As told to Melinda Gray by Macklen Makhloghi, October 2010
My move to LA all began my senior year in college when I was at a bar in Burlington, VT called What Ales You. I was hanging out with some acting colleagues after a recent show we were in had just closed. One of my friends turned to me and said, in what I thought was a joking tone, that we should move out to LA together after we graduate. I smiled and laughed it off, mostly because I didn't think he was serious. In actuality, I wasn't opposed to moving to LA; I just hadn't ever given it any significant thought. I already had about twelve months worth of acting gigs lined up for my post-college career, so to think more than a year in the future wasn't a priority for me at the time. I think by my trivial reaction, he thought I wasn't interested in moving to LA; he quickly wrapped up the conversation by just assuring me that he would be moving out there no matter what and that he hoped I would join him. It turns out he made good on that promise to me. It was more than three years after that conversation that I finally made the journey from New England to Los Angeles myself, but it was that night which first put the idea in my head for good.
I got out here and I was kind of in a daze. I didn't want to rush so recklessly into acting that I neglected the important stuff, such as getting a job, getting an apartment, meeting friends, paying my bills, etc., but I also wanted to be ambitious. It was tough for me to strike that balance. The first year or so out here, I really felt like I was on a timed schedule. Every day that went by in which I didn't accomplish anything relating to my career, I felt was a wasted day. It was hard to feel at home here, not because I didn't like the city, but because it was so different from what I knew. Seeing palm trees everywhere, feeling the warm weather, and being amidst the perceived glitz and glamour of Hollywood made me feel like I was on vacation and made my entire move feel temporary. Therefore, with every so-called wasted day, I felt like I was wasting money and not making the most out of my "trip" to Los Angeles.
After a year or so, I started to come to terms with my subconscious: this was not a vacation and this was not temporary. This was a new chapter of my life that would last indefinitely. I was in it for the long haul. Once I accepted that, it became a lot easier to function on a daily basis. I didn't have to weigh and balance each decision I made with the emotional and financial cost of making the trans-continental move. For example, if I felt like going bowling with my friends, I would think: did I really move 3,000 miles to go bowling? No. So I’d better not go. With the burden of extreme self-accountability off of my shoulders, it became much easier to enjoy life out here and go bowling whenever I wanted to, so to speak.
I got a job waiting tables at a restaurant and I've been there since I first moved out here five and a half years ago. My restaurant is a celebrity hot-spot and the first time I served a star, I was extremely nervous. I'll never forget who it was—Wayne Brady. It's odd because it seemed surreal and perfectly normal at the same time. That sensation continues to this day every time I wait on a celeb, although the perfectly-normalness continues to outweigh the surreality with each actor or singer I come in contact with. I mention the celebrities because it was a local celebrity who this story is soon to be about.
Career-wise, not much had been happening for me. At the time, small things here and there were making me feel great, but looking back, none of these events were extremely noteworthy. I had gotten an agent, done a couple of student films, two local commercials (both of which never aired), and an industrial for Motorola, which was essentially an infomercial-style instructional video which would be packaged with a certain phone you could buy.
The only other thing I had really done in LA was a web series called "Gullible Gil," in which I played the title character. I moved to LA right when web series were starting to get hot. This was a double-edged sword. There were a lot more acting opportunities with the internet as a new and exciting platform from which to self-distribute, but it also diluted the employment pool, filling it with a bunch of non-union jobs that don't pay. "Gullible Gil" was a cute little project that I am still very proud of. I shot five episodes for this independent production house, it didn't get much buzz, and they didn't shoot any more. Ultimately, it was just more material for my reel, which is essentially an actor's portfolio—a minute-long montage of work you've done, usually highlighting three to five of your most significant credits.
One night, I was at work at the restaurant when one of my co-workers asked me to keep an eye on one of her tables while she was on break. The table in question was a kindly couple by the names of George and Erin Pennacchio. George is the entertainment guru for our local ABC affiliate in Los Angeles. He does all the red carpet interviews, covers movie premieres and award shows, gives entertainment recaps on the 11:00 news, etc.
I recognized him immediately because when I first moved to LA I didn't have cable, and ABC was one of only two stations that came in pretty well over my rabbit-ear antennas. He told me that he had seen me in the restaurant before and asked me, in a very kind and non-threatening way, if I was an actor.
I say "non-threatening" because it is very common in my job for customers to ask me if I'm an actor, but they do so with some kind of self-serving ulterior motive. They either want to mock or exploit you. It's very rare to have somebody take an interest in you for who you are, let alone in a way that could benefit you and not them. I got the vibe from him that he was not only trustworthy, but that his kindness belied genuine intentions.
I started chatting with him about my career, trying very hard to keep it friendly and simple, all the while attempting ever so slightly to market myself because, as much as I hate to admit it, if you're not self-promoting or networking, you're wasting your time out here. This was a tough pill to swallow when I started to learn how LA "works" because I've never been the type to self-promote or boast. However, if you're not putting yourself out there as a commodity, you're doing yourself a disservice. Now that I've gotten to know George, I can look back on that conversation I had with him and think: wow, you really didn't have to try so hard. George was only interested in you as a person and as an actor—not at all interested in you as a marketable commodity. But at the time, I had no way of knowing. George asked if he could see me in anything and, drawing a blank down every other route my mind took me, I timidly said "Well, there's this web series I did called 'Gullible Gil.'" I told him how he could find it online, I closed out his check, and bid him farewell.
A week later, George was back in the restaurant. I was not his server this time, either, or even watching his table for his server. I'm just there working and he's just there eating. I didn't want to seem over-eager by going up to him and saying "So, did you get a chance to check out my work?" But, sure enough, he waves me over to his table, not in a pompous way that a king might beckon his subject, but in a cordial "Come and join me over here" kind of way. He told me that he loved my work in the web series and then mentioned that he has a friend who works in casting at General Hospital. Would I mind if he gave her my headshot and résumé?
I think I might have blacked out for a second or two, but my extremities went slightly numb as I blurted out “Yes!” I ran to my car and dug out my headshot and business card. I handed those materials to him and said that I'd get the rest to him as soon as possible. He said he'd pass along the headshot for now and if she was interested in meeting me, then I could send all my other info directly to her.
I was ecstatic at the possibility of getting to read for the casting director of General Hospital, but even more so than that, I remember being truly warmed that he was going out of his way to help me. I'm someone he barely knew, someone he had no credible reason to trust. But here he was taking a shot on me. In fact, he was risking some part of his reputation by recommending me to a colleague who was also a friend. Jack Lemmon once said that part of the responsibility you accept when you ride the success elevator to the top floor is sending the elevator back down to the ground floor for the next person to climb on board. Here, Mr. Pennacchio was sending the elevator back down for me. It, to this day, is still the only time that somebody with significantly more money, clout, and connections has gone out of his way to help me in my career. Even if my acting never takes me any further than it already has, I will still always be incredibly grateful for George and this entire experience with General Hospital.
I got home that night feeling very excited about the possibility of going in to audition for General Hospital, but trying to remain grounded in practicality and not get my hopes up. Sure enough, the very next day, my phone rings. It's the casting director at General Hospital calling to ask me if I could come in that week to read for her! I do, she likes me, and I am assured that she could probably find something for me in the near future.
Again, I try not to get my hopes up.
Four weeks later, my phone rings again. She's offering me work.
I first met George in May of 2008. I just shot my tenth soap opera episode three weeks ago—ten in twenty-four months. Not bad. My 10 soap episodes have included four episodes of General Hospital, five episodes of All My Children, and one sole appearance on General Hospital: Night Shift. You see, my connections with General Hospital got me on the radar at All My Children. They moved production from New York to LA a year ago, and when they did, the casting director for that show scoured the acting databases for LA actors with soap experience. One way or another, my name wound up on his computer, and he called me completely out of the blue.
I could go on forever with more ups and downs that have ensued since then. For example, I had two lines in my first soap stint on Night Shift, but they were both cut when the show aired. I was pretty devastated—not for reasons of vanity, but because I was embarrassed. Did I mess up the lines so they had to cut them out? Did I not deliver them strongly enough? Would my family and friends not believe me when I tell them that I originally did have lines? After all, I told everyone I knew to watch, and there I was, basically a non-speaking extra!
The life of an actor is not an easy one, but I reckon the life of any profession isn't easy, especially professions of an artistic nature, where you have to invest so much of yourself into your work. This story isn't about the success of my career—it's about my belief in the human spirit being restored. So many people, especially in LA, talk a big game but don't follow through. But here was a total stranger being so generous with his time and energy, that I couldn't deny that the Jack Lemmon theory was in effect.
