Every pilot season we suffer. We suffer through the pressure cooker of casting a pilot. We suffer through this manufactured marathon called pilot season, as hundreds of creators and business folk scramble to make between 22 and 44 minutes of network broadcast television that they pray will be unique enough to catch the brass ring, doing whatever they can to be handpicked from a crowd of other desperately driven pilots to get on the air. The town goes insane, everyone drunk with hope and despair, everyone turning themselves inside out, as four networks and several studios try to cast 90 pilots at once. Each of us competing for actors, uncertain of what we’re really looking for until an actor’s slipped out of our grasp. Did we want him anyway? Was she even right? Will we ever find it again? We’re racing 100 miles an hour into a brick wall. It’s ridiculous. It’s counterintuitive. Often counterproductive. Always intensely frustrating. But every year we do it. Every year we’re hundreds of salmon swimming upstream.
Then you, the actor, walk right into this maelstrom. You enter a crowded audition room and look into the eyes of forced-friendly writers, directors, producers, and casting
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