The Speech

WHO I AM

 

I'm Garrett Kruithof, founder of Northwood Acting Studio and a working SAG-AFTRA actor. I'm a true local, born at Schumpert Hospital back when the nuns still roamed the halls. Over the past fifteen years, I've appeared in more than 20 feature films and close to 60 television episodes. I've shared scenes with legends like Nick Nolte, Bryan Cranston, and Alfre Woodard. I've spoken nothing but Latvian on CBS, got Purged on USA Network, played a coke-fueled hitman opposite Tim Roth, and have the privilege of being among the pantheon of Disney Villains.

 

I don't share this to impress you, but to ground what I'm about to tell you in the truth of where I've stood, what I've seen, and what I've built.

 

To understand what Northwood Acting Studio stands for, and why I'm so protective of it and the people within its walls, you need to hear its origin story. One that goes back to my very first acting class and the lessons I learned there.

 

The Magic and the Predators

 

When you're new to this business, everything feels like magic. Like falling in love for the first time. You ignore signs that, if they showed up in any other industry, would have you running for the hills.

 

Predators will hide behind that magic, and it's why I didn't see the big ones waiting for me in that first acting class. There were people who had access and connections, and I was so eager to learn that I ignored all the red flags when they took me under their wing.

 

What I thought was a mentorship turned out to be a grift. A con to get my hotel manager discounts when they traveled. To get me to buy thousands of dollars in gear. To fund a short film. When the acting coach lost his space, I offered to host. He took the offer but told me I'd still need to pay because one of the grifters had negotiated free classes for themselves in my space.

 

It wasn't very long after that when I left that class.

 

Finding Real Community

 

It wasn't all bad. That class gave me something more valuable than the lessons—it introduced me to a community. They have something special in New Orleans: a culture of artists who support each other even in the middle of this competitive, brutal industry.

 

When I walked into a casting room in New Orleans or Baton Rouge, I felt loved. I remember one audition where a veteran actor, someone I admired who had a resume long before Louisiana had an industry, saw me across the room and came straight for me.

 

He asked what role I was reading for. I told him. We were reading for different roles, and he said, "Oh, thank God. I was worried I'd have to read against you. You're perfect for this role."

 

It was moments like that where I felt like I belonged. Here was an actor who, in my mind, had nothing to worry about, and he made me feel like one of them.

 

The Opposite Experience

 

So imagine my surprise when, after some life changes that found me raising three small children on my own, I moved back to Shreveport and found the exact opposite.

 

What I found here wasn't a community of working film and television actors but, and I say this with great respect and admiration for the many talented theatre actors in our community, a group of theatre actors who had been together so long, they had knowingly or unknowingly built a tight-knit culture, impenetrable to outsiders.

 

I'm not the only one who's felt this. Too often I hear people say, "I tried to get in with the theatre people, but it seems very cliquish. They're not very welcoming." The story that follows is always the same: same actors, different plays. That insular culture has bled into Film Prize. Too often, when we watch a block of films, it feels like a series of SNL shorts: Same folks, same style, same rhythm.

 

If we're being honest, there are maybe three or four small groups driving the independent film scene here. While there's some overlap, there's a real lack of collaboration among those with the most experience in their fields. I believe that the mark of great leaders is listening to those with more experience than themselves. But too often, I see independent producers and directors wearing multiple hats, not out of necessity, but out of control.

 

We've created a culture of competition instead of collaboration. One where we make enemies and pull for failure, where honest criticism gets dismissed as petty jealousy from outsiders. And then we trust the people in our circle who nod along and share links to our work just to snicker behind our backs.

 

The Foundation

 

But then there are the genuine people who support and pull for everyone without an agenda. Meeting one of those people is why Northwood Acting Studio exists today. I met Dodie Brown shortly after moving back, and we bonded over shared frustrations, but more importantly, it was Dodie who really helped me crack the audition code.

 

Between our two households, we had five actors constantly taping auditions, and we learned what worked by paying attention to the callbacks and the bookings.

 

Pretty soon, other friends started noticing. They asked me to tape them too. And they started booking.

 

So Dodie and the others pushed me to teach, to share what I knew with more people. At first, I hesitated, worried the community wouldn't embrace me. But what finally convinced me was seeing acting classes pop up taught by the same kinds of people who once took advantage of me. Folks whose only real experience was standing in the background of someone else's scene.

 

That's when I knew it was time.

 

The Journey

 

I started Northwood Acting Studio in a community center in Mooringsport. The same place where my mom once held my 5th birthday party because we couldn't afford anything else. I had two paying students. One of them is still with me today.

Since two people drove all the way out to Mooringsport to hear what I had to say, I figured I could get at least four if I moved closer to town. My intention was to stay up in my neck of the woods, hence the name Northwood Acting Studio, but through fate and circumstance, I found myself at Millennium Studios.

 

While there, I helped dozens of actors earn their SAG cards, met some of my best friends, the love of my life, adopted a street cat I named Loki, taped some well-known actors when they were coming through town, and made it home. I survived two major strikes, literal storms, the pandemic, and a fluctuating and volatile number of students.

 

Learning From Setbacks

 

Eventually, circumstances forced another move. What hurt most wasn't losing the space, it was watching my kid light up when someone looked them in the eye and promised to help build something better, "Northwood 2.0," only to have those promises, like so many I've been given in this business, turn out to be lies.

 

That's why the fallout hit so hard. It wasn't just me that got let down; it was my family. They'd seen the struggle. They knew the sacrifice I made staying here to raise them instead of chasing greener pastures. They thought, maybe finally, it was all going to pay off.

 

For a moment, I thought I'd reached the end of the line, not just for Northwood, but for my entire acting career. I didn't have it in me anymore. I could not take one more empty promise, one more shattered dream.

So I buried my head. Licked my wounds. Thought about walking away.

 

The Community Shows Up

 

And then something happened. The community I always thought had never embraced me showed up. At the grocery store. On my to-go bags. At the gym. On the street. Every day, someone recognized me. Shook my hand. Hugged me. Took selfies. Told me they loved me.

 

Then my students went and started a GoFundMe.

 

I thought about using it to disappear to a little beach in Zihuatanejo. And if you get that reference, we can be friends.

 

But I didn't run.

 

Instead, I found a spot on Line Avenue. I was out for just one month. And even though everyone said they'd follow, most didn't. Those first couple months were shaky. The rent was considerably more expensive and I wondered if I'd made the right decision. I was angry. Bitter.

 

So I took to social media and started ranting about everything wrong with this business. And ironically, the angrier I got, the more people listened. But here's what I learned: All that energy I spent yelling into the void was energy I wasn't spending on the people who had actually shown up for me. And I had to admit, I was becoming everything I criticized. Guarding access, being territorial, creating the same toxic dynamics I'd experienced. I was part of the problem.

 

So I made a choice. I stepped away from the keyboard and started pouring into the people who were already here. The ones who were still in class. The ones who helped me move. The ones who believed in what we were building even when I didn't.

 

THE CHANGE

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And that's when everything changed. The last few months have been different. I've watched actors who were stuck (some for months, some for years) suddenly begin to grow. Begin to unlock things they didn't know they had.

 

Because here's what I realized: You can't build a real community by screaming at the people who aren't there. You build it by investing in the ones who are.

 

Recently, a prominent casting director was holding a workshop about three hours from here. I sent a group of my actors. While they were driving there, I was sending encouragement texts. What they didn't know? I was setting them up for a test.

 

Earlier, I had texted the casting director directly: "Don't take it easy on them. You're too damn nice, and my people don't need nice. They need truth."

 

Here's what happened: First, he threw me under the bus and told them exactly what I'd said. Fair enough. Second? They stole the workshop. Hands down the most prepared, best performances in the room.

 

But what meant more than strong scenes? They carpooled. They caravanned. Any actor or stuntperson who's taken a hustle trip will tell you that's where real bonds are formed.

 

Then one of our members got the yips. Froze up mid-scene, couldn't finish, walked out. But the rest of the group wouldn't let him quit. One by one, they took turns going out to build him up, encouraging him to go back in.

 

And when he did? He crushed it. Made the biggest impression of the day.

 

That moment changed how everyone in that room looked at actors from this city. My studio's website lit up with visits from across the region, and I got a text from the casting director: "Great group. Keep up the good work."

 

Protection and Standards

 

But great training is only half the equation. The other half is making sure my people are protected when they go out into this business.

 

Let's be honest, this business attracts people with unique wiring, and it's ruthless. It's cutthroat. I tell people all the time: If you can do anything else, do it. But if you can't, if this is the thing that keeps you up at night, the thing you can't walk away from, then you'll find safe refuge at Northwood.

 

And that means I have to put my money where my mouth is.

 

I've done principal and background casting for projects big and small. Some of you have benefited from that. But I've also helped perpetuate a cycle of abuse. I've seen filmmakers drop $2,500 a day on camera packages while asking actors to crawl through muddy, bug-infested ditches for 14 hours for free.

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From now on, I will not attach my name to any project that doesn't pay actors a respectable wage or one I deem toxic to my community. I know it won't stop those projects from getting made, but if you see my name attached, you'll know I've done the due diligence to keep you safe.

 

Creating Space to Be Heard

 

Something beautiful happened this year. A few guys started showing up early to class, talking about acting, sure, but also life, work, fatherhood, and mental health. What it's like to carry a family while chasing this dream. It felt like our own version of Ted Lasso's Diamond Dogs.

 

So we made it official. The Shrelebrity Society now meets every Thursday from 6:00 to 7:30 PM. A free space for men in our industry to show up and be heard.

 

I'm not offering a weekly space for women, not because I don't care, but because I don't want to hold space I haven't earned the right to lead. But we do hold space with women once a month, the third Thursday of every month, so we can hear their stories, learn from their experiences, and become better allies.

 

Sign ups for both are below:​

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Because this work isn't just about craft, it's about culture.

 

What We're Building

 

This is what we're building at Northwood. We're not waiting for permission, or saviors, or access. We're building it ourselves.

 

A community that lifts up instead of tears down. A place where competition is welcomed but enemies aren't created. A place where a redneck, hillbilly, trailer-trash kid from the bayou, and I say that with zero shame, because I wear it like a badge, can rise up, share the screen with legends, and build something from nothing.

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If this resonates with you, I invite you to be part of what we're building.

 

Because if I can do it, so can you. And we'll help you get there.

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