nain seemed surprised to hear it from me but nodded her head, even as she closed her eyes as if sad to admit it. I turned slowly — almost a bit too slowly — as my eyes looked at the imaginary horizon before I too sagged, copying my Nain. It showed that my character understood death.
"Cut!" I said. "You were amazing!" I smiled.
"Was I now?" Nain chuckled, embarrassment clear on her face.
"Yes!" I said, even as my mind started to race.
Human connection — it was so damn important! Nain had broken down emotionally, just for a moment, as she remembered her past. That connection we had, us as grandmother and grandchild, it extended to the bond between our characters — it made my character understand a lesson far beyond him in a convincing manner. Me? I learned something too: using emotions sporadically in scenes. My line had hurt Nain as she recalled her lost family. I stole her action of sagging stature in my own character's arc. I had also used her sadness to inform my own reaction. Luca, the boy who learned his mother was never coming back — he was hurt by it; his figure had shrunk as if jerking away from pain. But he accepted it and looked at the horizon to symbolise looking forward to the future.
I had done an improv and improved my character and the scene. Even my Nain, I thought, looking over her, who intently watched herself in the tape.
"This could work," I mumbled.
"What was that?" Nain asked distractedly,
"Nothing," I said cheekily.
I had an idea of a new concept. One that I'd call reverse-nepotism. Could I drag my family into acting after I found success in it? Wouldn't it be incredibly funny if my Nain was cast as Ms. Wallace? Sadly, the role had never been on the casting call. The Italian production had only asked for a child and no one else. How curious?
—✦—
Monday, September 14th, 1998, Hanover Gardens
Another day, another casting office. Only this time, the office was completely empty. There were no receptionists either — only Emily, the casting director, was there and immediately beckoned me into an audition room and bid me to wait. Soon I was joined by a boy; I remembered him from a couple of auditions I'd been to.
"Hi, I'm Wilfred," I said with a nod.
"Charlie. This is my dad — I call him Gnarly. Charlie and Gnarly," Charlie smiled.
"It's Garrett, actually," his dad interjected.
"Hi Gnarly," I waved then before Garret could respond I kept talking to Charlie, "Did you expect us to get called so long after the audition?"
"Erm— I wasn't sure; this was like my fifth audition. Still haven't got any roles yet," Charles laughed.
"Do you dance, sing?" I asked, hoping to saddle him with Dolittle if possible.
"I'm a bad singer; I can dance, though." Charlie said,
"If you call that dancing, I'm an athlete," Garrett said, extending his hands to my Nain, "Garrett, by the way."
"Gladys. I'm Wilf's grandmother," Nain introduced herself.
The door opened then, revealing another boy — blonde of hair much like Charles.
Another round of introductions happened; the acting business was made up of connections, and each day I seemed to meet and learn a dozen new names. I had a good memory but not good enough to remember all their names. That third boy was so forgettable that I had forgotten the name almost as soon as I'd heard it.
"Hi, I'm Emily. Casting Director. I'll go bring in the director, producer, and a surprise guest," Emily said.
A moment later, she came into the room with an old, stocky man in his seventies and a man with very large glasses in his fifties. I didn't recognise their faces but they could only be the director and the producer.
The next person through the door I immediately recognised, but my Nain was the one who made a gasping noise. It was none other than Joan Plowright — I knew her from 101 Dalmatians, she even looked exactly as she did in that film. As my Nain did her stargazing, I was reminded of needing to work with a small dog. I could almost believe that I was in a sequel to 101 Dalmatians. Terrible yet memorable movie.
"Lady Olivier," Nain said incredulously.
"Oh no, just call me Joan. You are?" Ms. Plowright asked.
"Gladys Price, I'm this one's nain— erm, grandmother. Wilfred Price," Nain replied.
"Hi!" I waved.
I knew her from TV — she came up in children's movies. Dennis the Menace was a throwback if there ever was one. But I had none of the reverence that my Nain had for Joan. Those were some bad movies, even if iconic in their own way.
"And who are these two?" Joan said kindly to the other two boys,
Joan was in her late sixties or early seventies, with prominent chubby cheeks and a round face, her short curly hair set in a neat perm. Simply put, she looked every bit the stereotypical kind grandmother — the sort who'd feed you until you were fit to burst whenever you visited. I felt at ease with her, and even the director and producer didn't seem quite as intimidating.
"Ladies always get most attention," Franco — I assumed — said; easy to tell with his subtle Italian accent.
"Couldn't complain, could you?" the producer said. I thought of him as Clive Parsons — the only English producer out of three.
"No, no, I don't complain," Franco replied, spreading his hands. "Buonasera, everyone. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I am Franco Zeffirelli — I direct films, opera—"
"And politics," English man cut in with a grin. "Senator too, our Franco."
"Ah, please, don't remind me," Franco groaned, "I only get so much time off."
"Hello, hi!" we — the children and our parents — chorused, eager to make an impression.
"I'm Clive Parsons, producer for Tea with Mussolini. No fancy titles, just the man trying to keep the train chugging along," Clive Parsons said,
Another round of hellos went through.
"Emily?" Franco asked.
"Right! Okay, so we'll begin your auditions and do a chem read. That's chemistry read, which means you boys will have Ms. Plowright here to interact with. We'll see how well you work together. Before we start, we need to know a few details," Emily said.
"First, are you all British citizens?" she asked, more from our parents than from us, the kids.
At everyone's nods, she continued,
"Raise your hands if you and your child have passports."
Only Charlie Lucas and his dad, Garrett, lifted their hands up.
"Are you willing to obtain passports as soon as possible if selected?"
Everyone nodded easily at that.
"Please understand that the role will start filming in April for some scenes, and the rest until summer is well underway. The director and the producer," she nodded in their direction, "would like to capture the passing of time in the film. This film has been shooting since August already with a smaller cast and crew. Are all of you willing to travel to Italy and stay for up to two months at a time?"
Again there were chorus of agreements and nods from everyone — this time much more enthusiastic than the last.
"Excellent, then I would like you all to vacate the room. My associate, Gemma, should be back. We'll call you in one by one for your auditions."
We all left the room and took our seats in the oddly empty waiting room — it was usually packed whenever I was in one. But this was a different day; pinned in as I was, the place felt thinned out to make up for it.
"Wilfred Price!" Gemma, receptionist/associate, called out.
"Bollocks, I'm first," I complained.
"Don't swear — come here." Nain pulled me into a hug. "No pressure, but I really want you to land this role. That's Joan Plowright in there!" She laughed nervously.
"Thanks… More pressure for the pressure chamber." I hissed.
"Pressure makes diamonds." Nain pointed out with a grin,
She had a point. But really, I didn't feel nervous today. My expectations had lowered because I had seen Joan; this movie might not be a big success. Revelations being quiet on the matter only seemed to strengthen the assumption. Nain accompanied me inside but took a seat near the door.
"Wilfred Price, I see. You do musicals, eh?" Franco said, tilting his head, the Italian accent almost impossible to tell.
"Yes, sir. I play Tommy Stubbins in Doctor Dolittle at the Hammersmith Apollo."
"Ah, singing role?" Franco's eyes lit up with curiosity.
"As part of an ensemble. I'm on stage most of the show. Only one little verse as a solo in the first act. Mostly I dance or sing harmonies with the company," I explained.
"Capisco… I see," Franco murmured, nodding slowly. "And this Children of the New Forest… how was your experience on set, eh?"
I eyed him for a moment, wondering if I should speak truthfully. Maybe it was my expectations or that he was a foreigner, but I felt comfortable telling him the truth without the dressing.
"Not very good, sir. The director wanted to get everything filmed as soon as possible, and we only had one take for everything — even if people messed up. It was a BBC and ITV production, and I don't think they wanted to waste much time or money," I said.
"Ha! Ha la bocca grande!" Franco laughed, his hands flaring out.
He has a big mouth, I translated to myself. Italian was so close to Spanish—really, the only difference here was how he stressed bocca.
"Is this out yet?" Clive Parsons asked. I still couldn't bring myself to call him just Clive because of Granddad.
"No, it comes out around Christmas, I think. I haven't heard anything official," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
"Okay, allora, let us begin, sì?" Franco said, eyes twinkling.
"Yes," Emily and Clive Parsons replied.
"Joan, please. If you will." Emily gestured, and Joan came to stand beside me.
"Let's do Scene Five—read from line ten. Imagine the paper theatre described in the scene—no props. And Wilfred," Emily added, "imagine you're holding a stick with Romeo attached to it. It's a toy theatre, capito eh?" Emily joked, making fun of Franco,
Franco only rolled his eyes,
"Yes," I said with a nod.
Theatre was easy to imagine for me. Joan and I took our seats on the folding chairs, set around an imaginary table, the toy theatre laid out between us. Imagination was our prop.
"Ready?" Joan asked.
"Ready," I replied.
"Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear that tips with splendor all these fruit-tree tops." I said, in my Spanish accent.
"Oh, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon… that monthly changes in her circled orbit, lest that of thy love prove variable." Joan replied,
"What does that mean?" I asked, heavily accented.
"Variable? Changeable — changing. Things that don't always stay the same." Joan explained,
"I see. Vario!" I said excitedly,
"And Juliette knows that true love is not vario. It lasts forever. It's the most important thing in life. Now, it's Romeo's turn." Joan smiled,
"What should I swear by?" I asked in Romeo's voice,
"Do not swear at all. Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self… which is the god of my ideology, and I'll believe thee!" Joan said dramatically,
She looked at the imaginary toy and at me.
"Now he comes up the balcony."
I moved my imaginary stick,
"Ha, yes… Let's go back to the beginning again." Joan said,
"Imagine that the windows are broken — stone and sticks are being thrown — crowds gather outside unhappy at you English folk!" Franco suddenly cut in with a shout,
I hadn't expected the man to give direction in the scene, so I actually looked panicked. The scene required me to panic, and so I used the emotion as fuel for my performance. Looking around in panic at the window, I clutched at my chair, looking between Joan and the window. Slowly my panic disappeared in favor of a questioning look towards Joan. Adults fixed problems, right?
"Good. How about we do Scene Twenty-One?" Franco asked.
This, in my opinion, was the big scene for my character — at least for young Luca. I was conflicted. I had performed it differently the first time around, but when I ran it with Nain the day before, I'd made a different choice in the character's portrayal and my actions, which had improved my acting. The problem was that I'd gotten the callback — and the pin — precisely because of how I performed it last time; changing it now would be unprofessional. All I could do then was to ask,
"Excuse me!" I held up my hands. "When I did this scene with my Nain, we found a good dynamic if we stand instead of sitting on the benches like the script says. Could we do two takes? One like I did in the last audition, and one my way?"
"Ah, big words for a big boy!" Franco chuckled, shaking his head with a grin. "Bene—okay. Do it like your first audition. Then we try it your way. Emily, set up the camera, sì?"
Emily got the tapes rolling as I got ready.
Joan and I remained on the folding chairs so common in audition rooms everywhere. We brought them a little closer, so when she delivered the lines, she could comfort me as the sides demanded. It was the same dialogue from the scene Nain and I had done yesterday, only Joan was a brilliant actor where my Nain was a lilting one. She portrayed a true character and I felt the emotions pouring out of her. I played off those emotions coming from her. There's something special about working with an actor who can radiate those feelings as the character demands. It made me perform better; it turned it from acting into reacting. Gilles had often said that reacting is better than acting — one is pretending to be something, the other is truly being it.
I had missed that during my past auditions and my former scene partners. Now only Joan who was there in my mind. I was transported fully into the scene.
Even as we did it how I'd done the first audition, it came out better than my last performance — so much better, so much more natural. As we finished, I looked at the director, producer, and casting director, who for all our stellar performance didn't display much emotion. Worry crept in, but I kept a lid on it. It was time to perform — worry about the future later on.
"Thank you," Emily said, as neutral as she liked.
"Do it your own way," Franco said,
Leaning close into Joan, I explained what I wanted. She was an utter professional with it. We moved the chairs away, and I stood in front of her — she was to my back and side. Drama pose, common in stage plays. This time I turned on my own acting abilities. Joan had emitted emotions that I had worked off before — now it was my turn to be the moon, radiating sadness rather than happiness.
My shoulders drooped, and my gaze looked almost straight at the floor. I imagined the River Dee there, the rushing water beckoning me in, mirroring my sadness. Sides had wanted my hands grasping my head for an amateur attempt at displaying a child's sadness. For my attempt, my eyes did the job. Adrian was right — my eyes were powerful. My eyes had an emotional range of their own; they could say sad in that gaze just as the gaze could appear cheeky.
I could make out Joan's figure in my peripheral vision, but I twisted my head away as if ashamed. I looked into the flowing river I imagined — the water was green and brown, full of sediment — then started to speak.
"I thought my mother had come back," I said sadly, still looking down and away.
"She won't be coming back, Luca," Joan said.
My eyes teared up slightly, and my head turned suddenly again — only instead of hiding away from Joan, it went to confront her eyes. Luca didn't want to believe that statement.
"I don't understand. Why?" I asked, my eyes drilling into Joan's for an answer.
Joan played off my emotions; I was ashamed to meet eyes with her, but now I was confronting her. Emotions pushed and pulled, conflict was the same. It was her turn to look away — only she didn't look at the river beneath us. Her eyes looked up to the distance for a heartbeat or two, then back at me, as if ready to tell the child about the sad reality of life. Her hand reached for me, but she let it drop down, unsure if she should. All that took seconds, but all of those emotions were displayed — awkwardness and all.
"Do you remember the two photographs you saw in my room?" she asked, eyes meeting mine.
"Your soldiers that didn't come back…" I said; my eyes dropped back to the river.
"Yes. But they're always with me, even though they're not here," Joan replied, trying to make me feel better.
I looked back at her — listening to her. Actually hearing her words. The script or the sides were gone from my mind. Only her words were there — words that felt new to me as a real conversation would feel. Words I didn't know before she'd say it.
"Love doesn't die," Joan said; her eyes felt so kind and careful not to frighten me away.
Like my Nain had, Joan turned to look to the distance. Before, her head had turned when she looked away from me, but this time she looked to the distance in the direction my body was facing. It was a minor thing, but the audience would unconsciously recognise that her character was trying to align with mine.
"And in the same way, your mother will always be there with you…"
I looked to the distance she was looking at too, facing forward, square with my legs.
Joan continued, "Even though she is—"
"—Not here," I finished for her.
All my acting from then was done with my eyes. I made my eyes shake — easy to do by engaging my crying muscles; it's one of the ways our eyes naturally move before we cry. The next part was all about my emotions — only there was no way of knowing if my eyes even portrayed it. Neither could I know if Franco, Emily, and Clive could all see it. Cameras had a close-up angle for a reason — not just for seeing but amplifying that emotion. But I knew that my tears had glistened in my eyes, not enough to cry but enough to show sadness, enough to show composure.
Once I held it for a few seconds, I relaxed. Coming out of the scene.
"Fantastico! Very good! Very good," Franco complimented.
I felt a smile form on my face as I looked at Franco's expression, then Clive Parsons' and Emily's. But I turned back to Joan, my scene partner — the first scene partner I ever had who made me act better. No, she made me stop acting and start reacting. One plus one equaled three. Is this how it felt to work with a great actor? If so, I always wanted to work with the best actors.
"Thank you so much! Reading that scene with you… it felt completely different," I said.
"Oh ho! You were brilliant, Wilfred. Really well done," Joan said warmly.
"Very good improvisation. Standing works much better — and the simple stage setup suits the scene perfectly. Well done," Clive Parsons added.
My brain slightly short-circuited as I got compliments from all angles — the scary people evaluating my performance felt more like friends fighting in my corner now.
"Right! It was good, but we have a few things to go over," Franco said.
"Yes!" I said quickly, standing straight.
"You are what I'm looking for, kid. But… how can I say this?" Franco asked, turning to Clive Parsons.
The man cleared his throat, not too eager to reply.
"We had a casting call in London and a few cities in Italy," Clive Parsons explained, his voice tight with irritation. "This role was already given to an Italian boy—very good actor—but the parents lied about him speaking English. So when the two of us met him and actually spoke to him in English, the child broke down crying."
"Si… sì, you obviously speak English," Franco said, hands gesturing as if grasping for something. "We are in London, eh? But your accent… it does not sound Italian. Luca Innocenti, this boy—he is Italian. He must speak Italian, or at least appear to speak Italian. Yes?"
The walls seemed to close in on me. I had never practised an Italian accent. Hell, my only exposure to it was the occasional Serie A game on TV. Somehow, I doubted that speaking like a football announcer would pass for an Italian kid. I needed to improve my accent if I wanted the part, and I racked my brain for a solution.
"What was that accent anyway?" Clive Parsons asked curiously,
"Erm— it-it was a Spanish accent. The TV show you asked about before — my character was a Spanish boy."
"It doesn't sound very authentic," Clive complained.
Franco looked surprised and turned to interject, but I answered first.
"I—I speak Spanish," I said, glancing nervously at Nain. Revelations—my ability to glimpse future knowledge—went haywire whenever I even thought about revealing information to my parents, my family, or speaking about things that hadn't happened yet.
Telling them I spoke Spanish was risky. What nine-year-old in England could speak fluent Spanish without ever learning it? I barely had an alibi. But! I needed the job. I couldn't let a language be the barrier to landing the role.
"You speak Spanish? Like… a few words?" Clive Parsons asked, chuckling.
"No, no," Franco said, eyes wide. "I thought… his accent, it sounded authentic! That is how Spanish people speak—I can hear it!"
"Kid, do you understand me?" he asked in Italian.
I nodded. It was the same language, just spoken a little differently.
"Answer me back in Spanish, if you really speak it," Franco said.
"Yes. I understand you. I can speak Spanish almost fluently—I watch Spanih TV all the time," I said.
"Whoa, whoa… speak slower," Franco said, slowing his own words as he leaned forward, hands waving.
I repeated my phrase again. He understood it too. How odd was it that we spoke different languages but could converse just fine? I thought some words were wrong because they made no sense in Spanish, but at the same time it was really easy to know what Franco meant when I could understand nine out of ten words. Context could do the rest.
"Well, I'll be damned. Kid's a real talent," Clive Parsons chuckled,
"Indeed. Wilfred, are you willing to learn Italian before we start filming in April? We pay for the teacher, accent coach too," Franco said, finally switching to English so everyone present could understand.
"Yes! I'm good with languages. I'm even learning Welsh," I said, glancing at my Nain to see her surprised look. Balls… that was going to be hard to explain.
"Wilfred Price, I'm willing to offer you the job on the spot," Franco said, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Hey, don't do that!" Emily interjected. "We still have to audition the other two kids."
"The other two are blonde-haired," Clive Parsons reminded Franco.
"Bah! I wrote the damn script. The story is mine, but I'm not so insane as to make it exactly as I was. Kid can be dark-haired; it doesn't matter. Even that Baird kid has dark brown hair," Franco grumbled, waving his hands to dismiss the point.
"We are producing it precisely because it's your autobiography," Clive said, sounding exasperated.
"Semi-autobiography! It's already bizarre for me to direct it myself; I don't need you stroking my ego more!" Franco snapped.
"Right… your ego," Clive muttered, rolling his eyes.
I only stood there, trying to make no noise or grab any attention.
"Regardless…" Franco said, clearing his throat, "I've decided — he's my Luca." Franco pointed at me,
My heart suddenly started to beat a mile a minute. I had booked my first job since Children of the New Forest; it had taken me eight months to book another job. A new one, at least.
"Don't say that; we have two more candidates," Emily reminded,
"Of course," Franco said, rolling his eyes, his voice flat. "Thank you for your audition, Wilfred. You may leave. We will contact you if you are selected."
"Thank you… thank you for having me!" I said with a bow.
I didn't care about making a fool of myself; I had booked a job. I was going to Italy! I was going to be in a real movie! Like a real boy!
Nain finally caught up with me and dragged me out of the audition room. Once we were outside, she took me by the shoulders and turned me to face her. Her eyes were severe—it was those eyes again. The ones that forced the men of the Price household to answer the question. The truth-seeker's gaze.
"So… you speak Spanish? Since when?" Nain asked.
Uh-oh.