When I was young, acting in LA, I finally got this audition for ER, and all I wanted to do was be on ER. I worked really hard on it and I go to the audition, and I walk in and there are six blondes sitting there. They all had mousey, plain hair, and I had black hair down to here and as soon as I saw these girls, it was like, I am so wrong for this. I am never going to get it. But it gave me this utter freedom because I was like, fuck it, I am not going to get it, so I might as well just go balls to the wall and act it up. I had nothing to lose. I went in and there was John Wells, and all the people and I sat down. It was an audition to be the desk clerk, and they want to see your résumé. But I didn’t have a résumé. So the whole scene, I had this purse, and I kept pulling the shit out of my purse. I would start crying. It was great. I walked out of there. I got all cocky, you know, waiting for the phone to ring. They called: “Hey Mariska, they are going to go a different way. They said you were great but they are going a different way.” And I was devastated. I was heartbroken. Then I got over it, because you know, it’s what we do. So the next day it’s back to Warner Brothers again. It’s the same casting director, and he goes, “You know, Mariska, John said, ‘Cast close to type.’ ” And I go, “Was there anyone better than me?” He goes, “Why don’t you just go talk to him?” John comes out and he is like, “Hey Mariska, how you doing? You did great yesterday.” And I said, “Yeah John, I got a question for you.” I said, “Did anybody else do better than I did? Seriously.” He says, “I like to cast close to type, and you are just so strong and beautiful, and I felt like this girl is more broken.” I said, “That wasn’t the question. Did anybody do it better than I did? Did anybody bring what I brought?” And he goes, “You were great,” and I said, “John, I am an actor. What’s the point of learning
how to act if you are going to cast people with the same thing?” I hit home, and I got it. I was living in LA, and I would come to New York. I had my friend Fisher Stevens, who is an actor, and he was my buddy and he would take me to plays. One week we saw Death of a Salesman, Kiss of the Spider Woman, Wit, The Lion in Winter. I saw all these amazing plays with these actresses. I left each theater bawling. And they were all like 50, 60, 70 years old, these actresses. And I was excited about my future because I said that’s what I want to do. But I knew I had to grow into it. I wasn’t there yet. When you go to do a professional job before you are cooked as an actor, you jump to the result, but the result is not the truth; you haven’t taken the proper steps. I think as a young actor, I didn’t value the truth, because you are so worried about the result. And so I called my agent in LA and I said, “I have decided to move to New York. I need to move to New York. I want to do the stage. I want to be in the theater and I got this start now.” A week later I got SVU. I auditioned for it. It was mine. I knew it from the minute I read it. And that happened to me twice in my life. My agent is like, “Mariska, I am sending you the script. I don’t know if you are going to want to read it because it’s kind of dark.” And I read it and I go, “I want to do it. This is my show. Let’s go. What do we do? Where do we go?” I read it and it rocked. I just understood it; I got it. Then I went back and I read for Dick Wolf. Then they called me back. I walk in and I see this chick, this gorgeous, beautiful girl, sitting in the lobby and I go, “Fuck me.” So I walk in. “This is my part. Don’t be confused. I have seen another girl out there. You could read more people, but this is my part. Tell them to go home.” When I got here, people would just assume that I was a New
Yorker, which I took as such a badge of honor; I think it’s because I am kind of in your face and present and I am dark. But New York kicked my ass. New York has kicked my ass up, down, center, and sideways. The weather, the hours of my show. I had no idea. I remember when I first got cast, I had come from ER. There were 75 regulars on it, and I worked three days a week. You know, from six to nine and I was out. I mean 9 a.m. And then I did Law & Order and I worked for 9 years, 15 hours a day. Every day for nine years and had no life and I had been so lonely. I thought, this is so oppressive and opaque. It’s so dark and so hard, and I felt alone and trapped. I had no life, and I wanted to quit the show. I went from living in LA, having all my friends and family around, and then I moved to New York. I had friends here, but I couldn’t see them because I was working. I was so tired, so alone, and I felt like I’d forgotten how to act. I thought I was so bad. I hated it. I was like, “I’ve just got to do something else because I just suck.” I thought, maybe I don’t want to be an actor. Maybe I am just not good at it. I didn’t know what I wanted because I felt guilty, and I go on starring in this TV show. I should be so happy. I was lonely, and for me lonely was the worst. And then I just climbed out. I just got out. I just got out. I am strong. I just realized that the only way out is through. I get dark and depressed. But I headed out to a great shrink. They said, you got to act “as if.” You just get your ass up, make your bed, wash your face, and go work out. And so I just worked harder and dug deeper and didn’t give up on myself and fought through it. And it turned around. I still kind of don’t know what happened, but I didn’t quit. When people ask me, why are you successful? How did you get successful? I say, “I didn’t quit.”
When I was young, acting in LA, I finally got this audition for ER, and all I wanted to do was be on ER. I worked really hard on it and I go to the audition, and I walk in and there are six blondes sitting there. They all had mousey, plain hair, and I had black hair down to here and as soon as I saw these girls, it was like, I am so wrong for this. I am never going to get it. But it gave me this utter freedom because I was like, fuck it, I am not going to get it, so I might as well just go balls to the wall and act it up. I had nothing to lose. I went in and there was John Wells, and all the people and I sat down. It was an audition to be the desk clerk, and they want to see your résumé. But I didn’t have a résumé. So the whole scene, I had this purse, and I kept pulling the shit out of my purse. I would start crying. It was great. I walked out of there. I got all cocky, you know, waiting for the phone to ring. They called: “Hey Mariska, they are going to go a different way. They said you were great but they are going a different way.” And I was devastated. I was heartbroken. Then I got over it, because you know, it’s what we do. So the next day it’s back to Warner Brothers again. It’s the same casting director, and he goes, “You know, Mariska, John said, ‘Cast close to type.’ ” And I go, “Was there anyone better than me?” He goes, “Why don’t you just go talk to him?” John comes out and he is like, “Hey Mariska, how you doing? You did great yesterday.” And I said, “Yeah John, I got a question for you.” I said, “Did anybody else do better than I did? Seriously.” He says, “I like to cast close to type, and you are just so strong and beautiful, and I felt like this girl is more broken.” I said, “That wasn’t the question. Did anybody do it better than I did? Did anybody bring what I brought?” And he goes, “You were great,” and I said, “John, I am an actor. What’s the point of learning
how to act if you are going to cast people with the same thing?” I hit home, and I got it. I was living in LA, and I would come to New York. I had my friend Fisher Stevens, who is an actor, and he was my buddy and he would take me to plays. One week we saw Death of a Salesman, Kiss of the Spider Woman, Wit, The Lion in Winter. I saw all these amazing plays with these actresses. I left each theater bawling. And they were all like 50, 60, 70 years old, these actresses. And I was excited about my future because I said that’s what I want to do. But I knew I had to grow into it. I wasn’t there yet. When you go to do a professional job before you are cooked as an actor, you jump to the result, but the result is not the truth; you haven’t taken the proper steps. I think as a young actor, I didn’t value the truth, because you are so worried about the result. And so I called my agent in LA and I said, “I have decided to move to New York. I need to move to New York. I want to do the stage. I want to be in the theater and I got this start now.” A week later I got SVU. I auditioned for it. It was mine. I knew it from the minute I read it. And that happened to me twice in my life. My agent is like, “Mariska, I am sending you the script. I don’t know if you are going to want to read it because it’s kind of dark.” And I read it and I go, “I want to do it. This is my show. Let’s go. What do we do? Where do we go?” I read it and it rocked. I just understood it; I got it. Then I went back and I read for Dick Wolf. Then they called me back. I walk in and I see this chick, this gorgeous, beautiful girl, sitting in the lobby and I go, “Fuck me.” So I walk in. “This is my part. Don’t be confused. I have seen another girl out there. You could read more people, but this is my part. Tell them to go home.” When I got here, people would just assume that I was a New
Yorker, which I took as such a badge of honor; I think it’s because I am kind of in your face and present and I am dark. But New York kicked my ass. New York has kicked my ass up, down, center, and sideways. The weather, the hours of my show. I had no idea. I remember when I first got cast, I had come from ER. There were 75 regulars on it, and I worked three days a week. You know, from six to nine and I was out. I mean 9 a.m. And then I did Law & Order and I worked for 9 years, 15 hours a day. Every day for nine years and had no life and I had been so lonely. I thought, this is so oppressive and opaque. It’s so dark and so hard, and I felt alone and trapped. I had no life, and I wanted to quit the show. I went from living in LA, having all my friends and family around, and then I moved to New York. I had friends here, but I couldn’t see them because I was working. I was so tired, so alone, and I felt like I’d forgotten how to act. I thought I was so bad. I hated it. I was like, “I’ve just got to do something else because I just suck.” I thought, maybe I don’t want to be an actor. Maybe I am just not good at it. I didn’t know what I wanted because I felt guilty, and I go on starring in this TV show. I should be so happy. I was lonely, and for me lonely was the worst. And then I just climbed out. I just got out. I just got out. I am strong. I just realized that the only way out is through. I get dark and depressed. But I headed out to a great shrink. They said, you got to act “as if.” You just get your ass up, make your bed, wash your face, and go work out. And so I just worked harder and dug deeper and didn’t give up on myself and fought through it. And it turned around. I still kind of don’t know what happened, but I didn’t quit. When people ask me, why are you successful? How did you get successful? I say, “I didn’t quit.”
You’re a fourth-grade cutup seeing the pretty substitute teacher bend down to pick up a piece of chalk and reveal her ample cleavage.
You’re a fat and fatuous food snob at the most sought-after restaurant in Provence, loudly experiencing ecstasy at the first bite of the first course.
You’re an unpopular politician at a town meeting with angry, shouting constituents, desperately wanting to be somewhere else...anywhere else.
You’re an NBA power forward hoping to avoid a blocking foul (your fifth) by giving an Oscar-worthy performance to draw a charging foul instead.
You’re a whiny kid who has just been told by his stepfather to shape up or ship out, getting in the last “word” as he turns his back.
You’re an opera groupie at the edge of the stage, applauding your adored diva with a kind of relentless, religious rapture.
You’re a kindergartner who has wet his pants, standing on the playground surrounded by laughing kids.
You’re at your retirement party after 20 years at a company, laughing and loathing while your much younger boss says, “We’re going to miss ol’ Charley...how else will we know when it’s time to take a nap?”
You’re a fourth-grade cutup seeing the pretty substitute teacher bend down to pick up a piece of chalk and reveal her ample cleavage.
You’re a fat and fatuous food snob at the most sought-after restaurant in Provence, loudly experiencing ecstasy at the first bite of the first course.
You’re an unpopular politician at a town meeting with angry, shouting constituents, desperately wanting to be somewhere else...anywhere else.
You’re an NBA power forward hoping to avoid a blocking foul (your fifth) by giving an Oscar-worthy performance to draw a charging foul instead.
You’re a whiny kid who has just been told by his stepfather to shape up or ship out, getting in the last “word” as he turns his back.
You’re an opera groupie at the edge of the stage, applauding your adored diva with a kind of relentless, religious rapture.
You’re a kindergartner who has wet his pants, standing on the playground surrounded by laughing kids.
You’re at your retirement party after 20 years at a company, laughing and loathing while your much younger boss says, “We’re going to miss ol’ Charley...how else will we know when it’s time to take a nap?”
The Streets of San Francisco was the most important learning experience of my life because it was all about work ethic. I learned to listen rather than act. I learned that the responsibility of an actor’s role is to make a piece work. And then I learned from our producers because I kept my eyes and ears open. An hour show is a 52-minute movie that you’re making in seven days, so you learn all about how to put it together. At the same time, I started the Cuckoo’s Nest project. I had to put up my own money for a writer. We tried so many directors, and they all held their cards so close — it was kind of frustrating and nerveracking because we were virgins. And then finally we ran into Milos Forman. We talked through the script and how we saw it. Ultimately it has to be seen through the eyes of the director and then it takes on a life of its own. It was the most rewarding experience of my life because we were naïve, idealistic, made all the decisions on instinct and passion. Quinn Martin let me out of my contract the fifth year to go do Cuckoo’s Nest. But making the transition to acting in film was something else. Only Steve McQueen and Clint Eastwood, each of whom had done television series, had made a transition to film. On one hand, I won at the Oscars, so I was an
“Academy Award–winning producer,” but as an actor, I was an actor trying to make the transition from television into feature films. I think there are two inherently different kinds of approaches to acting. One is: you start almost like you’re wiping your skin off and going back down to your skeletal form, to get down to a basic core sense of truth. This is a painful way of working, and it’s not a lot of fun. You have the responsibility of trying to be as truthful as you can to your feelings. Any emotion can be difficult to play if it’s not there in the script, if it doesn’t make sense. Revenge and anger can be a source of energy — it’s a false sense of energy — but it definitely gives you a kick. And playing the bad guy gives you so much freedom. Some of the biggest successes for some actors have come when they played the villain. The other way of acting is really fun: putting on the clown makeup and making up a character and changing your voice — that gives you tremendous freedom because you can do anything. It’s a lot more fun. I started out doing stage on Broadway. I’d been wanting to do a play. The concentration can be so easy because you’ve got this scene with walls all blacked out and you don’t have to deal with that grip
yawning behind the camera or looking at the lunch menu. In film acting, you have to really concentrate to create your own third wall, whereas in theater it’s easier to concentrate. And the reward, when you finish your day’s work, you take a bow and that’s it. By contrast, in film, you go home at night and think, “I screwed that scene up. I’ll never have the chance to do it again.” There’s no real emotional reward in film. By the time you see it all put together so many months later, you’re emotionally removed from it. One of the biggest lessons I learned was watching Jack Nicholson in Cuckoo’s Nest. This is a man who uses a camera as a license to open up. The camera allows you to make a fool of yourself and it’s okay, it doesn’t matter. And it relaxes you — that is really a secret of film acting. Somebody did a terrible thing to me early in my career when they said the camera can tell if you’re lying. It just froze me. But acting’s all about lying. I had two or three years that I looked at that camera like an x-ray machine at a dentist’s office. Karl Malden was my mentor; he was my biggest influence. He had a great work ethic, but I’ve also come to realize there’s a God-given quality for acting. I think for theater you can be trained, but there’s a magic about film.
The Streets of San Francisco was the most important learning experience of my life because it was all about work ethic. I learned to listen rather than act. I learned that the responsibility of an actor’s role is to make a piece work. And then I learned from our producers because I kept my eyes and ears open. An hour show is a 52-minute movie that you’re making in seven days, so you learn all about how to put it together. At the same time, I started the Cuckoo’s Nest project. I had to put up my own money for a writer. We tried so many directors, and they all held their cards so close — it was kind of frustrating and nerveracking because we were virgins. And then finally we ran into Milos Forman. We talked through the script and how we saw it. Ultimately it has to be seen through the eyes of the director and then it takes on a life of its own. It was the most rewarding experience of my life because we were naïve, idealistic, made all the decisions on instinct and passion. Quinn Martin let me out of my contract the fifth year to go do Cuckoo’s Nest. But making the transition to acting in film was something else. Only Steve McQueen and Clint Eastwood, each of whom had done television series, had made a transition to film. On one hand, I won at the Oscars, so I was an
“Academy Award–winning producer,” but as an actor, I was an actor trying to make the transition from television into feature films. I think there are two inherently different kinds of approaches to acting. One is: you start almost like you’re wiping your skin off and going back down to your skeletal form, to get down to a basic core sense of truth. This is a painful way of working, and it’s not a lot of fun. You have the responsibility of trying to be as truthful as you can to your feelings. Any emotion can be difficult to play if it’s not there in the script, if it doesn’t make sense. Revenge and anger can be a source of energy — it’s a false sense of energy — but it definitely gives you a kick. And playing the bad guy gives you so much freedom. Some of the biggest successes for some actors have come when they played the villain. The other way of acting is really fun: putting on the clown makeup and making up a character and changing your voice — that gives you tremendous freedom because you can do anything. It’s a lot more fun. I started out doing stage on Broadway. I’d been wanting to do a play. The concentration can be so easy because you’ve got this scene with walls all blacked out and you don’t have to deal with that grip
yawning behind the camera or looking at the lunch menu. In film acting, you have to really concentrate to create your own third wall, whereas in theater it’s easier to concentrate. And the reward, when you finish your day’s work, you take a bow and that’s it. By contrast, in film, you go home at night and think, “I screwed that scene up. I’ll never have the chance to do it again.” There’s no real emotional reward in film. By the time you see it all put together so many months later, you’re emotionally removed from it. One of the biggest lessons I learned was watching Jack Nicholson in Cuckoo’s Nest. This is a man who uses a camera as a license to open up. The camera allows you to make a fool of yourself and it’s okay, it doesn’t matter. And it relaxes you — that is really a secret of film acting. Somebody did a terrible thing to me early in my career when they said the camera can tell if you’re lying. It just froze me. But acting’s all about lying. I had two or three years that I looked at that camera like an x-ray machine at a dentist’s office. Karl Malden was my mentor; he was my biggest influence. He had a great work ethic, but I’ve also come to realize there’s a God-given quality for acting. I think for theater you can be trained, but there’s a magic about film.
You’re a middlemanagement woman at her office birthday party, hearing from a wellmeaning subordinate that “you don’t look half as old as you probably are.”
You’re a high school librarian and you’ve just found out that the dreamboat star of the soccer team has a website called LILF.com, and that yours is the only name on his list.
You’re a newcomer to New York, on a crowded subway at rush hour, realizing that you’re being groped.
You’re on trial for shoplifting hearing your best friend, who has taken a deal from the prosecution, say, “Yes, yes, she did it...and it’s not the first time.”
You’ve just had a phone call from a frenemy who told you she got the spot with the Cowboys cheerleaders you were both trying out for.
You’re a liberal, and you’re lonely; you’ve just been hugged by a potential Mr. Right.... Yes, he’s glad to see you, but yes, that is a gun in his pocket.
You’re the autocratic chief of a fashion magazine at the weekly edit meeting, showing a young associate what you think of her idea to do a regular section on plus sizes.
Your Scrooge of a boss has just given you some candy, and you’re trying to get with the joke: “Seriously, though, no kidding, what about that raise... really,” but he’s already taking a phone call.
You’re a middlemanagement woman at her office birthday party, hearing from a wellmeaning subordinate that “you don’t look half as old as you probably are.”
You’re a high school librarian and you’ve just found out that the dreamboat star of the soccer team has a website called LILF.com, and that yours is the only name on his list.
You’re a newcomer to New York, on a crowded subway at rush hour, realizing that you’re being groped.
You’re on trial for shoplifting hearing your best friend, who has taken a deal from the prosecution, say, “Yes, yes, she did it...and it’s not the first time.”
You’ve just had a phone call from a frenemy who told you she got the spot with the Cowboys cheerleaders you were both trying out for.
You’re a liberal, and you’re lonely; you’ve just been hugged by a potential Mr. Right.... Yes, he’s glad to see you, but yes, that is a gun in his pocket.
You’re the autocratic chief of a fashion magazine at the weekly edit meeting, showing a young associate what you think of her idea to do a regular section on plus sizes.
Your Scrooge of a boss has just given you some candy, and you’re trying to get with the joke: “Seriously, though, no kidding, what about that raise... really,” but he’s already taking a phone call.
I started in the theater. I went to drama school and did theater, but I always wanted to do movies, and the alchemy of acting and the alchemy of film are intoxicating. When you get it right, or you find the part that fits you so well, you live with it on a day-to-day basis, and you dream about the story; it transports you. You become somewhat invincible and inured to life. Protected from life. If you get it right, it’s heaven. I felt that the years of my life made sense when I was in the company of artistic people, and my imagination made sense within the company of artistic people, and my heart and my feelings. I was not alone. I belonged. I could express the doubts, the fears, the self-loathing, the insecurity of my young years, and the frustrations. I need to perform. I need to act. I need to work on a script. I need to have a character. It’s what I do. I’ve been doing it since I was 16. I’m now 58 years of age, so this is life. You have to be truthful to yourself. You have to embrace your own insecurities, securities, and faults, and it’s a constant challenge to deal with the self, with being an actor, because it’s always constructing and destroying. I don’t want to go mad. I’ve seen the guys who go mad. I thought it was great. I thought if I could go mad, I’d be really a better actor. I tried it a few times in my life, but it was too painful and it wasn’t me. I don’t allow myself to go that deep. I want to have a good time doing it. I don’t want to be a tortured, kind of twisted performer. I haven’t still really challenged myself emotionally as an actor. There’s a part of me that feels like I don’t belong. I don’t belong in the world of being an actor, as much as I love it and as much as I’ve trained and worked. I feel like I’m not quite there yet. I have played somewhat close to myself all along the way. I use myself all the time. I only have my own life, my own inner life, my own history, my own storytelling of mind and heart. I’ve never really been asked to play something weird and exotic, although in The Matador, he was a killer. But it was theatrical. It was playtime.
I started in the theater. I went to drama school and did theater, but I always wanted to do movies, and the alchemy of acting and the alchemy of film are intoxicating. When you get it right, or you find the part that fits you so well, you live with it on a day-to-day basis, and you dream about the story; it transports you. You become somewhat invincible and inured to life. Protected from life. If you get it right, it’s heaven. I felt that the years of my life made sense when I was in the company of artistic people, and my imagination made sense within the company of artistic people, and my heart and my feelings. I was not alone. I belonged. I could express the doubts, the fears, the self-loathing, the insecurity of my young years, and the frustrations. I need to perform. I need to act. I need to work on a script. I need to have a character. It’s what I do. I’ve been doing it since I was 16. I’m now 58 years of age, so this is life. You have to be truthful to yourself. You have to embrace your own insecurities, securities, and faults, and it’s a constant challenge to deal with the self, with being an actor, because it’s always constructing and destroying. I don’t want to go mad. I’ve seen the guys who go mad. I thought it was great. I thought if I could go mad, I’d be really a better actor. I tried it a few times in my life, but it was too painful and it wasn’t me. I don’t allow myself to go that deep. I want to have a good time doing it. I don’t want to be a tortured, kind of twisted performer. I haven’t still really challenged myself emotionally as an actor. There’s a part of me that feels like I don’t belong. I don’t belong in the world of being an actor, as much as I love it and as much as I’ve trained and worked. I feel like I’m not quite there yet. I have played somewhat close to myself all along the way. I use myself all the time. I only have my own life, my own inner life, my own history, my own storytelling of mind and heart. I’ve never really been asked to play something weird and exotic, although in The Matador, he was a killer. But it was theatrical. It was playtime.