(Ankler illustration; onurdongel/Getty Images)
Welcome to The Dislapse Ladder. The series is about how every generation navigates Hollywood’s narrowing path. I host the podcast “Ankler Agenda” and interview producer Jason Beekman about Netflix’s hit docu-series “Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model.” I’m elaine@theankler.com
Last year, Heat Rivalry casting directors Sarah Kay and Jenny Lewis were selecting talent for their feature film when they encountered a strange problem. The 19- and 20-year-old actors entered the audition room and didn’t know where to stand. They didn’t know whether to look at the camera or the leader. Some had never auditioned in person.
“They tanked. It was very unpleasant…It was really awful to watch,” said Kaye, who admitted that many of the actors didn’t know the basics of auditioning in person. Previously, they had only submitted self-tapes shot at home using tripods and uploaded to casting sites, but this has become a necessity during the coronavirus pandemic and has evolved into an industry standard. “There are a lot of young people who have never been in an actual audition room.”
This disconnect is not just a matter of audition etiquette. It’s about the industry itself.
For decades, Hollywood sold a relatively stable illusion about how careers worked. As an actor, you started out in commercials. Others, such as assistants, PAs, and junior executives, started at the bottom, endured long hours and low pay, learned the culture, and worked their way up. A staff writer will serve as showrunner. An agent trainee has become a partner. One day, indie producers may actually be in charge of studios. The ladder was cruel, but visible.
But Gen Z has stepped into something different. It’s that the gig economy has been layered on top of a troubled studio system that has been reshaped by streaming and is now being further squeezed by consolidation. Entry-level jobs are in short supply, promotions are coming without the big pay raises of past years, and entire departments can disappear overnight in the name of “downsizing.” The ladder broke.
The oldest member of Gen Z, who turns 29 this year, has never known a stable version of the industry. The oldest person graduated from university and entered the coronavirus pandemic, but few know about life in an office five days a week.
So how do you make a living in an industry on the brink of collapse?
I spoke to more than a dozen 20-something assistants, managers, producers, writers, and executives about what it feels like to come of age at this moment. Their stories reveal something real, not a vulnerable population. We’re expanding our definition of success, embracing side hustles, wrestling with AI, and quietly building new networks in the absence of old ones.
If the ladder is gone, we’re going to build something else in its place.
They spout thoughts like:
How difficult it is to get promoted and why promotion means more work, not security
Why older generations feel Hollywood war stories are ‘irrelevant’
Why is AI so divisive, even for a generation that has entered the workforce with the tools of technology at its disposal?
How Gen Z is ‘expanding the definition’ of their dream job as Hollywood shrinks and the creator economy rises
The hard calculus of success: How they pay rent, work multiple jobs, and live with “human feces on the sidewalk outside” in order to pursue their dreams.
The networks they are building to support each other and rewrite the rules
What Gen
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