>From the teen magazine Mouth2Mouth, September/October 1994: -------------------- So you wanna be a Brady? THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING MARCIA By Karen Catchpole I am not I actress. I am, however, a blonde and that seemed like Marcia Brady's most distinguishing characteristic. But that was before I auditioned to play the hair-tossing, miniskirt-wearing icon of '70s TV in a movie about the Brady Bunch. I'm standing in line in Boston for an open casting call. "You look just like Marcia," says the curiously brown-haired Jan wannabe in front of me. Without bragging, I am the only person in sight who looks even remotely like Marcia. And ever since I put on this ridiculous ensemble -- dredged from the darkest regions of my otherwise blue jeans-encrusted closet -- I actually feel a little like Marcia Brady. Carefree. Giddy. Vacant. So I'm disappointed that the Bobbys aren't scampering around pulling the Cindys' pigtails. I had hoped to see more Jans moping and whining. A little macho bantering between the Gregs and Peters wouldn't have been inappropriate. But no. Everyone but me is behaving as if they're in line to get booster shots. I'm trying to decide whether my getup makes me look desperate and ridiculous or uninhibited and knowledgeable when a red-headed boy and his parents take up the slack behind me. "Who are you?" I ask him. "Bobby," he says. I suggest his red hair makes him better suited for a part in a movie about "The Partridge Family." His parents are not amused. A pouty brunette Jan wannabe and her mother fall in behind Red, and I begin to wonder if anyone else at this audition has ever even *watched* a single episode of "The Brady Bunch." I mean, the girls were blonde, folks. You know, "All of them had hair of *gold*. Like their mother." Just then, a woman from Paramount begins distributing a handout, a questionnaire and a list of lines. "Although the film is set in the '90s, the Bradys themselves are unaltered by time or circumstances," the handout informs us. "They are relentlessly wholesome, perky, clean-cut and wide-eyed, still wearing clashing, loud attire that became outdated two decades ago." So I get points for my duds, but I'm questioning the inclusion of "motorcycle riding" in the Special Skills section of my bogus acting resume. Next we're herded into the First Parish Church for our auditions. As a woman staples our pictures to our forms, it dawns on me that everyone else has professional headshots. The 5 x 7 snapshot my friend Stephanie took of me suddenly seems pathetic. Then again, my hair looks really good in it. My next mistake is reading my lines: "What does Molly have that I don't have?" and "I'm so nervous, Doreen. Do you think I have a chance at becoming Miss Pom-Pom?" Miss Pom-Pom? Doreen? Which episode did this brilliant repartee come from? I mean, I was hoping for something meatier. Say, a few lines from the episode where Marcia gets braces or the one where Greg accidently breaks her nose with a football mere moments after she finally gets asked out by the cutest guy in school. But no. I am obliged to read drivel about some chick named Doreen and cheerleading tryouts. I sneak off to rehearse in front of a bathroom mirror anyway. I've spent the past week watching rented episodes of "The Brady Bunch" (including the criminally cheesy "A Very Brady Christmas") in an effort to get Maureen McCormick's original Marcia down pat and I don't intend to blow it now. The next thing I know, all the Cindys, Jans and Marcias are being herded into a large room with four card tables. Each has a stony-faced casting director sitting behind it. I'm suddenly terrified. What if I trip walking up to my casting director? What if I have to recite my lines by heart? What if I throw up? Oh God, what if I get the part? . One of the directors waves me to his table. I'm reading for Marcia. So far, so good. Then he gets a closer look at me. "How old are you?" he asks, even though it's listed right there on my resume. "Twenty-two," I lie. (My real age, 28, seemed more like Alice than Marcia.) Casting dude obviously doesn't buy my math, but he asks me to read anyway, which I do at breakneck speed. He asks me to read my lines again, only slower, but I'm nervous and I race through them again, anxious for this hell to be over. Anxious to go back to being myself. Dying for a pair of jeans. Then he says it, "That was great. You did well. You're all set." (And I thought I was the one doing the acting here.) Elapsed time: 38 seconds. Leaving the church, I see that a whole new crop of amazingly convincing Cindys has just arrived, silky curls bouncing insanely. Sure, I hiss to myself, but can they lisp? -------------------- Copyright (c) 1994 Time Publishing Ventures, Inc.