Post by JANET ANDREA WILDE on Jul 19, 2011 0:58:54 GMT -5
JANET ANDREA WILDE
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► FULL NAME: Miss Janet Andrea Wilde, at yer service.
► NICKNAMES: Janey, JJ, Jane, Miss Jay.
► PLAY BY: Nora Zehetner.
► SEX: Lady type. With proper lady bits and whatnot.
► AGE & DOB: Nineteen; May twenty seventh, 1943.
► NATIONALITY: British. As if the extra 'u's in words and odd affinity for tea time wasn't already a giveaway.
► SEXUALITY: Heterosexual, and rather out of practice.
► MARITAL STATUS: Footloose and fancy free!
► OCCUPATION:former chorus girlthe next Buddy HollySinging telegram girl.
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► HEIGHT: Five foot two inches.
► WEIGHT: One hundred and eighteen pounds.
► BUILD: Small and slender, very compact and unassuming.
► SKIN TONE: Rather pale, yes.
► DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Her dimpled grin. Those big brown eyes. That boyish haircut. A particular elven quality also found in such wistful females as Audrey Hepburn.
► LIKES:
• Rock'n'roll music
• Comic books
• Proper books
• Tap dancing
• Strangers
• Humour
• Foggy days
• Afternoons
• Daydreaming
► DISLIKES:
• Poetry
• Flowers
• Sexism
• Ambition
• Choreography
• Uniforms
• Tears
• Dating
• Airplanes
► OVERALL PERSONALITY:
Janey could perhaps be best described as a too-much-not-enough sorta lass; that is, she is so utterly idiosyncratic that she doesn't fit in the with the easy groupings of the moment or have a proper group of peers. She was raised to be a performer, to work her way up from a lowly chorus girl until she became a full fledged star—but she has not enough of a drive to reach that, and she's got too much intelligence to be content dancing mindless, endless routines. It's this wit, developed out of deadpan literature and theatre based conversations and one or two many Katharine Hepburn movies, that seems to make J.J. a natural addition to the beatnik crowd. However, she's got too much cheer and not enough seriousness to do anything but stand out amongst these demure, muted outcasts. What's more, Janey's too much of a free spirit to let such unintentionally shunning dampen her demeanor, yet she hasn't enough self confidence to be full comfortable in her own skin. So she flits about from group to group, door to door, with her big heart and her even bigger mouth winning and losing her a fair amout of acquaintances. Which is just fine with her: she's too sweet to get bogged down by life, yet hasn't enough sufficient reasoning to leave her relatively comfortable existence for a bog-free alternative.
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► HOMETOWN: Manchester, England.
► CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, England.
► FAMILY:
Mother Eileen Brooks (former performer/dancing instructor, deceased)
Father Rupert Wilde (director, forty nine)
► HISTORY:
Little miss Janet is the result of a tordid affair between a girlchild who thought she'd take the art world by storm with her dancing technique and the worldweary director nine years her senior who was too caught up in his craft to reject her advances. Such is the Ballad of Rupert and Eileen in the briefest of nutshells. The Ballad of Eileen and Janet, however, takes a bit longer to explain.
Eileen, her once slightly promising career in tatters and the distant man of her dreams just as distant as before they conceived a child, decided that all her dance training and aspirations to be a proper dancer would not have been for naught. She would open shop in Manchester as a dance teacher, spread her slight knowledge throughout the community, and ensure her darling baby girl completed the dream that she'd been unable to complete—that one day, she'd see her name in lights twinkling as far as the eye can see. So young Janey was forcibly enrolled in dance class. Much like her mother, she had no innate talent; unlike her mother, she had no desire to work so hard she might as well be truly talented. Truthfully, the only form of dance she really took to was tap. Whether or not it had anything to do with the fact she could kick-ball-chain so loudly she'd drown out her mother's anxious lessons remains unverified.
To her credit, Eileen did love her daughter and wanted her to be happy. When she wasn't dragging the girl from casting call to casting call in hopes they needed a tap dancer, she left her to her own devices—which, as a teenager in the fifties, broadened to include rock'n'roll records and other elements of Americana. So it went that Janey cried like a baby the day the music died yet lost her use of tears when her mother passed just three years later; to her credit, though, the girl loved her mother and decided after the funeral that she'd make her way to London and try to make her living through dance, as Eileen had wished.
Unfortunately, jobs in the theatre industry are hard to come by for lackadaisical girls with no interest in acting, wish to sing like their male rock idols, and are proficient in only one form of dance. So Janet Wilde ended up making ends meet in her grubby little flat by taking on the persona of Miss Jay the singing telegram girl. With a smile on her face and a spring in her step, she delivers messages in song throughout all of London. Who knows—perhaps you'll find the young androgyne on your front steps one day. Stranger things've happened.
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► ALIAS: Megan.
► OTHER CHARACTERS: No one
► WHERE YOU FOUND US: Caution!
► ROLE-PLAY EXAMPLE:
“I already told you, Bosie,” Sybil sighed, examining her sleep deprived appearance in the bathroom mirror. “It’s not the play for me. You know it, I know it, and this Mister Oscar of yours most likely knows it. Why ask me again?”
The other end of the line was quiet, save for a few petulant whimpers and the crackle of cellophane wrappings. She rolled her bloodshot eyes with more than a bit of exasperated amusement. Typical, typical Bosie: imply he was a drama queen, and he’d be more queen than one could ever wish. “It’s no good giving me the silent treatment; I’ll just hang up, shall I?”
“Don’t!” came the wail at last. The young woman chuckled darkly, only half listening as her friend—one of...three she felt comfortable calling such, truth be told—told her how she simply must come, it was vital, she’d never forgive him if he didn’t make her come, and so on and so forth, just like he always did. By this time in their relationship, Sybil knew which parts of the man’s speeches she should listen to and which parts she’d heard already. Cradling the phone between her head and shoulder, she focused on lining her eyes in charcoal gray, to distract from her lack of rest this last of evenings. After all—some masks are external.
”—and besides, your mother was in it when she was your age—”
She stiffened, almost unwillingly, before coolly replying, “Yes, Constance Douglas made a whole career out of Private Lives; if she had not wound up with me, I suspect she’d be at it still. But my taste in plays is different than Connie’s, you know.”
”I know, dearest. Still, though—won’t you consider it? For me?”
She ran her free hand through her hair. “He wants me to play Sybil, your Mister Oscar, doesn’t he,” the actress sighed, more of a statement than a question.
”Perhaps—”
She put the phone down on the counter carefully. “Tell him I’d rather be Amanda, would you,” Sybil directed in a louder tone as she moved from the bathroom to the bedroom and her closet. “If you’re making me do Noël Coward, Bosie, I at least want a substantial role.”
Bosie’s exclamations of delight and gratitude, much like his pleading and coercing, was easily tuned out. Shaking her head ruefully, she flicked through the hangers for a suitable audition top. Though there was, in all honesty, little difference between her ‘everyday’ and ‘audition’ clothing: all dark colors and flattering cuts and minimal displays of skin. “I would go out tonight,” Sybil half-murmured, half-sang, “but I haven’t got a stitch to wear...”
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