Troublemaker: Surviving Hollywood and Scientology by Leah Remini, Rebecca Paley
Authors: Leah Remini, Rebecca Paley
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something.
So, I had landed the role of Carla’s daughter on
Cheers,
but of course, as TV history would tell, Jennifer Aniston got hers with
Friends
. When the show was still being developed and was called
Friends Like Us,
I tried out for the part of Monica. As soon as my agent and I read the script we knew it was going to be a hit. And it was filming over at Warner Bros., right across the hall from John Levey’s office. If this wasn’t meant to be, I didn’t know what was.
The way it worked back then was you’d go to the studio first to audition, and then if you made the cut you went to the network. If you didn’t make it, you would get the “It’s not going any further” line, but if you did go on, it was a long day. It came down to me and this other girl at network. We became friendly during what seemed like an eternity of them asking us, individually, to go in and read, then sit outside, then calling one of us back in, then out, and so on. Eventually the casting director came out and said, “Thank you so much.” Here was the embarrassing part, where one of us would exit a failure. It’s hard to walk out with your head held high when you’ve been rejected.
“You can both leave,” the casting director said.
We were surprised but relieved. The girl and I assumed they were going to tell us at home who got the part, which was probably for the best. We walked out of the building and into the completely empty parking lot. It was a Saturday, so no one was at the studio. We chatted on the way to our cars, wishing each other the best, and then we saw Courteney Cox walking toward us, then past us and right into the building.
Motherfucker!
We both knew it right away:
She
had the part of Monica.
I knew
Friends
was going to be a hit. This killed me. I cried for days. I swore I would never ever audition for another show. Ever. Because this had been the one that was going to be my ticket. This one was so tough to get over.
In addition to hustling for parts, I had all my Scientology work to deal with. I was a dedicated parishioner, going through auditing and courses, but still there were always things required as a parishioner that I felt uncomfortable with, like the drills we had to do on certain courses. One was to spot different levels on the Tone Scale. You had to stop complete strangers on Hollywood Boulevard, get them to answer questions, and then assess their tone: 2.5 for Boredom, .07 for Hopeless. As part of a course on the Tone Scale, we were sent out with clipboards and required to pretend that we needed people to answer questions for a survey being conducted by the Hubbard Such-and-Such Research Center, but it was all just a ruse for us to practice assessing different tone levels. The surveys weren’t real. Most people were like, “Fuck you. I know who you are and what you’re doing.”
I took a shortcut to try to get out of doing the drill. “I’m an actress. I can’t be out here. Someone might recognize me from my not-so-popular and canceled series,” I protested. “John Travolta did it,” the supervisor said. “
You’re
going to do it.”
I was pretty much always on course a minimum of two and a half hours a day at the Celebrity Centre on Franklin Avenue, which was the building reserved for people in the arts or their associates to get services. After I became a working actress, I always went in through the main entrance, but there was a special one that led to the President’s Office—a private area reserved exclusively for celebrities, like John Travolta, Tom Cruise, and Kirstie Alley, and other VIPs. I didn’t get that role on
Friends,
so I wasn’t “there” yet.
In the theory room of the course room, which is just for reading, I would sit as still as a statue, because a supervisor was always walking around, looking for manifestations of study problems. If someone scratched his head, the supervisor would come over and ask, “What word don’t you understand here?” I always tried
So, I had landed the role of Carla’s daughter on
Cheers,
but of course, as TV history would tell, Jennifer Aniston got hers with
Friends
. When the show was still being developed and was called
Friends Like Us,
I tried out for the part of Monica. As soon as my agent and I read the script we knew it was going to be a hit. And it was filming over at Warner Bros., right across the hall from John Levey’s office. If this wasn’t meant to be, I didn’t know what was.
The way it worked back then was you’d go to the studio first to audition, and then if you made the cut you went to the network. If you didn’t make it, you would get the “It’s not going any further” line, but if you did go on, it was a long day. It came down to me and this other girl at network. We became friendly during what seemed like an eternity of them asking us, individually, to go in and read, then sit outside, then calling one of us back in, then out, and so on. Eventually the casting director came out and said, “Thank you so much.” Here was the embarrassing part, where one of us would exit a failure. It’s hard to walk out with your head held high when you’ve been rejected.
“You can both leave,” the casting director said.
We were surprised but relieved. The girl and I assumed they were going to tell us at home who got the part, which was probably for the best. We walked out of the building and into the completely empty parking lot. It was a Saturday, so no one was at the studio. We chatted on the way to our cars, wishing each other the best, and then we saw Courteney Cox walking toward us, then past us and right into the building.
Motherfucker!
We both knew it right away:
She
had the part of Monica.
I knew
Friends
was going to be a hit. This killed me. I cried for days. I swore I would never ever audition for another show. Ever. Because this had been the one that was going to be my ticket. This one was so tough to get over.
In addition to hustling for parts, I had all my Scientology work to deal with. I was a dedicated parishioner, going through auditing and courses, but still there were always things required as a parishioner that I felt uncomfortable with, like the drills we had to do on certain courses. One was to spot different levels on the Tone Scale. You had to stop complete strangers on Hollywood Boulevard, get them to answer questions, and then assess their tone: 2.5 for Boredom, .07 for Hopeless. As part of a course on the Tone Scale, we were sent out with clipboards and required to pretend that we needed people to answer questions for a survey being conducted by the Hubbard Such-and-Such Research Center, but it was all just a ruse for us to practice assessing different tone levels. The surveys weren’t real. Most people were like, “Fuck you. I know who you are and what you’re doing.”
I took a shortcut to try to get out of doing the drill. “I’m an actress. I can’t be out here. Someone might recognize me from my not-so-popular and canceled series,” I protested. “John Travolta did it,” the supervisor said. “
You’re
going to do it.”
I was pretty much always on course a minimum of two and a half hours a day at the Celebrity Centre on Franklin Avenue, which was the building reserved for people in the arts or their associates to get services. After I became a working actress, I always went in through the main entrance, but there was a special one that led to the President’s Office—a private area reserved exclusively for celebrities, like John Travolta, Tom Cruise, and Kirstie Alley, and other VIPs. I didn’t get that role on
Friends,
so I wasn’t “there” yet.
In the theory room of the course room, which is just for reading, I would sit as still as a statue, because a supervisor was always walking around, looking for manifestations of study problems. If someone scratched his head, the supervisor would come over and ask, “What word don’t you understand here?” I always tried
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