Hil in the Hills

One of the most incredible things about being an actor is getting to live life “as if.” As if you were younger, older, funnier, meaner, bolder or sexier. Whatever you could never be – or might never try – in your own life, you’ve got a free pass to explore between the commands “action” and “cut.” And sometimes you’ve gotta weigh the journey and make sure you want to hoof that mile in someone else’s shoes.
 
As Angelenos go, I’m certainly unique, but not that original. I’m an East Coast transplant who recently celebrated one year in Los Angeles – which means I landed on the heels of the writer’s strike and had just enough time to figure out that the 405 is never a good call before the economy plummeted. In short, my star on the Boulevard is on perpetual layaway, just like the shoppers who opt to dress for less at Ross in installments.
 
So when I got offered my first lead role in LA (asterisk: in a USC graduate short), I was ecstatic. Of course, it meant that now I’d actually have to do the role. I’d said in the audition, without hesitation, that I was completely comfortable with the material. But you’d say just about anything to get the part, right?
 

 
“Nikki & Alex” is a story about two former lovers who reunite after five years to see if there’s still a spark. As you might imagine, there’s a catch. Nikki (played by me) announces she’s engaged to be married to a guy named Keith, which isn’t what her ex-girlfriend Alex wants to hear. Their lesbian relationship unfolds through a series of flashbacks that demand total commitment. When you’re an actor, you should be able to become any character, even if their truth differs from yours. You’re either all in, or you’re out (in this case, you’re so out if you’re in). And I was all in.
 
The very first weekend, we shot almost no dialogue and every relationship flashback sequence in the film. To catalogue the scene list, that’s two kissing, a fantasy hotel, a simulated sex and a simulated masturbation scene – all done artistically, of course. A tall order for two actors who’d just met (and are not gay). But we found a way to be comfortable in the moment (it helped that my costar went to my rival school, Amherst College, as we’d both come from the same place), and even enjoy the shoot.
 
The next day, we were rehearsing for the following weekend’s shoot (mercifully comprised entirely of dialogue), and I had a realization. I turned to my costar and mused: “You know what? I made out with you all weekend and don’t even know your last name. Weird, right?” She nodded and agreed, but ignored my cue and turned her attention back to the cues in her script. Nope, now I’m curious. “So…” I probed, “what’s your last name?”
 
I had to wait at least a few Pinter pauses for an answer she seemed reluctant to give. A family friend’s mom had the unfortunate maiden name of Judy Doodlesack. I start to get excited that maybe there’s a new doozy – or doodle – to trot out at parties. She shot me a stern look that was unmistakable in its meaning: “Do not say anything to what I’m about to tell you, wise-ass.” My wise ass was on the edge of its proverbial seat.
 
“Munch,” she offered tentatively, and then with more conviction, “it’s Munch.” Utter chaos in my sarcastic noggin juxtaposed with radio silence. One message locked itself in repeat: “Don’t react. Don’t react. Then what the hell’s your middle name? So many possibilities! Crap! Don’t react.” I doubt it was executed very well; my face likely appeared as though I had developed a temporary Tourette’s-like twitch. But I had to say something to hide my true reaction, which was about to bubble to the surface and betray me.
 
“Oh,” I interjected off-handedly, “is that German?” She half-smirked and again went back to her lines, signaling that query would be my last. Just as well – that was the entirety of my stash of awkward small talk disguising the freak out raging in my head. If you could have peeked inside the View-Master of my soul, you would’ve seen the Norwegian Munch’s painting “The Scream,” and maybe a random 3D bonus frame of He-Man battling Skeletor from “Masters of the Universe.” I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the utter perfection of the punch line, as if intuitively I’d known not to ask her last name until after the first weekend was in the can. Really, you just can’t write this stuff.
 
So that’s the story of the very first girl I ever kissed (yes, including college). In one glorious surname, all the hours and frustration of being on a bare bones student film set became worthwhile – and gifted me with a doodle of a story to trot out at parties. Mun

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