Building From A Barrel

The drive to an audition can feel like wasted time. You’re sitting in traffic, half watching your maps, half thinking about where you’re going to park. Most of the time I run lines out loud, but on this particular drive, something different happened. Instead of obsessing over the copy or scrolling on my phone at red lights, I started building a person.

Young Danny Irizarry in one of his first photo shoots.

What’s funny is that some of the most useful character work I’ve ever done hasn’t happened in a rehearsal studio or on set. It hasn’t even happened with a script open in front of me. It’s happened in motion. In cars or on walks or in random conversations. That day, my mom was in the driver's seat. To be clear, she isn’t in the industry and wasn't back then either. But she asks good questions. Better questions than most actors ask themselves.

The audition itself was pretty straightforward. It was for a photoshoot, which means no long monologues, just a few emotional beats and some notes about how the character carries himself physically. Those auditions are easy to underestimate. It’s tempting to think, “I just need to look right.” I’ve done that before. It never goes well. The camera has a way of exposing when you’re just presenting an idea instead of actually living something.

A few months earlier I had learned that lesson during a McDonald's audition that could have easily been treated like a throwaway. I remember deciding, almost stubbornly, that I was going to build a real inner life even if no one required it. I gave that character opinions, insecurities, history, stuff that would never show up in the final edit. It changed the way I walked into the room. I wasn’t trying to demonstrate anything, I just felt like someone. Ever since then, I’ve tried to approach even the smallest breakdowns that way.

This new audition came with a reference photo and a short description. Slightly rumpled, guarded, and school-aged. That was about it. On paper, that’s barely anything. But it’s enough if you’re willing to ask more questions than the breakdown answers. I started with what I could see. What kind of kid dresses like that? Who lets their hair fall that way? Is it intentional or neglect? Is he trying not to be noticed, or is he just tired?

My mom asked, “Who is he?” Pretty simple question. But it encouraged me to stop giving surface answers. I didn’t want to say, “He’s shy” or “He’s awkward.” Those are labels, not people.

For whatever reason, the name Albert popped into my head. And almost immediately I thought, no, he hates being called Albert. He goes by Al. I don’t know why that mattered so much, but it did. Albert feels formal, like something a teacher says during roll call. Al feels like a choice. Like he carved out a little piece of identity for himself. Once that clicked, I could feel my posture shift a little. A kid who insists on “Al” probably doesn’t feel fully seen at home or at school. There’s a small quiet push for autonomy in that.

We kept talking it through. My mom asked whether he’s trying to disappear or whether he secretly wants someone to notice him. That question stuck. I realized the version that interested me most was someone caught in between. He keeps his head down because that’s safer, but he still hopes someone sees him for something real. That kind of internal tug-of-war changes how you exist physically. You make eye contact, but not for too long. You speak clearly, but maybe you swallow the end of a sentence. You want to be understood, but you don’t want to risk being embarrassed.

At some point on that drive I realized I’ve been thinking about character work in a way that I now (half-jokingly) call “building from the barrel.” That actually comes from a conversation I had with a good friend and incredibly talented performer I met in theatre, Ben Jouras. With barrels, you first build the outside. The posture, the clothes, the way someone holds their jaw when they’re irritated. That’s the barrel itself. But if you stop there, the barrel doesn't really have a purpose. So then you fill it. You pour in history. Embarrassments. Private wins. Things no one else in the scene will ever know about. If you only focus on the inside, it floats around without form. If you only focus on the outside, it’s empty. You need both. Structure and contents.

That’s what we were doing in the car without even calling it that. We started with the outside because that’s all the breakdown gave me. But once we filled it in, it stopped feeling like a “type” and started feeling like a person.

As we drove, we started filling in small, probably unnecessary details. Maybe he draws. Not because it’s a “quirky character trait,” but because it’s the one place he feels competent. Maybe he’s done minor rebellious things that no one caught. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to test where the boundaries are. Maybe he learned to manage his emotions by watching his parents argue and deciding he didn’t want to add to the noise. None of that was in the breakdown. No one asked for it. But once you imagine those things, your body reacts. You don’t have to consciously “act guarded.” You just feel slightly guarded.

By the time I got to the audition, I wasn’t thinking about the reference photo anymore. I wasn’t trying to copy the look. I just felt like I knew how Al would sit in the chair. I knew what would make him bristle. I knew what he hoped would happen in the room, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud.

The audition itself was quick. A few minutes in front of the camera. Some adjustments. They wanted to see my hands because there was a chance of hand modeling being involved, which I hadn’t even thought about. They explained a bit of the commercial’s arc and how the character shifts over time. It was efficient. No drama.

At one point I overheard how another actor was being directed. A younger version of me might have panicked and tried to adjust to match whatever they seemed to like. Instead, I just thought, how would Al respond to that note? Would he push back internally? Would he try harder? Would he shut down a little? Having that internal framework made it easier not to scramble.

There was also this oddly reassuring moment when I noticed another actor auditioning for the same role was wearing almost the exact same type of outfit I’d chosen. We hadn’t coordinated, obviously, but it told me that I wasn’t completely off in my interpretation. That small confirmation relaxed me more than I expected.

After it was over, I got back in the car and sat there for a minute. That strange post-audition quiet hit, the one where you replay things whether you want to or not. But what stayed with me wasn’t whether I nailed it... It was the drive. The conversation. The process of slowly building someone out of almost nothing.

Things To Note:

I think sometimes we wait for “important” projects to justify doing deep work. We tell ourselves we’ll really dive in when the script is longer or the role is bigger. But the truth is, the habits you practice on a small audition are the same ones you bring to a feature. Either you train yourself to think specifically and imaginatively all the time, or you don’t.

Some of the best questions about characters I’ve ever been asked haven’t come from acting teachers. They’ve come from friends. From family. From people who don’t know the “right” terminology and therefore aren’t trying to sound smart. They just ask, “Who is he?” and refuse to let you hide behind adjectives.

That day reminded me that preparation isn’t about trying to impress casting. It’s about respecting the craft enough to show up with something real happening inside you. Even if the audition only lasts three minutes, the inner life you built carries weight. It changes how you breathe. It changes how you listen. And sometimes that quiet difference is what makes you feel less like someone posing for a camera and more like someone who actually exists.