My (Almost) Life as a Scream Queen

My acting agent called one spring day during my senior year of college, at the end of the glorious 1980s when I was about to graduate with a bachelor’s degree in theatre. I landed an audition for a horror movie. Not just any horror movie, but one of the major franchises. The role was the best friend of the Final Girl, meaning I would be the last one killed, so I would get lots of screen time—or "scream" time, as it were. This was my first shot at a feature film and if I got the role, would be a great way to start my professional career.

If Ghostface from Scream tried his favorite pick up line on me, "Do you like scary movies?" I’d truthfully reply, “No, never watch them.” Having seen part of a slasher film once on a college theatre trip, I was surprised by all the sex. There’s a morality expressed in these films: teenagers who have sex get killed. I didn't really want my feature film debut role to be a Scream Queen—a female star of horror films—but I did want to be an actress and if Jamie Lee Curtis could scream her way to stardom, so could I!

I raced to my agent's office to pick up the side, which is a scene used for an audition. Actors receive sides in advance, but usually not the full script unless you are a Star. Wannabes have to flesh out a character from the few nuggets of info in one to four pages. The audition process hasn't changed much since then, except now you download audition sides electronically.

In this three-page scene, my character was heading to a costume party wearing a completely see-through costume made of cellophane. Gulp. Now, I had a kickin' body—leggy, curvy 34-26-34. While I was comfortable showing off my curves in clothing, being naked on-screen, where the camera—and the viewer—could zoom in on every nook and crevice, disconcerted me. Actors must be able to share raw emotions, fears and hopes; but nudity involves a whole other level of exposure and vulnerability. For an art film, like Orlando based on the novel by Virginia Woolf, I would do a nude scene like Tilda Swinton did where it was a necessary part of the plot and tastefully directed without sensationalism. Was I ready to do it in a horror film, where taking off your clothes is an invitation to murder?

Actors should always dress for the role, so (besides naked) I needed to look both sexy and like a high school teen. Using the audition as an excuse to go shopping, I called some friends and we walked all over the mall; but fashion in the late 1980s trended toward the preppy look—button-down collars, plaid and lots of shoulder pads. Everything sexy made me look too sophisticated—a conundrum that still exists in youth fashion. I bought a Ralph Lauren sleeveless scoop neck sweater with the requisite embroidered logo. Dressed for the audition, I looked young enough but not sexy enough. Ditching the preppy sweater, I opted for a tiny black crop top that exposed my midriff, squeezed into super tight jeans and left my long brunette hair down.

The audition was at my agent's office, in a small room with nothing but a table and a few chairs. I read the side for the L.A. casting director and she gave me some feedback. The scene was good, with my character starting out flirty and excited to go to the party and then gradually getting creeped out as she realizes she's alone with the killer (don't go upstairs! Why do women in horror movies always run up the stairs?) After my read, the casting director said, "You are the best actress I've seen for this role. How do we make you look younger?"

Wow! I nailed the acting, now to look like I was back in high school. She suggested wearing my hair in a ponytail and asked me to come back the next day to audition for the director.

I worked on the scene all night. The next day, I styled my '80s teen look (big bangs, ponytail in a scrunchie, heavy eyeliner) and went to the callback. I met the director and with each reading, he gave me feedback and my performance grew stronger, more nuanced. My character went from a trusting naivete to a dawning horror of the danger she was in, and the director wanted to see me make the discovery that my date was the monster. The more we collaborated, the more I wanted this job. Seated behind the director, the casting director beamed at me and flashed a covert thumbs-up. Despite a lingering nervousness about doing nude scenes, I left the audition feeling good about my work and excited at the idea of bringing this character to life (er, death?) and making my first feature film.

After several agonizing days, my agent called. He hemmed and hawed, not a good sign, and finally said, "They didn't cast you...the director's French."

"What does that mean?"

"Your boobs aren't big enough."

Cup size triumphed over acting ability. Such is the film industry. I felt disappointed, but also relieved since my career goals leaned more toward Broadway than Hollywood and did not include starring in Scary Nightmare Movie XIII. I never saw the finished film, so I don't know what boobs he wanted. Many actresses in the '80s and '90s got breast implants, something I never even considered. I was perfectly happy with my breasts—even if Hollywood was not.

I think back on the experience with ambivalence. That movie could have launched my film career; but by portraying a not-too-bright character who was little more than a sex object, I might have become typecast in similar roles. Once the Harvey Weinstein accusations surfaced, I wondered if I dodged a bullet. Having appeared naked in a horror movie, I might have been viewed as "that kind of actress" and become a victim of the casting couch. Being so ambitious, so eager to please, I might have fallen into a sticky situation, one I might not have escaped.

Of course, danger lurks everywhere. One night on campus as we were wrapping up a late night rehearsal, our professor/director ended by instructing us to walk to our cars in groups, "And guys, if you see a female classmate walking alone, please escort her to her car. Trust me on this."

Then she told us that years earlier, after a late night rehearsal in the same theatre, one acting student walked to her car alone. The instant she slipped into her car seat, she was shocked to see a man's face grinning menacingly at her through her windshield. He had leapt onto the hood of her car just as she got in. She screamed and hit her horn. The man jumped off and ran away. Months later, she was shocked to see the same face on her television screen—it was serial killer Ted Bundy. Bundy had been a law student at my university and the law building shares a parking lot with the theatre building. His apartment was on the other side of the law building in a house that, in my time, we called The Bundy House. I don’t know how anyone could live there, with that evil energy haunting it.

My one other shot at portraying a screaming victim was in a mini-series about Ted Bundy. I fit the profile of Bundy’s favored victims—co-ed with pale complexion and brunette hair parted in the middle. Because I was out of town, I missed the phone call inviting me to audition, making me 0-2 in the movie victim category. That gig would have presented the challenge of portraying an actual person, while being sensitive and respectful of a life ended so horrifically.

Other than jogging past Victoria Principal in a TV movie, my only other film credit was the leading Bitch in an indie movie. So, after graduating I made the choice to forego Hollywood and moved to Seattle to do more theatre. Before the moving van arrived with my belongings, I was cast as a supporting lead in an outdoor Shakespeare production. I also found a job as a receptionist in a nightclub, working days to take reservations. For most of the shift, my only co-worker was a male telemarketer who called people to offer them free entry, since the bulk of revenue came from the required drink minimum.

This co-worker was a big guy, over six feet tall, almost 200 pounds, with droopy eyes. My reception desk lay at one end of the eerily quiet club and his office was on the other end. To break the silence, he often loped up to my desk to chat. On one of his visits he suggested, "You wanna grab a beer after work?"

I don't drink beer, but new to town and wanting to make friends, I joined him. We walked to a nearby sports bar, not my kind of place. Before I had a chance to order wine for myself, he ordered a pitcher. I accepted a glass, poured a tiny bit and took a polite sip or two while he proceeded to polish off the rest of the pitcher, then another pint. He babbled about writing songs and his girlfriend and the recent trip they took to the San Juan Islands. He started slurring his words and missed his bus. I offered to drive him home and we chatted about his music on the way there. I steered him into the elevator and to his apartment door. Then he invited me in to hear one of his songs. I accepted. For weeks, months, years, this simple action made me sure everything that happened next was my fault.

Inside the apartment every surface was littered with empty beer cans, dozens of them, which made me nervous. He knocked some cans off a chair so I could sit, grabbed another beer from the fridge and played his folk-style song on the guitar, singing with his eyes closed. The song wasn't bad, but the singer was blotto. Murmuring something nice, I said goodbye, and headed for the door. He grabbed me, dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around my legs, immobilizing me. I froze, stunned. As the reality of the dangerous situation sank in, I found my voice and told him, "NO. Let me go. What would your girlfriend think?"

He retorted, "You provoked me, stretchin' in front of me 's mornin'."

Had he been planning this all day? While I don't remember specifically stretching in front of him, I probably had while waiting for my morning coffee to kick in. Apparently when I reached my arms overhead, my long-sleeved silk blouse, worn buttoned up to the collarbone, pulled ever so slightly taut across my breasts. Breasts that weren't big enough to be horror boobs unleashed a sexual beast in him so powerful, he couldn't resist despite my rebuke and thoughts of his girlfriend. Since we worked together five days a week, I tried to keep things friendly. Young women were, and still are, told to be polite and not cause a scene, to expect unwanted advances. Instead of screaming, I laughed.

I unwittingly cast myself in the role of the Victim in a true horror story—I went upstairs and was now trapped by the Monster. My physical strength was all in my legs, and I couldn't break his drunken grasp. After being groped and bitten as I ineffectively beat his shoulders and yelled at him to stop, I finally managed to squirm out of his grip when he stood up and tried to press his chest against mine. Slipping out the door, I raced toward the elevator. The dim hallway seemed to lengthen as I ran to my only means of escape. Behind me, I heard him stumble out of his apartment and prayed he wouldn't follow, since I hadn't seen any stairs. Finally reaching the elevator, I pushed the down button repeatedly, silently begging it to arrive quickly. I didn't dare turn around to see how close he was and then the elevator arrived and I jumped in, pressing the close door button rapidly. As the doors shut, I sagged against the elevator wall, crying silently. Hurrying from the elevator to my car, I heard a wolf whistle. Cringing, I turned to see him leaning over his balcony railing leering at me. I fought back the bile rising in my throat, jumped in my car and sped away.

I felt dirty and stupid for getting into a bad situation. I went home to take a shower. It didn't help. All night I was nauseous anticipating going to work with him the next day. In the morning, I called our female supervisor and asked to meet her anywhere except the club. At a coffee shop, I told her I did not feel safe working alone with him in the otherwise deserted, windowless nightclub. Her eyes widened as I recounted the events, but she told me it was impossible to schedule shifts so we wouldn't work alone together. In the cavernous soundproofed club, no one would hear me scream. I refused to work alone with him. My supervisor then had to choose her role. Ultimately, she didn’t want to upset the male club owner. I lost my job. My attacker kept his job, no consequences.

I didn't wash the dove-gray silk blouse I’d worn that day, but kept it in the back of my closet. Thinking he or the club might retaliate or refuse to send my first/final paycheck, I might need the proof of his saliva and teeth marks sullying my professional blouse. I imagined the insulting question, “What were you wearing to provoke this alleged assault?” Eventually, I took it to the dry cleaners. The next time the normally lovely sensation of cool silk touched my skin, I felt sick to my stomach. I never wore that shirt again.

Meanwhile, I continued rehearsals, with Shakespeare to comfort me. The director's concept was that my character had an abusive father. Fearing the staging might trigger a negative reaction, I told Doug, the very sweet man playing the role of my father, what happened. Doug listened and insisted we hold off doing the violent scene until I felt ready. Later Doug told me that after hearing my story, he sat his eleven- and twelve-year-old sons down and instructed them, "Any time you are with a woman, and she says stop, you stop. I don't care if you are both naked, no means no." Working with Doug and knowing this good man was raising two more good men helped me through the experience.

Years later, I stood in line at a coffee shop in Pike Market. While waiting for my nonfat latte, I suddenly heard my attacker's deep voice talking to someone in line behind me. The Fly movie trailer warning echoed in my head, "Be afraid, be very afraid." Eons of mammalian behavior kicked in and I froze; if you don't move, the predator won't see you and attack. The shop was tiny. He stood between me and the only way out. I was trapped again, reliving the nightmare as my assailant loomed closer and closer. But this time, I wanted the role of the Final Girl. I hatched a plan: when drink arrives, remove lid. Upon exiting, pretend to trip and throw hot coffee at his crotch. Trembling while waiting, barely able to breath, I heard him say good-bye to someone and then he left. Since he couldn't see my boobs, maybe he didn't recognize me from behind or maybe he did and left to avoid looking me in the eye. I kind of wished he hadn't disappeared before his coffee scalding and my cry of "Game over!" á la Saw.

Could my experience have been the lesser of two evils? If I was a sexy B-movie starlet in the '90s, maybe I wouldn't have been able to get out of a worse situation. I'll never know, but now I have a brown belt in taekwondo. I joined a dojang with my six-year-old little girl so she would know how to protect herself, or as her father wryly put it, "You can't date a man until you can break one." She's in college now and I marvel at how she advocates for herself and asserts her boundaries with clarity. My daughter is so much stronger and confident than I was at her age, and yet I fear for her safety every day.

It took me nearly thirty years to realize that my story matters. I always felt I didn’t deserve to be counted among people whose stories were far worse. Convincing ourselves that our experiences aren’t “that bad” allows the problem to remain and enables people to accept the way things are instead of working to address the causes and seek solutions. Now that's a reason to scream. I deeply respect the people who have come forward to tell their stories, especially when the perpetrator is someone in a position of power. The March 2020 sentencing for Harvey Weinstein of twenty-three years in prison affirms that none of us should silence ourselves. If we accept the role of Silent Victims and continue saying, "it's not so bad" or "he was drunk—he's really a nice guy," the behavior will continue unchecked. That's the true horror story, one I don’t want to be cast in.

Diane Englert is a writer and theatre artist whose work appears in What Rough Beast, From the Depths, We’ll Never Have Paris, Nanoism and others. She wrote libretto for several mini musicals, that have all been produced. As an actor, Diane has been seen in regional theatres, national commercials and NBC’s “Grimm.” Her bite is worse than her bark. @signeddiane