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Are You 98 Years Old and Hoping to Appear on 30 Rock?
Here’s your chance!
Are you the next Jon Hamm? Yeah, me neither. (Photo: NBC.com)
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Currently on Craigslist:
Extras Needed For New TV Show ( (Manhattan))
TV SHOW “30 ROCK” w/Tina Fey & Alec Baldwin
LOCATION: Queens, New York City, New York, USA
Summary/Plot: Liz Lemon, head writer of the sketch comedy show “TGS with Tracy Jordan”, must deal with an arrogant new boss and a crazy new star, all while trying to run a successful TV show without losing her mind..
No Experience Required
Feature Film
Non-Union only reply
Background / Male or Female / All Ethnicities / Ages 5 thru 99 /
Pls do not respond if you have already been contacted to work this project.
Please include your name and number.
Pay is market rate. Paid thru Employer.
We are a Model Talent Development Co. Not an Employment Agency. We do not provide jobs. If you are qualified we will refer you to licensed agents who offers employment.
For all actors/actresses out there: Is this a standard casting call? ‘Cause it seems sort of, um, shady. E-mail josh@encoremag.com and let me know. I’m legitimately curious. Also, that summary/plot hasn’t been 30 Rock‘s summary/plot since the first season.
UPDATE Here’s a response from “Joe”:
When I was in between jobs last fall (or more accurately: broke and desperately unemployed), I read Craigslist pretty regularly. I had previously been an extra in an embarrassing emo music video (of which I refuse to name publicly), so I applied for a Craigslist ad similar to the one you posted it. One thing you might notice is that there are a) quite a few ads structured like this one for 30 Rock, with only the names of the projects substituted (i.e., instead of 30 Rock you’ll see a few with whatever is currently filming around NY) and b) that paragraph at the bottom: “We are a Model Talent Development Co. Not an Employment Agency. We do not provide jobs. If you are qualified we will refer you to licensed agents who offers employment.” Emphasis added; this is a Craiglist job posting by a company that doesn’t provide jobs.
But despite this, I applied. I think my experience is indicative of how most of these “Model Talent Development Companies” work, and is worth mentioning, if just to save people time and money. They set me up with an appointment in midtown Manhattan. When I got there, a secretary behind teller’s glass buzzed me in to a closet-sized room, decorated with movie posters (mostly for bad comedies released in the last five years, the kind with the “average guy” character shrugging with a smug or worried expression amongst a cast of wacky misfit characters), two couches stuffed with people filling out forms, and a 13-inch TV blasting a rerun of the VMAs in a bleached out color that suggested it hadn’t been turned off since 1993. There weren’t open seats, so I stood, filling out my forms (height, weight, ethnicity, etc.), sizing up the other people. They were really nervous, clearly new to the business. Some of them had manila folders with their headshots. Their conversations were slightly acidic: they were under the impression that they were competing with each other for an actual part. Most conversations revolved around how long we were waiting, how much longer we thought we’d would have to wait, and why have we been waiting so long?
Another secretary entered every 30 minutes, calling three people into the next room. There was usually a mad rush of people jumping up to be first, to get out of that tiny room. They were elbowing each other competitively for the small chance of their realization of their dreams of money and fame. Finally, my name was called. I was led with two girls into a back room, where waiting in a side office was quite possibly the sleaziest looking man I’ve ever met. He was overweight, and his black hair was greased and slicked back. He had a smile that he thought was charming, but that suggested he would stab you in the back while offering you a piece of gum. He shook the girls’ hands, but not mine. He sat us down and asked us if we had any experience in the business. The girl next to me, who had headshots, raised her hand, and then was asked to leave the room and close the door behind her.
Then his pitch started. He talked quickly, pausing and smiling only when he said the word “money.” He laid out pictures on the desk of himself with B-list celebrities. Former reality stars. Sean Combs. He used a laser pointer to point across the office at pictures on the wall, circling himself—often appearing out of focus—adjacent to celebrities. He called them by their first names. He was a big deal, he told us, and it was his job to make us a big deal, and to make us money.
But first, we needed headshots. They would do us a favor and take them for us, for a “small small” fee of $200. They had a small photo studio right there in the office. The logistics of the scam were apparent. There was probably a whole file of headshots in that office, if they even kept any. They weren’t obligated to give anyone work; they just funneled nervous people who wanted to break into the business into their office, took their money, and ran. So it’s likely that most of the headshots are disposed of.
So I tried to mess with him a bit. How about you do it for $100? No, the man said, this price was non-negotiable. Okay, I told him, I have friends who are photographers, who would do this for free. But that’s not professional, the man said. You’re not professional, I shot back. “If you don’t want your headshot, fine,” he continued, “but we likely won’t be able to help you.” I left his office—his secretary led me through their dinky photo studio setup, out of another exit, so that I wouldn’t pass through the first room, warning the others—and out to the New York streets, back to Craigslist.