Making the Cut

In an unexpected walk-on, a veteran editor learned how hard it is to act naturally on set. Here's his advice for actors wishing to avoid the proverbial cutting-room floor.

Jordan Goldman A.C.E.

The most terrifying day of my life was the day I "acted" on camera.

We were shooting the final episode of The Shield. Word came up to my cutting room that the director, Clark Johnson, wanted me on set to do a cameo. I was told I'd be a janitor crossing in the background of the police station.

I walked over to the set, where Wardrobe gave me a set of coveralls and work boots. Then I was handed a mop. The assistant director said, "You're going to exit the bathroom and walk across the bullpen to the motor pool hallway."

As the crew scurried around setting up the shot, I stood in the bathroom and started to worry. It had been a long time since I'd been in musicals back in high school.

My mind flooded with questions. What was my motivation to walk to the motor pool hallway? Was I heading to a spill? Then I should be in a hurry. Or had I already finished cleaning up the problem? In that case, I should act more relaxed.

But why was my mop dry? If I was leaving the bathroom, then the mop should be wet, because I had either used it to clean a spill or just dampened it to clean something.

Wouldn't it make more sense if I had been filling a bucket here in the bathroom and was taking my mop and bucket to the site of the spill? But it was too late to convince Props to give me a bucket. We were about to roll.

The ADs locked down the set. Then I realized that I didn't know what my cue was to come out of the bathroom.

A panic attack started to brew. If I screwed up this cross, it would ruin the entire scene. On TV, the police station would seem like it was full of real people (the actual actors) and one dummy pretending to be a janitor. I was on the verge of ruining everything and letting down all of my friends. On the final episode of the entire series, no less!

I heard, "Action!" With no idea of what else to do, I waited for a five count, then stepped out of the bathroom carrying my mop. The 40-foot-long bullpen set seemed to telescope out into a room four miles long.

Somehow I managed to will myself into motion. When I got to the motor pool hallway 1,000 terrifying years later, I passed the room where Clark and the crew were watching the take on the video monitors. Through the door, I could hear Clark exclaim, "What the hell is with that janitor? Why is he running across the room like that?"

I thought I would die. After the AD called cut, I crawled back to the bathroom, too embarrassed to look at anyone.

My friend Rich Cantu, the B-camera operator, must have seen the terror in my eyes. He pulled me aside. "When you hear Dutch's second line," he said, "come out of the bathroom. Walk to the motor pool hallway. Maybe a little slower this time."

Thanks to Rich, things got better in subsequent takes, and if you watch episode 713 of The Shield, I'm in there, somehow crossing the room without looking completely fake. Luckily, I was able to make sure that the janitor didn't ruin the scene — because I was also the editor of that episode.

But what if I had gone through all that trauma and then been cut out of the show? What if I'd been a real actor, who had prepared and auditioned and worked hard for this moment, and I was cut out? I would have been very upset.

There are specific things actors can do to avoid winding up on the cutting room floor. Some are in your control, and others (like being cut out for time constraints or story flow) aren't, but most can be mastered before arriving on set.

From a practical point of view, the primary tasks of the actor are to:

stand in the right places
say the right words
be directable
convince the audience that you are the person the story claims you to be...
...experiencing the events and emotions that the story claims you are experiencing.

If you can't accomplish these basic goals, then you're not doing what you were hired for, and you become a problem that needs to be edited around.

If you can do these five things, then you're doing exactly what's expected of you and you're fulfilling your part in the storytelling machine. Thank you!

If you bring something fresh to the role — an interesting point of view or interpretation of your character — then you move up a rank to someone who's adding to the story. Directors remember those actors. So do writers and producers.

However, creativity is not enough. Your technical skills need to be sharp as well — hitting your marks, maintaining continuity, understanding the cause and effect in the scene, showing your point of view, having a moment of decision, restarting in the right place when you flub, et cetera.

You should remember that your desire for artistic self-expression is secondary to your obligation to be a vessel for the showrunner's vision. Your character plays a function in this scene, in this episode, in this series. You're a cog in a bigger machine.

If you do your job poorly, the showrunner has to work around the loss of that cog and make other plans. When a bad actor does a bad job in a critical part — well, that character needs to be retired and a new one written who will accomplish the same dramatic function in future episodes.

If you do your job well, the powers-that-be will notice and praise you. And if the right opportunity arises, they are likely to hire you again.

The writer wants someone who can bring her words to life.

The director wants someone who is convincing, can take direction and get the job done on time. An actor who brings something that adds to what the director is trying to do is a bonus.

The showrunner wants someone who is close to or better than what he had in his head when he read or wrote the script. He wants someone who fulfills the function of the character and doesn't need to be removed for the story to work.

And me? I want all of the same things they do. But most of all, I want someone who feels real. In my eyes, the biggest sin you can commit — the one thing I can't help you overcome through my editing — is for you to be unconvincing.

Like, perhaps, that janitor....