I know this is odd, but I have watched John Wayne in The Cowboys twice in two days. And I loved it the second time as much as the first. For all my actor buddies that read this, please sit down right now before you read this next sentence. John Wayne is one of the best screen actors I have ever seen.
He learned to act in front of us. His early work throughout the thirties and forties was just awful. All he really had was this gargantuan PRESENCE. But, god, was he a bad actor.
Then, somewhere around 1945, he started getting okay. And then along came John Ford. He had done Ford movies before but something seemed to click around the late forties and early fifties. He did Stagecoach in 39, I think. His breakthrough role. Not very good in hindsight, but again, the PRESENCE. Then we see Red River, The Searchers, Iowa Jima, Quiet Man...he's learning right there, right in front of us.
Then we see the sixties stuff, he's getting better and better, The Alamo, True Grit. Even gets an Oscar for the latter.
He battles cancer. Beats it the first time. And here he is in his sixties and his name above the title all but insures a hit, even at that age.
And then, in 1973, he makes this movie, The Cowboys. If you haven't seen this film, rent it, netflix it, NOW. It is an extraordinary piece of film acting. Wayne does with one subtle expression what most actors can't do with two pages of dialogue. Wayne always said about acting, "I don't act, I react." That may be true, but know this, he's being modest. At that point in his career he could blow any other actor off the screen. And I mean ANY other actor. The eye follows him no matter what else is being done. The PRESENCE, again.
There is a moment in The Cowboys when Wayne says in a quiet scene, talking about his two dead sons, "They went bad on me. Or I went bad on them. I don't know." It is a snatch of the most heartbreaking, honest dialogue I've ever heard.
John Wayne could act. In this move, The Cowboys, he is breathtaking. See it.
On a side note, had my two buddies, John Bader and Jim Petersmith over last night for a little birthday dinner (I'm turning 32 again). Invited them to a friendly, sociable game of Trivial Pursuit. Left them both scarred and bloodied. Nearly weeping. Shamed. Wounded and humbled. And that's all I have to say about that.
Angie made a beautiful cake for me. One of the best cakes I've ever had. I was happy. Not to linger on this, but I really have no business being alive (See my play, Praying Small, opening April 9, NoHo Arts Center, 11136 Magnolia, North Hollywood, CA). A cake was nice. She is the best thing to ever happen to me. The cake was the second best thing to ever happen to me. Zooey brings up the number three spot. Diablo is up there, too. And pudding.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
A Nation of Second Acts.
Most people probably don't know that Abraham Lincoln never won an election until he became President of the United States. In fact, he had a nervous breakdown while in his thirties because his life was such a mess.
Most people probably don't know that U.S. Grant failed at every job he ever had. He was working for 12 cents a day on his father's farm at the age of 37.
Most people probably don't know that Frank Sinatra couldn't get a gig at a twenty-seat Italian restaurant in Hoboken in 1951 because his voice was gone and he no longer had a movie contract.
Most people probably don't know that Muhammad Ali, during his forced layoff from 1968-1971, had to borrow money from Howard Cosell to feed his family. He borrowed $500 and bought loaves of bread and bologna and froze them so he would have enough for his three kids.
Most people probably don't know that when Fred Astaire first auditioned for the movies, the comment on his audition card said, "Can't sing, is ugly, dances a little."
Most people probably don't know that when Jesus trekked back into his hometown after preaching around the countryside for a few years was laughed at. They allegedly said to him, "You're a carpenter, not a prophet, take that shit somewhere else."
Most people probably don't know that that Edgar Allan Poe slept on a park bench, was homeless, and was writing short stories with a short pencil on the back of pieces of paper he found on the street. That's how he wrote The Tell-Tale Heart.
Most people probably don't know that Harry Truman worked in a hat shop, a haberdashery, because he couldn't find a job anywhere else and had failed miserably as a farmer. He was 44 years old.
Most people probably don't know that John Kennedy O'Toole, the author of Confederacy of Dunces, showed his hand-written novel to several publishers. They all made fun of him. He killed himself and the book won a Pulitzer.
Most people don't know that Einstein failed calculus.
Most people probably don't know that by 1970 not a single motion picture studio would hire Marlon Brando because he was just too much trouble.
Most people probably don't know that Michael Jordan was cut from his high school basketball team. His coach told him he just didn't have what it takes.
Most people probably don't know that Vincent Van Gogh didn't sell a single piece of artwork while he was alive.
Most people probably don't know that J.R.R. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings was singularly trashed when it was published. One critic said of it, "This is the longest, most boring piece of writing I have ever been forced to read."
Most people probably don't know that Katherine Hepburn's first review on broadway contained this sentence, "She simply cannot act."
Most people probably don't know that the first time Tennessee Williams approached a producer for The Glass Menagerie, he was told, "nothing happens in this play. Why would anyone want to watch something like this?"
We live in a nation of second acts.
See you tomorrow.
Most people probably don't know that U.S. Grant failed at every job he ever had. He was working for 12 cents a day on his father's farm at the age of 37.
Most people probably don't know that Frank Sinatra couldn't get a gig at a twenty-seat Italian restaurant in Hoboken in 1951 because his voice was gone and he no longer had a movie contract.
Most people probably don't know that Muhammad Ali, during his forced layoff from 1968-1971, had to borrow money from Howard Cosell to feed his family. He borrowed $500 and bought loaves of bread and bologna and froze them so he would have enough for his three kids.
Most people probably don't know that when Fred Astaire first auditioned for the movies, the comment on his audition card said, "Can't sing, is ugly, dances a little."
Most people probably don't know that when Jesus trekked back into his hometown after preaching around the countryside for a few years was laughed at. They allegedly said to him, "You're a carpenter, not a prophet, take that shit somewhere else."
Most people probably don't know that that Edgar Allan Poe slept on a park bench, was homeless, and was writing short stories with a short pencil on the back of pieces of paper he found on the street. That's how he wrote The Tell-Tale Heart.
Most people probably don't know that Harry Truman worked in a hat shop, a haberdashery, because he couldn't find a job anywhere else and had failed miserably as a farmer. He was 44 years old.
Most people probably don't know that John Kennedy O'Toole, the author of Confederacy of Dunces, showed his hand-written novel to several publishers. They all made fun of him. He killed himself and the book won a Pulitzer.
Most people don't know that Einstein failed calculus.
Most people probably don't know that by 1970 not a single motion picture studio would hire Marlon Brando because he was just too much trouble.
Most people probably don't know that Michael Jordan was cut from his high school basketball team. His coach told him he just didn't have what it takes.
Most people probably don't know that Vincent Van Gogh didn't sell a single piece of artwork while he was alive.
Most people probably don't know that J.R.R. Tolkein's Lord of the Rings was singularly trashed when it was published. One critic said of it, "This is the longest, most boring piece of writing I have ever been forced to read."
Most people probably don't know that Katherine Hepburn's first review on broadway contained this sentence, "She simply cannot act."
Most people probably don't know that the first time Tennessee Williams approached a producer for The Glass Menagerie, he was told, "nothing happens in this play. Why would anyone want to watch something like this?"
We live in a nation of second acts.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, February 26, 2010
On Steaks, Trivia and Plays
I've got a meeting today with the Artistic Director of NoHo, James Mellon, about the future of scheduling for both From the East to the West and Praying Small (see posters to the right). No idea whatsoever what's going to come of it. Naturally, I'm hoping both are on the schedule for full productions. But I'm not counting chickens just yet.
In 2003, I sublet a small apartment in Chicago on Bryn Mawr (a street). It's full of quaint little shops, Starbucks, Italian restaurants, etc. One day I'm walking back to my studio apartment and I see one of the storefronts that had hitherto been closed, with a sign on the door that says, "Actors Workshop. Now accepting students for Wednesday night acting class." Hm, I thought.
So Wednesday rolled around and I decided to stop in and see what was what. At that time I was working as a drug and alcohol counselor and had put theatre away for a bit. Trying to change the world one addict at a time. How naive of me. Anyway, I stopped in. There were only three of us, the artistic director, his wife and myself. No one else showed up.
So we got to chatting. It came up that I had a new script called Praying Small. That I lived around the corner. That I had a rather extensive background in theatre. So, since no one showed up for the "acting class" he suggested I go get my script and bring it over. "Let's read it out loud," he said. So I did.
We read the script out loud, sitting in that gutted storefront, and by the end both of them were weeping openly. We finished and he said, "Well, I don't think there's really anything more to be said. I'd like to open this theatre with this play." And we did. And it was a huge hit. Sold out for months. The play is about the first, shaky, terrible, joyful year of sobriety. It caught on with the recovery community in Chicago, entirely by word of mouth, and was suddenly this surprise hit. The reviews came out and we were suddenly and quite unexpectedly the critic's darling in Chicago. They were tripping over each other to say nice things about us.
The reason I tell you this is because that's how I like things to happen when it comes to my work. Read it, do it. Two simple steps. But, of course, that's not how it works generally. It is the playwright's version of being discovered at Schwabb's drug store.
So even though EAST/WEST was embarrassingly well received in the three day "benefit performance," there are no promises that it will run. I wish I could say there were, but there are not.
So, I don't know what's gonna happen today.
I am sufficiently far enough along with my personal beliefs to know that whatever happens is exactly what is supposed to happen.
On a lighter note, Angie and I had two friends over last night for grilled steaks and trivial pursuit. Not to brag, but I won. I won big, I kicked ass, I mauled the competition, I was a trivial pursuit machine, I was like the computer in 2001, spitting out answers, unstoppable, nearly super-human, really.
Okay, I did win. But not by that much. But the important thing is we had a great time. Lots of laughs. Chad and Lacy (our two funny, hip, smart, young guests) were a delight. In hindsight I'm a little sorry they were beaten so soundly. But they're both strong and young and they'll recover. Angie, the surprise smarty-cat of the evening, came in a close second.
Sorry. Off message there, but I promised them I'd write about it.
But really, in the final analysis, it was just too easy. It was tantamount to the New Orleans Saints playing a co-ed, high school football team. Just rolled over them. Heavy sigh.
I hope From the East to the West goes on the schedule at NoHo. I hope Praying Small runs a little further down the line. But life is cool even if they don't. Because I've got good friends, a beautiful girlfriend, and many nights ahead of me to thoroughly humiliate all trivial pursuit pretenders.
See you tomorrow.
In 2003, I sublet a small apartment in Chicago on Bryn Mawr (a street). It's full of quaint little shops, Starbucks, Italian restaurants, etc. One day I'm walking back to my studio apartment and I see one of the storefronts that had hitherto been closed, with a sign on the door that says, "Actors Workshop. Now accepting students for Wednesday night acting class." Hm, I thought.
So Wednesday rolled around and I decided to stop in and see what was what. At that time I was working as a drug and alcohol counselor and had put theatre away for a bit. Trying to change the world one addict at a time. How naive of me. Anyway, I stopped in. There were only three of us, the artistic director, his wife and myself. No one else showed up.
So we got to chatting. It came up that I had a new script called Praying Small. That I lived around the corner. That I had a rather extensive background in theatre. So, since no one showed up for the "acting class" he suggested I go get my script and bring it over. "Let's read it out loud," he said. So I did.
We read the script out loud, sitting in that gutted storefront, and by the end both of them were weeping openly. We finished and he said, "Well, I don't think there's really anything more to be said. I'd like to open this theatre with this play." And we did. And it was a huge hit. Sold out for months. The play is about the first, shaky, terrible, joyful year of sobriety. It caught on with the recovery community in Chicago, entirely by word of mouth, and was suddenly this surprise hit. The reviews came out and we were suddenly and quite unexpectedly the critic's darling in Chicago. They were tripping over each other to say nice things about us.
The reason I tell you this is because that's how I like things to happen when it comes to my work. Read it, do it. Two simple steps. But, of course, that's not how it works generally. It is the playwright's version of being discovered at Schwabb's drug store.
So even though EAST/WEST was embarrassingly well received in the three day "benefit performance," there are no promises that it will run. I wish I could say there were, but there are not.
So, I don't know what's gonna happen today.
I am sufficiently far enough along with my personal beliefs to know that whatever happens is exactly what is supposed to happen.
On a lighter note, Angie and I had two friends over last night for grilled steaks and trivial pursuit. Not to brag, but I won. I won big, I kicked ass, I mauled the competition, I was a trivial pursuit machine, I was like the computer in 2001, spitting out answers, unstoppable, nearly super-human, really.
Okay, I did win. But not by that much. But the important thing is we had a great time. Lots of laughs. Chad and Lacy (our two funny, hip, smart, young guests) were a delight. In hindsight I'm a little sorry they were beaten so soundly. But they're both strong and young and they'll recover. Angie, the surprise smarty-cat of the evening, came in a close second.
Sorry. Off message there, but I promised them I'd write about it.
But really, in the final analysis, it was just too easy. It was tantamount to the New Orleans Saints playing a co-ed, high school football team. Just rolled over them. Heavy sigh.
I hope From the East to the West goes on the schedule at NoHo. I hope Praying Small runs a little further down the line. But life is cool even if they don't. Because I've got good friends, a beautiful girlfriend, and many nights ahead of me to thoroughly humiliate all trivial pursuit pretenders.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Show Me.
My buddy, Brad Blaisdell, came over for a chat yesterday. Brad is an actor that's been around forever. Lots of film, including a big role in the movie, The Negotiator. Many others. Did a ton of Broadway stuff. Came to LA in the seventies, had a recurring role on Three's Company, for god's sake. Helluva actor. He just finished a really top-flight piece of work in the play PROOF at NoHo Arts.
He came over to hang and have a little Missouri Sweet Tea, shoot the shit, kick the bobo, chat about the future of EAST/WEST and the screenplay to Praying Small. Brad has been in the LA trenches. SAG Board member, friend of celebrities, clear thinker, and, like me, a bit of an outsider when it comes to LA. He does not suffer fools gladly, that's fairly clear.
So we're sitting out in my office-to-be and he's offering advice on a few things. Readily accepted, I might add.
Brad has a gentle confidence about himself that I like enormously. He has reached the age where he obviously doesn't really give a shit what people think of his work. As well he shouldn't because it's great stuff. He pops back and forth between film and television jobs and work in the theatre that interests him. In short, he has had the career I'd like to have. He's not a star, but he's had starring roles. He's not a name, but name's know him. He's an actor.
For whatever reason, he's taken an interest in my work, my writing. That's what we talked about mostly. What to do with it. He's convinced it is great stuff and wants to see it go further. I appreciated that.
I have a new play called Heavyweights of the Twentieth Century that I have been working on for about a year now. There's a massive role in it for Brad. He doesn't know it yet, but he'll play it someday.
Heavyweights is my homage to Kushner's Angels in American. It's a "big" play, three acts, three hours long. It's about war and AIDS and alcoholism and rape and dying and...heavyweight boxing throughout the nineteen hundreds. Yep. That's what I said. It's a corker.
But the other thing we discussed was possibly bringing him on board to direct the next incarnation of EAST/WEST. I thought of that a lot last night, and I think that would be ideal. He has the chops for it (EAST/WEST, for those who saw it, is no lightweight play...it's a fairly multi-leveled piece - needs a firm and confident hand). As to whether he'll do it, well, we'll see about that.
And we discussed my work on Praying Small and the screenplay potential there. The play is written in such a way that it is not terribly difficult to adapt. I'm finding that out as I work on it. I'm approaching it much like I have approached my work as a playwright in the past. That is to say, fuck what everyone says, do it my way. This has not served me so well in life, but it's certainly been a boon to my work as a writer and actor. I think I'll stick with it.
So, today, back to the boards. Visualizing Praying Small. Seeing the life in it. Tolerating the words in order to make a picture. Changing four words to one. Years ago I read something Alfred Hitchcock said about making movies. He said his ideal screenplay would have no dialogue whatsoever. NOT a silent film, mind you, just a screenplay so tight and clear that dialogue was not necessary. He could tell the whole thing with pictures. I'm keeping that particular piece of advice in my head today as I continue to trudge through it.
I remember reading a book called Tricks in My Pocket some years back. It's a day by day, minute by minute account of Paul Newman directing Joanne Woodward and John Malkovich in The Glass Menagerie. A great deal of it is simply transcribed conversations between them as they rehearse the play. At one point, Malkovich is trying to discuss, in great detail, a scene he is about to play. On the page it is a long, long paragraph of Malkovich talking and then Newman saying over and over, "Show me." More Malkovich talking, then again Newman, "Show me." And on and on. I liked that very much.
That's exactly how I'm approaching Praying Small as a screenplay. I'm showing.
See you tomorrow.
He came over to hang and have a little Missouri Sweet Tea, shoot the shit, kick the bobo, chat about the future of EAST/WEST and the screenplay to Praying Small. Brad has been in the LA trenches. SAG Board member, friend of celebrities, clear thinker, and, like me, a bit of an outsider when it comes to LA. He does not suffer fools gladly, that's fairly clear.
So we're sitting out in my office-to-be and he's offering advice on a few things. Readily accepted, I might add.
Brad has a gentle confidence about himself that I like enormously. He has reached the age where he obviously doesn't really give a shit what people think of his work. As well he shouldn't because it's great stuff. He pops back and forth between film and television jobs and work in the theatre that interests him. In short, he has had the career I'd like to have. He's not a star, but he's had starring roles. He's not a name, but name's know him. He's an actor.
For whatever reason, he's taken an interest in my work, my writing. That's what we talked about mostly. What to do with it. He's convinced it is great stuff and wants to see it go further. I appreciated that.
I have a new play called Heavyweights of the Twentieth Century that I have been working on for about a year now. There's a massive role in it for Brad. He doesn't know it yet, but he'll play it someday.
Heavyweights is my homage to Kushner's Angels in American. It's a "big" play, three acts, three hours long. It's about war and AIDS and alcoholism and rape and dying and...heavyweight boxing throughout the nineteen hundreds. Yep. That's what I said. It's a corker.
But the other thing we discussed was possibly bringing him on board to direct the next incarnation of EAST/WEST. I thought of that a lot last night, and I think that would be ideal. He has the chops for it (EAST/WEST, for those who saw it, is no lightweight play...it's a fairly multi-leveled piece - needs a firm and confident hand). As to whether he'll do it, well, we'll see about that.
And we discussed my work on Praying Small and the screenplay potential there. The play is written in such a way that it is not terribly difficult to adapt. I'm finding that out as I work on it. I'm approaching it much like I have approached my work as a playwright in the past. That is to say, fuck what everyone says, do it my way. This has not served me so well in life, but it's certainly been a boon to my work as a writer and actor. I think I'll stick with it.
So, today, back to the boards. Visualizing Praying Small. Seeing the life in it. Tolerating the words in order to make a picture. Changing four words to one. Years ago I read something Alfred Hitchcock said about making movies. He said his ideal screenplay would have no dialogue whatsoever. NOT a silent film, mind you, just a screenplay so tight and clear that dialogue was not necessary. He could tell the whole thing with pictures. I'm keeping that particular piece of advice in my head today as I continue to trudge through it.
I remember reading a book called Tricks in My Pocket some years back. It's a day by day, minute by minute account of Paul Newman directing Joanne Woodward and John Malkovich in The Glass Menagerie. A great deal of it is simply transcribed conversations between them as they rehearse the play. At one point, Malkovich is trying to discuss, in great detail, a scene he is about to play. On the page it is a long, long paragraph of Malkovich talking and then Newman saying over and over, "Show me." More Malkovich talking, then again Newman, "Show me." And on and on. I liked that very much.
That's exactly how I'm approaching Praying Small as a screenplay. I'm showing.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
"It's All in the Movies..."
I've been getting a lot of helpful suggestions on how to adapt Praying Small into a screenplay, particularly from my friend and very fine actor, Michael Catlin. Michael recently moved to Denver and is already teaching classes and networking with The Denver Theatre Center, the big boy on the block out there. His suggestions are helpful for a couple of reasons. First, he clearly knows what he's talking about, certainly more than I do, and second, he's been down this road a few times before.
I've decided to back up and take another run at this thing. By that I mean, I'm going to throw all convention out the window and just write it as I SEE it. Because that's what film is, right? How we SEE a particular thing? So I'm gonna write it as a big Point of View kinda thing. The play is written entirely in first person. All of it from the perspective of Sam, the lead character. So I thought I'd approach the screenplay as I might approach a first person novel. Starting that today.
Also, was chatting with my buddy, Kyle Puccia, yesterday. Kyle is writing the entire score to the stage production of Praying Small. At one point Kyle mentioned it would be cool to do the whole thing much as P.T. Anderson had done Magnolia...all Aimee Mann music throughout. Only it would be all Kyle Puccia music throughout. I like that very much. In fact, Kyle sent me a song that was dead-on for it. When I listened to it (Kyle is so fucking brilliant, folks), I was re-energized about this project all over again.
Now, of course, I'm getting quite obsessive about the whole thing. I was watching Forrest Gump last night on AMC...and instead of enjoying a movie I've seen a dozen times (and still love), I was watching each scene and trying to visualize it on the page. I was thinking I really don't wanna get so close to the movie business that I lose my love of the movies themselves. This is sort of sophomoric of me, but I really don't. I love movies. I don't want to ever get to the point that I'm dissecting them as I watch them. That's no fun.
I remember many years ago, movie theatre on 33rd and 2nd Ave in NYC. John Bader, Jeff Wood, Robert Fiedler and myself. Matinee performance. A movie called Name of the Rose. Back then you could still smoke in the balcony of a theatre. You may remember there's a particularly hotsy-totsy sex scene in the movie when Christian Slater and the deaf girl go at it. We were all on the edge of our seat, not a peep from us. When it was over, I glanced around. All four of us had lit a cigarette and were leaning back, contented, in our seats.
I remember being about 12 years old, Fulton Movie Theatre, Saturday afternoon. Movie called Count Yorga - Vampire. A scene where the vampires invade a house while a dinner party is in progress. They kill all the people there. I was scared out of my wits. Dreamt about it for weeks. Still the scariest moment I can remember while at the movies.
I remember being home, sick from school, probably just playing hooky, watching the afternoon movie in the basement, rec-room of my childhood home in Fulton. The show was called "Dialing for Dollars" and at the commercial break they would call someone and if they answered, give them some money, I think. Anyway, the movie that day was called The Ugly American starring an actor named Marlon Brando. It is not a very good movie, sort of slow and dull. But that afternoon was singularly responsible for a great chunk of my life. I was mesmerized by this guy, this Marlon Brando fella. I was only about 16, had a done a few high school plays, was starting to get interested in "acting." But this guy, wow, I'd never seen anything like it. I knew, in some deep, very dark, dusty, claustrophobic section of my brain that this is exactly what I wanted to do the rest of my life, what this guy was doing.
I don't want what I'm doing now to corrupt all those remembrances. I don't want to analyze a movie while I watch it. I want to accept it all, suspend my disbelief, be scared of Count Yorga, mesmerized by Brando and vicariously excited by whatever scene I'm watching. I don't want to stop believing in movies. They've meant too much to me. They've informed too much of my life. They've taught me how to react to life. And I owe them, all of them, my trust.
See you tomorrow.
I've decided to back up and take another run at this thing. By that I mean, I'm going to throw all convention out the window and just write it as I SEE it. Because that's what film is, right? How we SEE a particular thing? So I'm gonna write it as a big Point of View kinda thing. The play is written entirely in first person. All of it from the perspective of Sam, the lead character. So I thought I'd approach the screenplay as I might approach a first person novel. Starting that today.
Also, was chatting with my buddy, Kyle Puccia, yesterday. Kyle is writing the entire score to the stage production of Praying Small. At one point Kyle mentioned it would be cool to do the whole thing much as P.T. Anderson had done Magnolia...all Aimee Mann music throughout. Only it would be all Kyle Puccia music throughout. I like that very much. In fact, Kyle sent me a song that was dead-on for it. When I listened to it (Kyle is so fucking brilliant, folks), I was re-energized about this project all over again.
Now, of course, I'm getting quite obsessive about the whole thing. I was watching Forrest Gump last night on AMC...and instead of enjoying a movie I've seen a dozen times (and still love), I was watching each scene and trying to visualize it on the page. I was thinking I really don't wanna get so close to the movie business that I lose my love of the movies themselves. This is sort of sophomoric of me, but I really don't. I love movies. I don't want to ever get to the point that I'm dissecting them as I watch them. That's no fun.
I remember many years ago, movie theatre on 33rd and 2nd Ave in NYC. John Bader, Jeff Wood, Robert Fiedler and myself. Matinee performance. A movie called Name of the Rose. Back then you could still smoke in the balcony of a theatre. You may remember there's a particularly hotsy-totsy sex scene in the movie when Christian Slater and the deaf girl go at it. We were all on the edge of our seat, not a peep from us. When it was over, I glanced around. All four of us had lit a cigarette and were leaning back, contented, in our seats.
I remember being about 12 years old, Fulton Movie Theatre, Saturday afternoon. Movie called Count Yorga - Vampire. A scene where the vampires invade a house while a dinner party is in progress. They kill all the people there. I was scared out of my wits. Dreamt about it for weeks. Still the scariest moment I can remember while at the movies.
I remember being home, sick from school, probably just playing hooky, watching the afternoon movie in the basement, rec-room of my childhood home in Fulton. The show was called "Dialing for Dollars" and at the commercial break they would call someone and if they answered, give them some money, I think. Anyway, the movie that day was called The Ugly American starring an actor named Marlon Brando. It is not a very good movie, sort of slow and dull. But that afternoon was singularly responsible for a great chunk of my life. I was mesmerized by this guy, this Marlon Brando fella. I was only about 16, had a done a few high school plays, was starting to get interested in "acting." But this guy, wow, I'd never seen anything like it. I knew, in some deep, very dark, dusty, claustrophobic section of my brain that this is exactly what I wanted to do the rest of my life, what this guy was doing.
I don't want what I'm doing now to corrupt all those remembrances. I don't want to analyze a movie while I watch it. I want to accept it all, suspend my disbelief, be scared of Count Yorga, mesmerized by Brando and vicariously excited by whatever scene I'm watching. I don't want to stop believing in movies. They've meant too much to me. They've informed too much of my life. They've taught me how to react to life. And I owe them, all of them, my trust.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, February 22, 2010
To Write a Script...
I've been asked to turn my play, Praying Small, into a screenplay. Now, I am not a screenwriter. Never have been, doubt I ever will be. As I mentioned before, everybody and their grandma has a screenplay out here. I suppose that's only natural, since this is the film capital of the world. I was chatting with a neighbor, nice lady, retired, used to be a secretary, I think. She came to see my last play. She liked it, I think. So, I'm out on the front lawn bringing in the trash barrels (LA has some strange "trash pick up" laws). And she sees me and wanders down to tell me about her screenplay. Actually, she's "pitching" me the screenplay. Like I might have the power to greenlight it somewhere. I think it had something to do with evil alien secretaries.
Hemingway said everyone has at least one great novel in them. He was, of course, saying that everyone can tell their life story. Out here everyone has at least one great screenplay in them.
This weekend, Angie and I picked up a low-budget film starring our friend, John Bader. It's a western. Not very good, really. But John is good IN it. But what struck me is this: someone spent a lot of time and money and passion on this thing. And it's simply not very good. Hackneyed, unoriginal, uninspired. I told Angie, "Why would someone take so much time out of their lives, when life is so short and immediate, to do this?"
Before I left Chicago, I was offered a chance to do the lead in The Scottish Play. It's my favorite Shakespearean role, even more than Hamlet or Dicky III. And I considered it, I really did. But finally one night I thought, "Do I have anything new to say about this guy?" The answer is no, I did not. So, the next day I called back and said, "You know, I'd love to play The Dark Scot. And I think I might even have a good one in me. But in the final analysis, it would take about five months out of my life. And I'm not ready for that kind of trade-off at my age."
The same John as mentioned above said to me after he'd seen From the East to the West, "It made me remember why I rarely do plays anymore. It's just too much damn work."
There is a story of Joe Papp running into Brando in midtown back in the mid-seventies. He rushes over to him and says, "Marlon, come back to the stage, you're the greatest American actor, come back to the stage and do Lear. I'll produce it. What do you say?" Brando smiled and looked off into the distance, you could see him considering it, his eyes lit up. Papp said later he was shocked; what was this? Brando was actually considering doing this? Oh my God, he said later, Marlon Brando is actually thinking seriously about doing King Lear at Shakespeare in the Park! Finally after a bit when Brando hadn't said anything, Papp said, "So, what do you think?" And Brando said, "I just did it in my mind, Joe. I just saw it all. It was great. But that's as close as I'll ever get to another stage role. In my mind. It's just too hard."
Today, I start adapting Praying Small into a screenplay. Like I said, I know zip about screenplays. But I went to the library this weekend and picked up a bunch of shooting scripts: four by Woody Allen, Magnolia by P.T. Anderson, a few others. So like everything else in my life, I'll teach myself how to do it. I don't care what anyone says, the greatest education to be had on the planet is in your nearest public library.
The big thing to remember is advice from Hitchcock, though. Film is about imagery. Theatre is about words. Praying Small is a very wordy script. So that's my job. Turn the words into images. Because here's a truism: A picture IS worth a thousand words. At least in the film business.
See you tomorrow.
Hemingway said everyone has at least one great novel in them. He was, of course, saying that everyone can tell their life story. Out here everyone has at least one great screenplay in them.
This weekend, Angie and I picked up a low-budget film starring our friend, John Bader. It's a western. Not very good, really. But John is good IN it. But what struck me is this: someone spent a lot of time and money and passion on this thing. And it's simply not very good. Hackneyed, unoriginal, uninspired. I told Angie, "Why would someone take so much time out of their lives, when life is so short and immediate, to do this?"
Before I left Chicago, I was offered a chance to do the lead in The Scottish Play. It's my favorite Shakespearean role, even more than Hamlet or Dicky III. And I considered it, I really did. But finally one night I thought, "Do I have anything new to say about this guy?" The answer is no, I did not. So, the next day I called back and said, "You know, I'd love to play The Dark Scot. And I think I might even have a good one in me. But in the final analysis, it would take about five months out of my life. And I'm not ready for that kind of trade-off at my age."
The same John as mentioned above said to me after he'd seen From the East to the West, "It made me remember why I rarely do plays anymore. It's just too much damn work."
There is a story of Joe Papp running into Brando in midtown back in the mid-seventies. He rushes over to him and says, "Marlon, come back to the stage, you're the greatest American actor, come back to the stage and do Lear. I'll produce it. What do you say?" Brando smiled and looked off into the distance, you could see him considering it, his eyes lit up. Papp said later he was shocked; what was this? Brando was actually considering doing this? Oh my God, he said later, Marlon Brando is actually thinking seriously about doing King Lear at Shakespeare in the Park! Finally after a bit when Brando hadn't said anything, Papp said, "So, what do you think?" And Brando said, "I just did it in my mind, Joe. I just saw it all. It was great. But that's as close as I'll ever get to another stage role. In my mind. It's just too hard."
Today, I start adapting Praying Small into a screenplay. Like I said, I know zip about screenplays. But I went to the library this weekend and picked up a bunch of shooting scripts: four by Woody Allen, Magnolia by P.T. Anderson, a few others. So like everything else in my life, I'll teach myself how to do it. I don't care what anyone says, the greatest education to be had on the planet is in your nearest public library.
The big thing to remember is advice from Hitchcock, though. Film is about imagery. Theatre is about words. Praying Small is a very wordy script. So that's my job. Turn the words into images. Because here's a truism: A picture IS worth a thousand words. At least in the film business.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Graumann's Chinese Theatre.
I saw Frank Sinatra in concert five times. One of those times, I think it was at Radio City Music Hall in New York, Sinatra finished with his signature song, New York, New York, and then strode off stage. He doesn't come back on. That is to say, Sinatra did not do encores. When the concert was done, the last song sang, Sinatra left. So while watching him at Radio City Music Hall, the crowd lingered a little longer than usual, thinking Sinatra was gonna come out and sing again. Finally, a booming announcement in a somewhat peeved voice said over the loud speakers, "Mr. Sinatra will not be doing an encore."
Angie took me to see Graumann's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. I wanted to see John Wayne's footprints. I wanted to see them for two reasons. One, I loved John Wayne. Two, in Katherine Hepburn's book, ME, she says, "John Wayne had the smallest, daintiest, little Irish feet." I never believed that sentence. So I saw John Wayne's footprints at Graumann's Chinese Theatre today. He had tiny, dainty, Irish feet. If I had to guess, I'd say about size 7. At the most.
The stars down Hollywood Blvd. are terribly disappointing. First of all, Ange tells me that anyone can have one, practically. You just have to pay $2,500 and have someone from the Hollywood Walk of Fame Committee nominate you. It wasn't always like that, but it is now. That became painfully clear when I saw Erik Estrada's star right next to Tyrone Power's star. Almost made me throw up a little in my mouth.
But what stuck with me, what made me saddest, were the blocks of cement with the handprints and footprints and signatures and little comments. To have your name and feet and hands commemorated at Graumann's used to be a big deal. Actually, I suppose it still is. There are some modern-era folk there; Spielberg, Harrison Ford, Robert Downy Jr., Travolta, a few others.
But, not surprisingly, it was the old ones that fascinated me. And for a different reason than you might expect. I was really mournful looking at them all. Sunny day, crowds of people, Asians snapping photographs like crazy, and I was unexpectedly sad suddenly. And after a bit, I realized why. There was Humphrey Bogart, he's written, "Sid, don't you dare die till I kill ya'!" I could imagine the night he wrote that. It said 1946. Guffaws from an adoring crowd, more drinks when he got to the restaurant, congratulations, Sid Graumann picks up the tab, laughter all night, he stops on the way out, sees what he's written again, laughs, into the car, a wonderful night, memorialized forever at Graumann's Chinese Theatre.
Twelve years later he died an unimaginably painful death at the hands of a cancer that ate his insides out.
I kept looking. Gable, who I will always remember turning, smirking, lighting perfect, thirty feet high, eyes flashing, Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. He'd signed, "Thanks, Sid. What a night!" Died 21 years later from a massive heart attack, his chest so painful he couldn't speak, his assistant said his mouth was open in a silent scream for over a minute.
Myrna Loy, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Rock Hudson, John Huston, Fred Astaire, Jackie Cooper, Paul Newman, Yul Brenner, George Burns, Jack Benny.
All living, laughing, breathing, happy. Stepping onto the wet cement. Cameras clicking, flashbulbs popping. Cocktails flowing, women grinning.
All dead now, some in particularly violent and gruesome manners. Others just getting old and slipping away.
I stood there in that large, patio-type area, surrounded by tourist outlets, and imagined the cameras, the smiles, the suits, maybe tuxedos, the bright kleeg lights, the beautiful women, furs, high heels, laughter, brill cream, cologne, perfume, cigarettes, cigars, booze, breezy, Santa Anna weather, names shouted from the crowd, wisecracks, quick explosive laughter, smiling.
And they're all gone. That moment, that night, that great night at Graumann's Chinese Theatre. Dead people now.
All glory is fleeting.
I was saddened by the footprints. The signatures made by sticks or index fingers. The comments there forever, witty at the time, I'm sure, now just sort of quaint. Reminded me of my own mortality and the mortality of my friends and of Angie. Made me think of wonderful nights I've had and how they are really just old, black and white photographs with girls laughing in the background, a little out of focus, holding drinks in conical, plastic cups.
Made me realize how important it is to absorb when we're in the very exact precise complete total unaware midst of happiness.
Mr. Sinatra will not be doing an encore.
See you tomorrow.
Angie took me to see Graumann's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. I wanted to see John Wayne's footprints. I wanted to see them for two reasons. One, I loved John Wayne. Two, in Katherine Hepburn's book, ME, she says, "John Wayne had the smallest, daintiest, little Irish feet." I never believed that sentence. So I saw John Wayne's footprints at Graumann's Chinese Theatre today. He had tiny, dainty, Irish feet. If I had to guess, I'd say about size 7. At the most.
The stars down Hollywood Blvd. are terribly disappointing. First of all, Ange tells me that anyone can have one, practically. You just have to pay $2,500 and have someone from the Hollywood Walk of Fame Committee nominate you. It wasn't always like that, but it is now. That became painfully clear when I saw Erik Estrada's star right next to Tyrone Power's star. Almost made me throw up a little in my mouth.
But what stuck with me, what made me saddest, were the blocks of cement with the handprints and footprints and signatures and little comments. To have your name and feet and hands commemorated at Graumann's used to be a big deal. Actually, I suppose it still is. There are some modern-era folk there; Spielberg, Harrison Ford, Robert Downy Jr., Travolta, a few others.
But, not surprisingly, it was the old ones that fascinated me. And for a different reason than you might expect. I was really mournful looking at them all. Sunny day, crowds of people, Asians snapping photographs like crazy, and I was unexpectedly sad suddenly. And after a bit, I realized why. There was Humphrey Bogart, he's written, "Sid, don't you dare die till I kill ya'!" I could imagine the night he wrote that. It said 1946. Guffaws from an adoring crowd, more drinks when he got to the restaurant, congratulations, Sid Graumann picks up the tab, laughter all night, he stops on the way out, sees what he's written again, laughs, into the car, a wonderful night, memorialized forever at Graumann's Chinese Theatre.
Twelve years later he died an unimaginably painful death at the hands of a cancer that ate his insides out.
I kept looking. Gable, who I will always remember turning, smirking, lighting perfect, thirty feet high, eyes flashing, Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. He'd signed, "Thanks, Sid. What a night!" Died 21 years later from a massive heart attack, his chest so painful he couldn't speak, his assistant said his mouth was open in a silent scream for over a minute.
Myrna Loy, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Rock Hudson, John Huston, Fred Astaire, Jackie Cooper, Paul Newman, Yul Brenner, George Burns, Jack Benny.
All living, laughing, breathing, happy. Stepping onto the wet cement. Cameras clicking, flashbulbs popping. Cocktails flowing, women grinning.
All dead now, some in particularly violent and gruesome manners. Others just getting old and slipping away.
I stood there in that large, patio-type area, surrounded by tourist outlets, and imagined the cameras, the smiles, the suits, maybe tuxedos, the bright kleeg lights, the beautiful women, furs, high heels, laughter, brill cream, cologne, perfume, cigarettes, cigars, booze, breezy, Santa Anna weather, names shouted from the crowd, wisecracks, quick explosive laughter, smiling.
And they're all gone. That moment, that night, that great night at Graumann's Chinese Theatre. Dead people now.
All glory is fleeting.
I was saddened by the footprints. The signatures made by sticks or index fingers. The comments there forever, witty at the time, I'm sure, now just sort of quaint. Reminded me of my own mortality and the mortality of my friends and of Angie. Made me think of wonderful nights I've had and how they are really just old, black and white photographs with girls laughing in the background, a little out of focus, holding drinks in conical, plastic cups.
Made me realize how important it is to absorb when we're in the very exact precise complete total unaware midst of happiness.
Mr. Sinatra will not be doing an encore.
See you tomorrow.
Back to the Present...
Well, back to a semblance of routine now. Happy about that. Today we're going to shop (by "we," of course, I mean Angie and I) for some groceries since all we have in the house after a week of theatah is dog food and saltines. Last night was a well-deserved night of decompression for us. Had some pizza and pie. I wanted the pie first but Angie put her foot down.
Heading to the library later to pick up "Screenwriting for Dummies." Can't really go into it, but there is some interest, much to my surprise, about turning Praying Small into a film. Hm. Personally, I don't want to get involved in the screenwriting business. Every schmo on the street out here has a screenplay. Also, I don't want a bunch of hackers and suits getting hold of my words. The screenwriter is treated like a janitor out here. At least in the theatre, the playwright is still held in SOME regard.
Also heading over to Hollywood to see the footprints. I know that's a tad plebian but I'm curious.
From the East to the West is full of references to feet and shoes. Most think it comes from one of the lines in the play. Actually, it doesn't. It's one of dozens of Christian references, including the title, which comes not from a line in the play, but from Psalm 103...As far as the east is from the west, that is how far God will go to forgive our transgressions. Beautiful piece of writing there allegedly from King David.
I don't believe a word in the bible, personally. It's been hacked and sawed and mistranslated for thousands of years. What we have left is a religion by committee...mostly the Catholic Church and the counsel of Constantinople. Most people don't realize, and oddly, the pulp fiction novel Da Vinci Code touched on it, that a bunch of Catholic bigwigs got together in the fifth century to VOTE on the divinity of Jesus. All documented. It's a little piece of history the Christians conveniently forget.
Nonetheless, there is some clever writing in the book. The whole thing is fraught with foot images. Up to and including Jesus getting his feet washed and dried by a prostitute and her hair.
By the end of the play, there are shoes all over the stage, dozens of pairs of shoes. The symbolism is left up to you, although of course I know what it means.
I worked for several years as a drug and alcohol counselor for The Salvation Army in Chicago. Went back to school at De Paul, got my C.A.C.D. and threw myself into work that "matters." Gave up the stage, secure in the knowledge that "hands on" work was far more important. It was noble experiment in my life, but, alas, wrong-headed. I'm reminded now of something Michael Moriarty once told me. He said he was planning on becoming a priest when he was younger until, quite accidentally, he happened to see A Man for All Seasons on Broadway. He said it was an epiphany for him and he realized that the only thing "nobler than the priesthood was acting." Wow.
My excursion into drug and alcohol counseling was a terrible time. Not because what I was doing wasn't important. It was. But because I had the horrible misfortune of working for The Salvation Army.
Someday soon, I'm going to blog extensively about this nefarious organization. For for now, suffice to say, they are the most extraordinary scam of the twentieth century. A truly evil group of people that have hoodwinked the American public into actually believing they are doing something helpful. A religious right organization that believes, among other things, that gay people should be put to death, that black people are less than human, that unwed mothers should be imprisoned. I'm not making this up, folks. Look it up for yourselves. These are very dangerous people and this is a very dangerous organization. Working for them forever changed my views on Christianity.
A little off-message here today. Forgive me. But the show is done for a second, the next one hasn't started yet, I have no information as to when it WILL start again or even if it will. I have a plan B and C, but I'm hoping for plan A. Until I find something out, I'm out here in left field wondering.
So today, I cherish the idea of doing absolutely normal, wonderful, mundane things. As long as I'm hanging with the sig other (Angie), it's all good. We tend to make each other laugh a lot. And that's a pretty cool thing. Grocery Stores and Libraries. Two places in which I like to hang out anyway.
See you tomorrow.
Heading to the library later to pick up "Screenwriting for Dummies." Can't really go into it, but there is some interest, much to my surprise, about turning Praying Small into a film. Hm. Personally, I don't want to get involved in the screenwriting business. Every schmo on the street out here has a screenplay. Also, I don't want a bunch of hackers and suits getting hold of my words. The screenwriter is treated like a janitor out here. At least in the theatre, the playwright is still held in SOME regard.
Also heading over to Hollywood to see the footprints. I know that's a tad plebian but I'm curious.
From the East to the West is full of references to feet and shoes. Most think it comes from one of the lines in the play. Actually, it doesn't. It's one of dozens of Christian references, including the title, which comes not from a line in the play, but from Psalm 103...As far as the east is from the west, that is how far God will go to forgive our transgressions. Beautiful piece of writing there allegedly from King David.
I don't believe a word in the bible, personally. It's been hacked and sawed and mistranslated for thousands of years. What we have left is a religion by committee...mostly the Catholic Church and the counsel of Constantinople. Most people don't realize, and oddly, the pulp fiction novel Da Vinci Code touched on it, that a bunch of Catholic bigwigs got together in the fifth century to VOTE on the divinity of Jesus. All documented. It's a little piece of history the Christians conveniently forget.
Nonetheless, there is some clever writing in the book. The whole thing is fraught with foot images. Up to and including Jesus getting his feet washed and dried by a prostitute and her hair.
By the end of the play, there are shoes all over the stage, dozens of pairs of shoes. The symbolism is left up to you, although of course I know what it means.
I worked for several years as a drug and alcohol counselor for The Salvation Army in Chicago. Went back to school at De Paul, got my C.A.C.D. and threw myself into work that "matters." Gave up the stage, secure in the knowledge that "hands on" work was far more important. It was noble experiment in my life, but, alas, wrong-headed. I'm reminded now of something Michael Moriarty once told me. He said he was planning on becoming a priest when he was younger until, quite accidentally, he happened to see A Man for All Seasons on Broadway. He said it was an epiphany for him and he realized that the only thing "nobler than the priesthood was acting." Wow.
My excursion into drug and alcohol counseling was a terrible time. Not because what I was doing wasn't important. It was. But because I had the horrible misfortune of working for The Salvation Army.
Someday soon, I'm going to blog extensively about this nefarious organization. For for now, suffice to say, they are the most extraordinary scam of the twentieth century. A truly evil group of people that have hoodwinked the American public into actually believing they are doing something helpful. A religious right organization that believes, among other things, that gay people should be put to death, that black people are less than human, that unwed mothers should be imprisoned. I'm not making this up, folks. Look it up for yourselves. These are very dangerous people and this is a very dangerous organization. Working for them forever changed my views on Christianity.
A little off-message here today. Forgive me. But the show is done for a second, the next one hasn't started yet, I have no information as to when it WILL start again or even if it will. I have a plan B and C, but I'm hoping for plan A. Until I find something out, I'm out here in left field wondering.
So today, I cherish the idea of doing absolutely normal, wonderful, mundane things. As long as I'm hanging with the sig other (Angie), it's all good. We tend to make each other laugh a lot. And that's a pretty cool thing. Grocery Stores and Libraries. Two places in which I like to hang out anyway.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, February 19, 2010
"What's next?"
We finished up our three day benefit last night. I think we made a little cash for the theatre. I'm pleased about that. After all, that's what we set out to do, originally.
So, what next? That's one of my favorite lines in The West Wing (in my opinion, the single finest show ever done on network television). Martin Sheen, as President Bartlett, always said it. "What next?"
Well, the play will run. Somewhere. I hope at NoHo Arts. That's my first choice. With the cast intact, the set, the support people, everything. That is my first choice.
Last night was a really wonderful night for the cast and the play. Not that this matters much, but I was mildly surprised to hear the whooping and yelling at the curtain call last night. That sort of reaction is generally reserved for big, splashy musicals. Not for a deeply introspective, savage, blood-letting drama. Kind of amused me. Not to say I wasn't pleased. Just an odd moment for me.
Had my buddies, Theo Marshall, Ken Still and Jamie Kelsey in the audience last night. All three have done my words in Chicago and are now out here. They liked the show, I think. Always nice to hear good things from people with which I have a history. Theo, especially, seemed to "get" it. He's a good actor. Look for him on television and film screens near you. He's also a nice guy. And these days, that goes a ways in my book. I'll take a nice guy over a brilliant fuck-head any day of the week at this point in my life. Didn't always feel that way.
The NoHo group, some 40 actors, artists, musicians, writers, designers, composers, singers...they all came out in droves to support my little skit. You are all deeply appreciated.
Chad Coe, playing the lead role in the show, rose to unimaginable artistic heights. About a week before the opening, maybe even less, he plugged into something personal. Don't know what it was, don't care really. But it was staggeringly obvious. He went from good, young actor to troubled, writhing, raging, gentle demon right before our very eyes. Nice, Chad. Be proud of this, no matter what happens next. For the rest of your life, know that these three days were great, even life-changing, acting. The next time some dim-witted casting director looking for a guy to sell Tide detergent doesn't cast you...think of what you did these past three days. Guaranteed to make you feel instantly better.
Nickella Maschetti and JR Mangels were both white-hot last night. Even though JR stole my whiskey bottle onstage and refused to give it back. I am forever a fan of these guys. For one thing, they constantly reminded me of the passion of the young actor. They were like racehorses every night, jittery with excitement to come flying out the gate. Your passion made my passion. You made me remember why what we do is important. Nickella just leaves me aghast. JR had some moments so funny and immediately after, so touching, well, that's why we do this stuff.
Alex Robert Holmes, Malcolm Devine, Mary Evans, Teal Shearer...all stunningly talented, all blazing with ambition, all perched on the edge of something extraordinary. All my friends now.
Four months ago I was trudging daily to my acting studio, teaching all day, enduring the dirt and boredom of Chicago. Teaching while the sun was out, writing at night, wondering if anyone would hear or see my words someday from a dozen or so plays I had tucked away in my imaginary theatre trunk. Occasionally, I'd send one out for a reaction. Never heard a word. Well, they did this week. They heard my words and some of them liked them.
I really can't expect much more from life than that. I am content and relaxed this friday morning. I...we...did the best we could. And that's what it's all about. And I think we did okay.
See you tomorrow.
So, what next? That's one of my favorite lines in The West Wing (in my opinion, the single finest show ever done on network television). Martin Sheen, as President Bartlett, always said it. "What next?"
Well, the play will run. Somewhere. I hope at NoHo Arts. That's my first choice. With the cast intact, the set, the support people, everything. That is my first choice.
Last night was a really wonderful night for the cast and the play. Not that this matters much, but I was mildly surprised to hear the whooping and yelling at the curtain call last night. That sort of reaction is generally reserved for big, splashy musicals. Not for a deeply introspective, savage, blood-letting drama. Kind of amused me. Not to say I wasn't pleased. Just an odd moment for me.
Had my buddies, Theo Marshall, Ken Still and Jamie Kelsey in the audience last night. All three have done my words in Chicago and are now out here. They liked the show, I think. Always nice to hear good things from people with which I have a history. Theo, especially, seemed to "get" it. He's a good actor. Look for him on television and film screens near you. He's also a nice guy. And these days, that goes a ways in my book. I'll take a nice guy over a brilliant fuck-head any day of the week at this point in my life. Didn't always feel that way.
The NoHo group, some 40 actors, artists, musicians, writers, designers, composers, singers...they all came out in droves to support my little skit. You are all deeply appreciated.
Chad Coe, playing the lead role in the show, rose to unimaginable artistic heights. About a week before the opening, maybe even less, he plugged into something personal. Don't know what it was, don't care really. But it was staggeringly obvious. He went from good, young actor to troubled, writhing, raging, gentle demon right before our very eyes. Nice, Chad. Be proud of this, no matter what happens next. For the rest of your life, know that these three days were great, even life-changing, acting. The next time some dim-witted casting director looking for a guy to sell Tide detergent doesn't cast you...think of what you did these past three days. Guaranteed to make you feel instantly better.
Nickella Maschetti and JR Mangels were both white-hot last night. Even though JR stole my whiskey bottle onstage and refused to give it back. I am forever a fan of these guys. For one thing, they constantly reminded me of the passion of the young actor. They were like racehorses every night, jittery with excitement to come flying out the gate. Your passion made my passion. You made me remember why what we do is important. Nickella just leaves me aghast. JR had some moments so funny and immediately after, so touching, well, that's why we do this stuff.
Alex Robert Holmes, Malcolm Devine, Mary Evans, Teal Shearer...all stunningly talented, all blazing with ambition, all perched on the edge of something extraordinary. All my friends now.
Four months ago I was trudging daily to my acting studio, teaching all day, enduring the dirt and boredom of Chicago. Teaching while the sun was out, writing at night, wondering if anyone would hear or see my words someday from a dozen or so plays I had tucked away in my imaginary theatre trunk. Occasionally, I'd send one out for a reaction. Never heard a word. Well, they did this week. They heard my words and some of them liked them.
I really can't expect much more from life than that. I am content and relaxed this friday morning. I...we...did the best we could. And that's what it's all about. And I think we did okay.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
On Chad, Nickella and JR...
Second night of the play down. Good show. Great work from an amazing cast. Chad Coe, Nickella Maschetti, JR Mangels, all young actors to watch. Blazing talents. I am so lucky to have them saying my words.
Good response last night, generally. Nearly full house. A few bucks for the theatre. Had my lifelong buddies, Johnny Bader and Jim Petersmith and James Barbour there. That was a thrill for me. Apparently Bader and Petersmith were plotting to throw BBs onstage at some point. The plan never came to fruition, thank god.
Jimmy Barbour, one of the most talented stage actors I've ever seen, liked the work. That meant a lot to me. Can't go into details, but look for Jim to play another lead on Broadway in the not-too-distant future. I was hanging out in the lobby afterwards, schmoozing donors, chit-chatting, laughing, and I took a moment to glance over at Jim. He's a presence to be reckoned with even in the most casual of settings. What's great about Jim that most people don't know is that trapped inside that tall, imposing, leading man is a ten year old boy with a really silly sense of humor. Love that about him.
I honestly believe as I get older I am experiencing a mild case of agoraphobia. It is an effort for me to be in a room full of people. But, hey, it's LA and one has to do these things. Fortunately, Angie has a keen eye for my discomfort and graciously whisks me out of uncomfortable situations in a heart beat. She always "has my back."
I am now in a position, oddly, of not being able to comment on the play that much. I'm in the middle of it and quite frankly, don't see much going on around me. I'm too busy trying to save my own ass on stage. The scary and cool thing about working with actors like Nickella and Chad and JR is that they don't let me coast. They are so good, that if I start digging into my bag of "acting tricks" too much, I just get overwhelmed by them. Nickella, especially, does not allow me to be dishonest. She is, quite possibly, the most honest actress I have ever worked with. I feel just a little phony every time we have a scene together. That's good for me.
Years ago I was doing Tom in The Glass Menagerie. Every night I would get this card, or a flower, or sometimes candy from a secret admirer in the audience. Still remember the name - Delores. Finally after a few days, she asked the House Manager if I wouldn't mind coming out to the lobby following the show to meet. She wrote me a short note that said, "I love watching you perform. You remind me of my favorite actor!"
So I said, "Of course, I'll come out." She wanted some pictures of us together. Out I go to the lobby after the show and there she is, a matronly woman, cheery, very polite. We pose for some pictures together. She's really complementary and delightful. But I can't resist, being the actor that I am. I say, "So, Delores, I remind you of your favorite actor?"
"Oh, yes!" She says.
I'm bracing myself for someone like Brando or maybe Pacino or DeNiro. Maybe Harrison Ford. I'm thinking quite possibly Kirk Douglas.
She says, "Every time you walk onstage, I say to myself, 'There he is...Buddy Hackett. I love Buddy Hackett."
Long pause from me. "Really."
See you tomorrow.
Good response last night, generally. Nearly full house. A few bucks for the theatre. Had my lifelong buddies, Johnny Bader and Jim Petersmith and James Barbour there. That was a thrill for me. Apparently Bader and Petersmith were plotting to throw BBs onstage at some point. The plan never came to fruition, thank god.
Jimmy Barbour, one of the most talented stage actors I've ever seen, liked the work. That meant a lot to me. Can't go into details, but look for Jim to play another lead on Broadway in the not-too-distant future. I was hanging out in the lobby afterwards, schmoozing donors, chit-chatting, laughing, and I took a moment to glance over at Jim. He's a presence to be reckoned with even in the most casual of settings. What's great about Jim that most people don't know is that trapped inside that tall, imposing, leading man is a ten year old boy with a really silly sense of humor. Love that about him.
I honestly believe as I get older I am experiencing a mild case of agoraphobia. It is an effort for me to be in a room full of people. But, hey, it's LA and one has to do these things. Fortunately, Angie has a keen eye for my discomfort and graciously whisks me out of uncomfortable situations in a heart beat. She always "has my back."
I am now in a position, oddly, of not being able to comment on the play that much. I'm in the middle of it and quite frankly, don't see much going on around me. I'm too busy trying to save my own ass on stage. The scary and cool thing about working with actors like Nickella and Chad and JR is that they don't let me coast. They are so good, that if I start digging into my bag of "acting tricks" too much, I just get overwhelmed by them. Nickella, especially, does not allow me to be dishonest. She is, quite possibly, the most honest actress I have ever worked with. I feel just a little phony every time we have a scene together. That's good for me.
Years ago I was doing Tom in The Glass Menagerie. Every night I would get this card, or a flower, or sometimes candy from a secret admirer in the audience. Still remember the name - Delores. Finally after a few days, she asked the House Manager if I wouldn't mind coming out to the lobby following the show to meet. She wrote me a short note that said, "I love watching you perform. You remind me of my favorite actor!"
So I said, "Of course, I'll come out." She wanted some pictures of us together. Out I go to the lobby after the show and there she is, a matronly woman, cheery, very polite. We pose for some pictures together. She's really complementary and delightful. But I can't resist, being the actor that I am. I say, "So, Delores, I remind you of your favorite actor?"
"Oh, yes!" She says.
I'm bracing myself for someone like Brando or maybe Pacino or DeNiro. Maybe Harrison Ford. I'm thinking quite possibly Kirk Douglas.
She says, "Every time you walk onstage, I say to myself, 'There he is...Buddy Hackett. I love Buddy Hackett."
Long pause from me. "Really."
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Look, We Made a Hat...
The play opened last night and exceeded all of my expectations. The cast was spot-on. The light and sound excellent. The energy and commitment wonderful. The audience reaction both during and afterwards at the reception, for the most part, quite satisfying. Naturally, there are those that want to suggest rewrites (see George S. Kaufman quote). But that's good. My executive producer, Teal Sherer (an amazing actress currently playing the lead in the best production of PROOF I have ever seen - and I've seen a few) mentions in the curtain speech that we are accepting critical comments from audience members, and I guess we are. So I got a few. It's all good.
Several things went through my dim-witted mind last night as the curtain approached. One, we did a goofy speed-thru before the run last night. I purposely was going to set the tone of silliness but JR and Chad beat me to the punch. I wanted the cast to get loose. Not treat it so seriously. It is, after all, just a play. So I thought I'd get really irreverent during the speed thru. I needn't have worried. By the time I made my entrance, the adlibs and general disrespect of the play was in full gale. I liked that. I didn't want a bunch of tense, nervous actors waiting to go on. Instinctively, the cast realized this and we all just played. I think that element alone was incredibly helpful.
One of the NoHo company members mentioned, in the midst of all the embarrassing accolades coming my way, that is was, "a good first step." My first reaction was, "First step!? We acted the shit out of this piece tonight!" But after a night's sleep, I think she's right. Still some rewriting to be done, still some moments to be found, some editing to take place. It's a meandering kind of play at times and that's okay because that's what I wanted.
I travelled down to Wichita, of all places, some years back, to do James Tyrone in Moon for the Misbegotten. The first readthru at the table and I'm thinking, "You know, this play is really overwritten. What was O'Neill thinking?" I smile at that thought now. O'Neill is O'Neill for a reason. At first glance it may seem he writes a lot of accidental stuff. Seemingly veering off here and there, sort of wandering off into territories that don't have anything to do with theme or plot. But eventually, it all makes sense. O'Neill does not write haphazardly, I discovered. Every line, every utterence is there for a reason. It may not be clear at first, but eventually it is. It is not the tight, pushed kind of writing that, say, Mamet or Rabe or Kushner are famous for. But once the ribbon is tied at the end of the play, one realizes it is ALL there for a reason.
Now, I'm not nearly so egotistical as to compare myself to Mr. O'Neill. But I can say that From the East to the West borrows that quality from him.
My buddy, Tracy Letts, back in Chicago, and I used to talk about O'Neill endlessly. We are both great admirers.
Another thing I thought both during the first act and after I make my entrance, is that the humor works. I was worried about that. I'm not especially known for my comedic writing. My humor as a playwright tends to be dark and character-driven. I'm not good at writing "jokes." That's not to say I don't LIKE that kind of writing. I don't care what anyone says, Neil Simon is a friggin' genius. That brilliant man churned out thirty years of plot and jokes. If I were to pick up RUMORS right this very instant, I'd be guffawing in minutes. I don't get that. I don't write like that. Wish to god I could sometimes.
Had my good buddy, Joe Hulser, in the audience last night. A very fine director, Joe is. He directed me many years ago in a Sam Shepherd piece that was really exciting and surreal. Anyway, Joe just kept shaking his head and saying, "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant." In an evening of nice things being said, that was what I liked the most. Not sure he's RIGHT, but it was nice to hear anyway, especially from him.
Also my dear friend, Kyly Puccia, was there. Musician, composer, singer, actor extraordinaire. Kyle didn't have a lot to say about the writing (albeit we only spoke briefly) but seemed to like the acting a lot. His is another opinion I listen to unreservedly.
I have hopes for the piece. Not really at liberty to share those hopes yet. But I can say this...it will run in a full production very soon. Although some may disagree, when it runs, it will run very close to as it is written now. Writing a play is not a democracy. Just like writing a novel is not a democracy. Or painting a painting. Or composing a song. I don't recall Hemingway ever 'workshopping' a novel. I have no intention of workshopping this play. I don't believe in it.
Tonight another good house, I'm told. A few more friends in the audience. Once again we shall endeavor to do the words "by lightning flash."
Whatever happens next with the play, we did something very cool. We made a hat where there never was a hat.
See you tomorrow.
Several things went through my dim-witted mind last night as the curtain approached. One, we did a goofy speed-thru before the run last night. I purposely was going to set the tone of silliness but JR and Chad beat me to the punch. I wanted the cast to get loose. Not treat it so seriously. It is, after all, just a play. So I thought I'd get really irreverent during the speed thru. I needn't have worried. By the time I made my entrance, the adlibs and general disrespect of the play was in full gale. I liked that. I didn't want a bunch of tense, nervous actors waiting to go on. Instinctively, the cast realized this and we all just played. I think that element alone was incredibly helpful.
One of the NoHo company members mentioned, in the midst of all the embarrassing accolades coming my way, that is was, "a good first step." My first reaction was, "First step!? We acted the shit out of this piece tonight!" But after a night's sleep, I think she's right. Still some rewriting to be done, still some moments to be found, some editing to take place. It's a meandering kind of play at times and that's okay because that's what I wanted.
I travelled down to Wichita, of all places, some years back, to do James Tyrone in Moon for the Misbegotten. The first readthru at the table and I'm thinking, "You know, this play is really overwritten. What was O'Neill thinking?" I smile at that thought now. O'Neill is O'Neill for a reason. At first glance it may seem he writes a lot of accidental stuff. Seemingly veering off here and there, sort of wandering off into territories that don't have anything to do with theme or plot. But eventually, it all makes sense. O'Neill does not write haphazardly, I discovered. Every line, every utterence is there for a reason. It may not be clear at first, but eventually it is. It is not the tight, pushed kind of writing that, say, Mamet or Rabe or Kushner are famous for. But once the ribbon is tied at the end of the play, one realizes it is ALL there for a reason.
Now, I'm not nearly so egotistical as to compare myself to Mr. O'Neill. But I can say that From the East to the West borrows that quality from him.
My buddy, Tracy Letts, back in Chicago, and I used to talk about O'Neill endlessly. We are both great admirers.
Another thing I thought both during the first act and after I make my entrance, is that the humor works. I was worried about that. I'm not especially known for my comedic writing. My humor as a playwright tends to be dark and character-driven. I'm not good at writing "jokes." That's not to say I don't LIKE that kind of writing. I don't care what anyone says, Neil Simon is a friggin' genius. That brilliant man churned out thirty years of plot and jokes. If I were to pick up RUMORS right this very instant, I'd be guffawing in minutes. I don't get that. I don't write like that. Wish to god I could sometimes.
Had my good buddy, Joe Hulser, in the audience last night. A very fine director, Joe is. He directed me many years ago in a Sam Shepherd piece that was really exciting and surreal. Anyway, Joe just kept shaking his head and saying, "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant." In an evening of nice things being said, that was what I liked the most. Not sure he's RIGHT, but it was nice to hear anyway, especially from him.
Also my dear friend, Kyly Puccia, was there. Musician, composer, singer, actor extraordinaire. Kyle didn't have a lot to say about the writing (albeit we only spoke briefly) but seemed to like the acting a lot. His is another opinion I listen to unreservedly.
I have hopes for the piece. Not really at liberty to share those hopes yet. But I can say this...it will run in a full production very soon. Although some may disagree, when it runs, it will run very close to as it is written now. Writing a play is not a democracy. Just like writing a novel is not a democracy. Or painting a painting. Or composing a song. I don't recall Hemingway ever 'workshopping' a novel. I have no intention of workshopping this play. I don't believe in it.
Tonight another good house, I'm told. A few more friends in the audience. Once again we shall endeavor to do the words "by lightning flash."
Whatever happens next with the play, we did something very cool. We made a hat where there never was a hat.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
To Tell a Story.
We had our final dress last night. Two people in the audience. One of them gave us a standing ovation. Either that or he had to pee.
We worked hard to get here. Very hard. And a huge amount of dedication from a really solid cast.
I was off, personally, but that's because I was thinking of a ton of other things onstage.
My buddy, Jim Petersmith, came to see it last night. I think he liked it. Talked to him briefly afterwards. He had no preconceptions coming into the play, in fact had no idea whatsoever what it was about, even. Jim is notoriously closed mouth about things like this. Doesn't really give criticism. That's just Jim. He tends to find little moments he likes and latches onto them. I'm sure five years from now, out of the blue, he'll recreate something he saw last night and catch me completely off-guard. Jim is quite possibly the most unaffected charismatic actor I know. When we were younger I hated being onstage with him because audiences tend to look nowhere else. It is not something that can be taught.
My next play, probably in the late summer, at NoHo will be Praying Small. I think Jim would be great in that play. Maybe I can entice him to do it. He has a long history of waffling back and forth before committing to a project.
So it was okay last night. First time we'd done the whole thing with everything - lights, sound, props, costumes, non-stop.
Tonight is a full house. A few close friends in the audience, too.
We have dubbed Wednesday night "celebrity night." A few old friends, Michael Moriarty, Joe Mantegna, George Wendt, Charlie Sheen and a couple of others are allegedly attending. Joe and George I know from my Chicago days, Charlie and I worked with Naked Angels in NYC, and Michael, of course, was my teacher of note for many years. The wonderful actor, John Schuck, who originally read the character of "Harry" will also be there. Older readers of this blog will remember John from M.A.S.H. (the movie) and a long stint as Sgt. Enright opposite Rock Hudson in McMillan and Wife in the seventies.
Had some new things happen last night, which is always good. I was hoping some unexpected things would happen just to catch my cast and I off-guard. Final dress is always sort of a test drive. See if the car shakes in the wrong places or makes the turns tight enough.
I once stopped a show in the middle of a final dress. It was (and I blush to confess this) The Music Man and I was playing Harold Hill. This was in Pennsylvania about 15 years ago. I completely went up (forgot the lyrics) in the middle of the song TROUBLE. I simply stopped, cut the orchestra off, said to the audience, "This is what final dress is for..." and started over. Petrified the cast, but hey, whatcha' gonna do?
That's what live performance is all about. I was watching David Mamet's Speed the Plow years ago on Bway...it's the famous production that Madonna did with Joe Manegna and William H. Macy (both Mamet stalwarts). In the middle of the first act, some crazed Madonna fan simply climbed up to the stage and began walking toward her. Joe was closest to the idiot and, without missing a line, grabbed him by the arm and guided him offstage into the wings. Although Madonna was clearly shaken by this and sort of stumbled through her lines for the rest of the act, Mantegna and Macy, pros that they are, were completely non-plussed. I later asked Joe about it and he said, "Well, my first thought was that he might be armed. My second thought was 'How dare this guy interrupt my monolgue?'" Now that's an actor.
As I mentioned before, Actors Equity is making us carry scripts during the show. At first I was disappointed with this. But we're getting used to it and the actors don't seem to mind. The exact rule is that the scripts, "...must be on the actor's person." So everyone (except me, that is) comes on stage with their script and then just tucks it into their pocket.
My assistant director, Mary Evans, is a godsend for this play. Last night, knowing I can no longer see anything on stage, she gave some wonderful notes to myself and the cast. I was really pleased.
Many years ago I saw the iconic actor James Earl Jones onstage. I was way in the back. Apparently there were some older ladies in the front row conversationally chatting throughout the entire first act. I couldn't hear them but obviously Mr. Jones could. At one point he stopped acting, turned and looked at the geriatric offenders and said, in that God-like voice of his, "Would you PLEASE shut the fuck up?" Loved that.
Speaking of Jones, I once remember Moriarty telling me, "I once had a chance to play opposite Jimmy Jones. I told the casting lady that called me, 'Are you out of your friggin'mind? No one 'shares' the stage with Jimmy Jones.'" Loved that, too.
So, here we are, fight fans. Opening night. The first time the public has heard these words, ever. To be honest, I'm not sure how to feel about it all. I hope it's good. I lost the ability to judge that about a week ago. Just too close to it. I hope people like the story...because in the final analysis, that's why we're here: to tell a story. Ultimately, that's why the actor exists. To Tell a Story.
In Lord Olivier's book he says, "I am not an actor, I am a purveyor of plays." I think that pretty much says it all.
See you tomorrow.
We worked hard to get here. Very hard. And a huge amount of dedication from a really solid cast.
I was off, personally, but that's because I was thinking of a ton of other things onstage.
My buddy, Jim Petersmith, came to see it last night. I think he liked it. Talked to him briefly afterwards. He had no preconceptions coming into the play, in fact had no idea whatsoever what it was about, even. Jim is notoriously closed mouth about things like this. Doesn't really give criticism. That's just Jim. He tends to find little moments he likes and latches onto them. I'm sure five years from now, out of the blue, he'll recreate something he saw last night and catch me completely off-guard. Jim is quite possibly the most unaffected charismatic actor I know. When we were younger I hated being onstage with him because audiences tend to look nowhere else. It is not something that can be taught.
My next play, probably in the late summer, at NoHo will be Praying Small. I think Jim would be great in that play. Maybe I can entice him to do it. He has a long history of waffling back and forth before committing to a project.
So it was okay last night. First time we'd done the whole thing with everything - lights, sound, props, costumes, non-stop.
Tonight is a full house. A few close friends in the audience, too.
We have dubbed Wednesday night "celebrity night." A few old friends, Michael Moriarty, Joe Mantegna, George Wendt, Charlie Sheen and a couple of others are allegedly attending. Joe and George I know from my Chicago days, Charlie and I worked with Naked Angels in NYC, and Michael, of course, was my teacher of note for many years. The wonderful actor, John Schuck, who originally read the character of "Harry" will also be there. Older readers of this blog will remember John from M.A.S.H. (the movie) and a long stint as Sgt. Enright opposite Rock Hudson in McMillan and Wife in the seventies.
Had some new things happen last night, which is always good. I was hoping some unexpected things would happen just to catch my cast and I off-guard. Final dress is always sort of a test drive. See if the car shakes in the wrong places or makes the turns tight enough.
I once stopped a show in the middle of a final dress. It was (and I blush to confess this) The Music Man and I was playing Harold Hill. This was in Pennsylvania about 15 years ago. I completely went up (forgot the lyrics) in the middle of the song TROUBLE. I simply stopped, cut the orchestra off, said to the audience, "This is what final dress is for..." and started over. Petrified the cast, but hey, whatcha' gonna do?
That's what live performance is all about. I was watching David Mamet's Speed the Plow years ago on Bway...it's the famous production that Madonna did with Joe Manegna and William H. Macy (both Mamet stalwarts). In the middle of the first act, some crazed Madonna fan simply climbed up to the stage and began walking toward her. Joe was closest to the idiot and, without missing a line, grabbed him by the arm and guided him offstage into the wings. Although Madonna was clearly shaken by this and sort of stumbled through her lines for the rest of the act, Mantegna and Macy, pros that they are, were completely non-plussed. I later asked Joe about it and he said, "Well, my first thought was that he might be armed. My second thought was 'How dare this guy interrupt my monolgue?'" Now that's an actor.
As I mentioned before, Actors Equity is making us carry scripts during the show. At first I was disappointed with this. But we're getting used to it and the actors don't seem to mind. The exact rule is that the scripts, "...must be on the actor's person." So everyone (except me, that is) comes on stage with their script and then just tucks it into their pocket.
My assistant director, Mary Evans, is a godsend for this play. Last night, knowing I can no longer see anything on stage, she gave some wonderful notes to myself and the cast. I was really pleased.
Many years ago I saw the iconic actor James Earl Jones onstage. I was way in the back. Apparently there were some older ladies in the front row conversationally chatting throughout the entire first act. I couldn't hear them but obviously Mr. Jones could. At one point he stopped acting, turned and looked at the geriatric offenders and said, in that God-like voice of his, "Would you PLEASE shut the fuck up?" Loved that.
Speaking of Jones, I once remember Moriarty telling me, "I once had a chance to play opposite Jimmy Jones. I told the casting lady that called me, 'Are you out of your friggin'mind? No one 'shares' the stage with Jimmy Jones.'" Loved that, too.
So, here we are, fight fans. Opening night. The first time the public has heard these words, ever. To be honest, I'm not sure how to feel about it all. I hope it's good. I lost the ability to judge that about a week ago. Just too close to it. I hope people like the story...because in the final analysis, that's why we're here: to tell a story. Ultimately, that's why the actor exists. To Tell a Story.
In Lord Olivier's book he says, "I am not an actor, I am a purveyor of plays." I think that pretty much says it all.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, February 15, 2010
On Quirky Choices...
Last night we did a moment to moment run and then went back and did a full run. Not a bad night overall. I enjoy sitting back and watching the other actors work and coming up with quirky little behavioral things to do. We found a few last night. A lot of people don't like this sort of thing, other professionals, that is. They don't understand why it is being done.
I remember acting and directing a play by Lanford Wilson called Redwood Curtain in Rochester, NY, about a decade ago. I was directing it and acting the role of Lyman Fellars, the disenchanted Vietnam Vet in it. At one late rehearsal we were going from moment to moment trying to find some quirky things and the AD, a dimwit administrator who had no business being in charge of a theatre company, said to me, "Well, you can't just be eccentric for eccentricities sake." And I remember turning to him and saying, "Ah, contraire. We can and will do that. People spend their lives being eccentric for eccentricities sake." All anyone has to do is walk out their front door right now, right this very instant, walk down the block, see a few people outside, watch them closely for a few minutes, and see that people are mind-bogglingly odd. Their behavior patterns, even when dealing with the mundane, are often times just incomprehensible. Every character in every play ever written should reflect exactly that.
Here's a truth. The moment the audience gets ahead of the actor and director, the play is dead. And by "gets ahead," I mean the moment they can subconsciously guess what is coming next, it's all over. Why watch anything you know the ending to? We do it all the time when we watch TV. We call it getting bored with the show. Nope. What is happening is, we're ahead of the writers. We know, more or less, what is going to happen next.
It is the job of the writer, director and actor to NEVER let that happen.
Well, after picking some quirky, behavioral moments, we ran the show. Not a bad run, still some technical stumbles, easily fixed. My lead actor, Chad, is carrying a ton of weight. It is an enormously difficult role and he is straining mightily with it. But he's good and smart and I'm not worried. We "froze" some moments. That is to say, we liked them, ran them, worked them and I said, "Freeze it." Cause that's the best we could hope for.
I've added a line here and there. At the suggestion (a very good one, I might add) of the AD we actually cut the last line of the play. We're getting used to the music in the piece - I'm a HUGE fan of LOTS of incidental music in theatre. This play is using everything from Johnny Cash to Nick Cave to Tom Waits to Glen Campbell.
So I'm not too worried. Tonight we have a few invited guests. Tomorrow we open.
Oh, and doing my first camera gig today since coming to LA. A short thirty second industrial thingee over in Culver City. Should take me about a half hour. That might be fun.
All is exactly as it should be. I'm rather odd when it comes to impending plays. Rather than get introspective and nervous, the closer opening night looms, the more relaxed and loose I get. There are actors that like to isolate, concentrate before a show, lose themselves in thought. I've never felt that way, even with the big, dramatic roles of theatre. I've always felt if I didn't have the damned role under my belt by opening night, all the druid-like isolation in the world won't help me.
This is gonna be so cool.
See you tomorrow.
I remember acting and directing a play by Lanford Wilson called Redwood Curtain in Rochester, NY, about a decade ago. I was directing it and acting the role of Lyman Fellars, the disenchanted Vietnam Vet in it. At one late rehearsal we were going from moment to moment trying to find some quirky things and the AD, a dimwit administrator who had no business being in charge of a theatre company, said to me, "Well, you can't just be eccentric for eccentricities sake." And I remember turning to him and saying, "Ah, contraire. We can and will do that. People spend their lives being eccentric for eccentricities sake." All anyone has to do is walk out their front door right now, right this very instant, walk down the block, see a few people outside, watch them closely for a few minutes, and see that people are mind-bogglingly odd. Their behavior patterns, even when dealing with the mundane, are often times just incomprehensible. Every character in every play ever written should reflect exactly that.
Here's a truth. The moment the audience gets ahead of the actor and director, the play is dead. And by "gets ahead," I mean the moment they can subconsciously guess what is coming next, it's all over. Why watch anything you know the ending to? We do it all the time when we watch TV. We call it getting bored with the show. Nope. What is happening is, we're ahead of the writers. We know, more or less, what is going to happen next.
It is the job of the writer, director and actor to NEVER let that happen.
Well, after picking some quirky, behavioral moments, we ran the show. Not a bad run, still some technical stumbles, easily fixed. My lead actor, Chad, is carrying a ton of weight. It is an enormously difficult role and he is straining mightily with it. But he's good and smart and I'm not worried. We "froze" some moments. That is to say, we liked them, ran them, worked them and I said, "Freeze it." Cause that's the best we could hope for.
I've added a line here and there. At the suggestion (a very good one, I might add) of the AD we actually cut the last line of the play. We're getting used to the music in the piece - I'm a HUGE fan of LOTS of incidental music in theatre. This play is using everything from Johnny Cash to Nick Cave to Tom Waits to Glen Campbell.
So I'm not too worried. Tonight we have a few invited guests. Tomorrow we open.
Oh, and doing my first camera gig today since coming to LA. A short thirty second industrial thingee over in Culver City. Should take me about a half hour. That might be fun.
All is exactly as it should be. I'm rather odd when it comes to impending plays. Rather than get introspective and nervous, the closer opening night looms, the more relaxed and loose I get. There are actors that like to isolate, concentrate before a show, lose themselves in thought. I've never felt that way, even with the big, dramatic roles of theatre. I've always felt if I didn't have the damned role under my belt by opening night, all the druid-like isolation in the world won't help me.
This is gonna be so cool.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
On Realism and Naturalism...
The last few days my cast and I have been playing around with the "no obligation" rehearsal. That is to say, there is no obligation whatsoever to the audience. It is only a technique thing. Obviously not to be used in performance. But it was suggested to me by my buddy, the veteran actor John Bader. It was a good suggestion.
We work the beats, the moments, with no concern about being heard, or getting a laugh or finding a dramatic moment. Instead, we work for each other. It is only necessary that the actors hear each other. It is a serious step toward absolute naturalism.
Now, naturalism is a double-edged sword. It is a really tough thing to do, sometimes. On the surface it seems the easiest way to work. But mostly what happens is that the actor simply retreats inside himself and the volume drops and, well, it just isn't very exciting. Remember, we're talking about a play, not a movie. Not a TV show.
Naturalism reached a zenith in the fifties. Strasberg taught it as though it were the savior of American acting. He had, long before, read the first book written by Stanislavski and was convinced a new era of acting was upon us. Of course, in reality, Constantine S. had written THREE books about acting. American teachers had only the first one translated into English at the time, so that was the one they taught. And, as I've mentioned before in this blog, the first one was specifically about teaching the actor how to rehearse, not to perform. So, in typical American fashion, we got only a part of the information and made our choices based on that.
I remember years ago, my buddies John and Jeff and I would sit around the living room of their big house in Brooklyn, near the promenade, and tape our conversations with each other. We were young enough and naive enough to think our conversations would make good theatre. After an hour or so of talking (usually accompanied by a LOT of beer), we would transcribe it and then try to recreate it live. A noble thought. In fact, other actors have done this very same thing and it has been documented - we were not terribly original about it.
What we learned, of course, is that we were boring. We were completely on the wrong track in trying to find a way to act absolute naturalism.
We even went further. Jeff Wood, one of the handful of great directors I've worked with, was making a short film. It was about two bums that made their money singing in the subway. So, as a rehearsal project, John and I, the two lead actors in the film, stayed up all night once, with Jeff watching eagle-eyed from a safe distance, and played a broken guitar and put out a hat for change and sang all night in a midtown subway station tunnel. True story. We were intentionally very bad. John was playing the guitar and singing, as I recall, and I was sort of his half-wit second banana. John could neither sing nor play the guitar. I don't remember exactly, but I think we sang the song, "High Hopes" all night.
At the end of the long night, in which John and I never once broke character (ah, youth), I think we had exactly one dollar and sixty one cents in the hat. People would hurry by and toss off comments, mostly stuff like, "You guys need to do something else for change." Or, "That's the worst subway act I've ever seen." Or "Jesus, shut up." The buck sixty one was entirely sympathy money. But that was what we wanted, that was the point.
I don't remember what became of the project. I know Jeff never got around to actually making the film. But, even now, all these years later, I think it was a fascinating exercise.
For me, anyway, the entire evening (and we're talking about ALL night), was about naturalism. Could passersby ascertain that we were not really bums, but actors pretending to be bums? I don't think they could (John and I were dressed rattily and had smeared some grime on us). Although the exercise was naive and tiring (I would never in a million years do that today) it taught me something - naturalism is boring and requires intense concentration. And not especially effective.
Now REALISM...that's a different story. And HEIGHTENED realism, well, that's something I've been striving for for a quarter of a century. The Steppenwolf boys used to do it better than anyone I've ever seen. If you don't know what heightened realism is, just watch John Malkovich do ANYthing. That's it.
It is something I'm exploring while doing Harry in From the East to the West. Quite literally a heightened sense of everything on stage.
Tuesday night I'll see if I'm on the right track.
See you tomorrow.
We work the beats, the moments, with no concern about being heard, or getting a laugh or finding a dramatic moment. Instead, we work for each other. It is only necessary that the actors hear each other. It is a serious step toward absolute naturalism.
Now, naturalism is a double-edged sword. It is a really tough thing to do, sometimes. On the surface it seems the easiest way to work. But mostly what happens is that the actor simply retreats inside himself and the volume drops and, well, it just isn't very exciting. Remember, we're talking about a play, not a movie. Not a TV show.
Naturalism reached a zenith in the fifties. Strasberg taught it as though it were the savior of American acting. He had, long before, read the first book written by Stanislavski and was convinced a new era of acting was upon us. Of course, in reality, Constantine S. had written THREE books about acting. American teachers had only the first one translated into English at the time, so that was the one they taught. And, as I've mentioned before in this blog, the first one was specifically about teaching the actor how to rehearse, not to perform. So, in typical American fashion, we got only a part of the information and made our choices based on that.
I remember years ago, my buddies John and Jeff and I would sit around the living room of their big house in Brooklyn, near the promenade, and tape our conversations with each other. We were young enough and naive enough to think our conversations would make good theatre. After an hour or so of talking (usually accompanied by a LOT of beer), we would transcribe it and then try to recreate it live. A noble thought. In fact, other actors have done this very same thing and it has been documented - we were not terribly original about it.
What we learned, of course, is that we were boring. We were completely on the wrong track in trying to find a way to act absolute naturalism.
We even went further. Jeff Wood, one of the handful of great directors I've worked with, was making a short film. It was about two bums that made their money singing in the subway. So, as a rehearsal project, John and I, the two lead actors in the film, stayed up all night once, with Jeff watching eagle-eyed from a safe distance, and played a broken guitar and put out a hat for change and sang all night in a midtown subway station tunnel. True story. We were intentionally very bad. John was playing the guitar and singing, as I recall, and I was sort of his half-wit second banana. John could neither sing nor play the guitar. I don't remember exactly, but I think we sang the song, "High Hopes" all night.
At the end of the long night, in which John and I never once broke character (ah, youth), I think we had exactly one dollar and sixty one cents in the hat. People would hurry by and toss off comments, mostly stuff like, "You guys need to do something else for change." Or, "That's the worst subway act I've ever seen." Or "Jesus, shut up." The buck sixty one was entirely sympathy money. But that was what we wanted, that was the point.
I don't remember what became of the project. I know Jeff never got around to actually making the film. But, even now, all these years later, I think it was a fascinating exercise.
For me, anyway, the entire evening (and we're talking about ALL night), was about naturalism. Could passersby ascertain that we were not really bums, but actors pretending to be bums? I don't think they could (John and I were dressed rattily and had smeared some grime on us). Although the exercise was naive and tiring (I would never in a million years do that today) it taught me something - naturalism is boring and requires intense concentration. And not especially effective.
Now REALISM...that's a different story. And HEIGHTENED realism, well, that's something I've been striving for for a quarter of a century. The Steppenwolf boys used to do it better than anyone I've ever seen. If you don't know what heightened realism is, just watch John Malkovich do ANYthing. That's it.
It is something I'm exploring while doing Harry in From the East to the West. Quite literally a heightened sense of everything on stage.
Tuesday night I'll see if I'm on the right track.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
On Raging Against the Dying of the Light...
Got together with my old buddy, Jim Petersmith, the other day. Jim, John Bader and myself. We found this old diner in North Hollywood, been there for decades, and sat and drank coffee and ate the early bird special. Chatted about old times.
Jim moved out here about ten years ago to be a movie star. I don't watch as many films as I used to, but I don't think it took.
Anyway, it was a fun day. We all met each other while interning at an Equity theatre in Iowa about 26 years ago. Jim was a few years older than John and I so he sort of took the "big brother" role for us all back then. We did a couple of shows together on tour during that time...The Fantasticks (first time I'd done it) and the one and only children's show I've ever done in my careeer, a really ridiculous piece called The Wonderful Tang. Incidentally, also the only time I've done "drag" (I played the evil "Madame Tso" in the play - full drag). Anyway, we had a wonderful time on that tour. It was just a little bus and truck kind of thing. Sometimes we stayed in cheap hotels and sometimes we stayed in "host homes." We were actors then, and young. Hehe.
At one point during our early bird special, I sort of paused and looked at us. Jim, who used to look a lot like a young Dick Van Dyke, is now a tad overweight, grey-haired, sporting a beard. John still has a full head of hair but the grey is seeping in. And I am bald and bearded (for the play) and looking a bit like the old pro wrestler, Mad Dog Vachone. How's that for an obscure reference?
The one thing that never changes is time. It marches on regardless of our protestations. About a year ago I was in Chicago on Michigan Avenue and I had stopped for a moment in front of a Border's Bookstore on The Magnificent Mile. I was looking at the cover of a book in the window when I looked up for a second and saw the reflection of a man standing behind me, an older, balding, sort of gruff-looking, middle-aged man. I politely moved a step aside so he could see in, too. It was then that I realized it was me. It was a startling moment for me. I hadn't recognized my own reflection.
When I dream, I am always about thirty years old. Maybe subconsciously that's when I thought I looked and felt my best. I don't know.
I know this: I am really appreciative of nearly every moment in my life these days. Because I know that moment will never come again. It's over. It's gone. Time only gives us one shot. I didn't grasp that back when I was younger. Not at all.
This is not to say I'm depressed in my middle-aged years. Not at all. I'm happy I've made it this far at all. In fact, in many ways, this is the best time of my entire life.
But it's funny, I think. NO ONE ever expects to get older. It happens to other people. I honestly don't know when or how it happened to me. A few days ago I was looking in the mirror, worried about when I could get another hair cut because it was so out of hand. Today the hair and that boy are gone, never to return.
A few days ago I was on a small farm in Iowa, riding horses with John and Jim and dressed like a cowboy just for fun, roaring with laughter and living exactly in that moment. Today, horses just seem big to me.
A few days ago, I drank most of the night away in an Irish Pub in New York City, laughing and telling theatre stories all night with my buddies, Jeff and Robert and John and Greg and Don and Mike and so many others, finishing at four in the morning when the bar closed, knowing full well I had to be at work at nine and not in the least worried about it. Today, I contentedly get into bed by ten, watch a little TiVo and drift off to sleep, delighted in the knowledge that I'll be up by six and writing.
A few days ago, I fell in and out of love as often as I changed my underwear (and the two are probably somehow related). Today I am ensconced in the final fling of my life and completely satisfied with that thought.
A few days ago, I could remember lines. Today, I work terribly hard at remembering lines.
A few days ago, I worried about what people thought of me as an artist, an actor, a writer. Today, I could care less. I have learned that the only opinion that counts is what I think of myself as an artist, an actor, a writer.
A few days ago, I would think nothing of spending an entire day and night doing nothing, hanging out, drinking beer, expecting nothing. Today, I can't wait to create, to acknowledge details in my life, to focus on a great dinner, a wonderful movie, a good friend, a few hours with Angie.
No one ever expects to get older. It is the sneakiest thief in the history of mankind. It is as slow as the glaciers. And it takes away some things and gives, as a beautiful and unexpected gift, others. The trick is to learn to accept it all gracefully, I suppose. There are days I simply can't do that. I still raise my voice against this thief now and then. I defy it. But I always lose. I always sigh and accept. It's a no win situation. But I still rage against the dying of the light.
So there we were, Jim and John and I, sitting there, drinking coffee, hot tea, iced tea, Sprite, sitting in the sun, which made us squint, wearing baggy pants and shoes that we didn't "pick" but simply were closest to the bed when we got up.
And we laughed for three straight hours. Happy to be grey. I really enjoyed that day.
Jim moved out here about ten years ago to be a movie star. I don't watch as many films as I used to, but I don't think it took.
Anyway, it was a fun day. We all met each other while interning at an Equity theatre in Iowa about 26 years ago. Jim was a few years older than John and I so he sort of took the "big brother" role for us all back then. We did a couple of shows together on tour during that time...The Fantasticks (first time I'd done it) and the one and only children's show I've ever done in my careeer, a really ridiculous piece called The Wonderful Tang. Incidentally, also the only time I've done "drag" (I played the evil "Madame Tso" in the play - full drag). Anyway, we had a wonderful time on that tour. It was just a little bus and truck kind of thing. Sometimes we stayed in cheap hotels and sometimes we stayed in "host homes." We were actors then, and young. Hehe.
At one point during our early bird special, I sort of paused and looked at us. Jim, who used to look a lot like a young Dick Van Dyke, is now a tad overweight, grey-haired, sporting a beard. John still has a full head of hair but the grey is seeping in. And I am bald and bearded (for the play) and looking a bit like the old pro wrestler, Mad Dog Vachone. How's that for an obscure reference?
The one thing that never changes is time. It marches on regardless of our protestations. About a year ago I was in Chicago on Michigan Avenue and I had stopped for a moment in front of a Border's Bookstore on The Magnificent Mile. I was looking at the cover of a book in the window when I looked up for a second and saw the reflection of a man standing behind me, an older, balding, sort of gruff-looking, middle-aged man. I politely moved a step aside so he could see in, too. It was then that I realized it was me. It was a startling moment for me. I hadn't recognized my own reflection.
When I dream, I am always about thirty years old. Maybe subconsciously that's when I thought I looked and felt my best. I don't know.
I know this: I am really appreciative of nearly every moment in my life these days. Because I know that moment will never come again. It's over. It's gone. Time only gives us one shot. I didn't grasp that back when I was younger. Not at all.
This is not to say I'm depressed in my middle-aged years. Not at all. I'm happy I've made it this far at all. In fact, in many ways, this is the best time of my entire life.
But it's funny, I think. NO ONE ever expects to get older. It happens to other people. I honestly don't know when or how it happened to me. A few days ago I was looking in the mirror, worried about when I could get another hair cut because it was so out of hand. Today the hair and that boy are gone, never to return.
A few days ago I was on a small farm in Iowa, riding horses with John and Jim and dressed like a cowboy just for fun, roaring with laughter and living exactly in that moment. Today, horses just seem big to me.
A few days ago, I drank most of the night away in an Irish Pub in New York City, laughing and telling theatre stories all night with my buddies, Jeff and Robert and John and Greg and Don and Mike and so many others, finishing at four in the morning when the bar closed, knowing full well I had to be at work at nine and not in the least worried about it. Today, I contentedly get into bed by ten, watch a little TiVo and drift off to sleep, delighted in the knowledge that I'll be up by six and writing.
A few days ago, I fell in and out of love as often as I changed my underwear (and the two are probably somehow related). Today I am ensconced in the final fling of my life and completely satisfied with that thought.
A few days ago, I could remember lines. Today, I work terribly hard at remembering lines.
A few days ago, I worried about what people thought of me as an artist, an actor, a writer. Today, I could care less. I have learned that the only opinion that counts is what I think of myself as an artist, an actor, a writer.
A few days ago, I would think nothing of spending an entire day and night doing nothing, hanging out, drinking beer, expecting nothing. Today, I can't wait to create, to acknowledge details in my life, to focus on a great dinner, a wonderful movie, a good friend, a few hours with Angie.
No one ever expects to get older. It is the sneakiest thief in the history of mankind. It is as slow as the glaciers. And it takes away some things and gives, as a beautiful and unexpected gift, others. The trick is to learn to accept it all gracefully, I suppose. There are days I simply can't do that. I still raise my voice against this thief now and then. I defy it. But I always lose. I always sigh and accept. It's a no win situation. But I still rage against the dying of the light.
So there we were, Jim and John and I, sitting there, drinking coffee, hot tea, iced tea, Sprite, sitting in the sun, which made us squint, wearing baggy pants and shoes that we didn't "pick" but simply were closest to the bed when we got up.
And we laughed for three straight hours. Happy to be grey. I really enjoyed that day.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
On Becoming Harry...
There are those that don't believe in the concept of "becoming" a character. I agree with them to a certain extent. We are who we are on stage no matter what. DeNiro can gain 80 pounds to get to where he wants to be as Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull or Daniel Day Lewis can twist his body into a pretzel to be closer to his version of the character in My Left Foot or Christian Bale can become a virtual skeleton in The Mechanic to make his point but ultimately it is still DeNiro, Lewis and Bale doing the role. In Stephen King's book "On Writing" he talks about how a character is but a mere "bag of bones" compared to a living, breathing human being. He says that's the most an author can hope for. So the Strasbergian idea of "becoming" a character is pretty much nonsense. However, having said that, an actor can still do things to create the "illusion" of being someone else on stage. At least in his own mind.
So I thought I'd write a bit about the process I'm taking to become Harry, the character I'm playing in From the East to the West.
My approach has always been an "outside in" approach as opposed to an "inside out" approach. It's the old Olivier quote...I run as fast as I can and hope someone throws me the ball (see earlier blog). The first thing I do is find the walk. I experiment with different centers of gravity, find out what kind of shoes or boots I'm gonna be wearing, go through my mental inventory of people I've known that might have a similar walk, throw it all together in a pot and see what I have. In the case of Harry, two things came to mind. One is a next door neighbor I had as a kid. His name was Freeman Stark and he was, earlier in his life, a star athlete. He still had the slightly pigeon-toed, swaggering walk of the confident athlete. But he was older, in his forties, by the time I knew him and there was an added element. His knees were going. So in addition to the "athlete" walk, there was also a slight groaning about his movement. He was still graceful, but there was a slight hitch here and there, and a definite reluctance of his body to get going. It was still a rather intimidating walk.
The other image was Tom Hanks way back when he did "A League of Their Own." Same sort of thing, an athlete gone to seed, his knees and hips refusing to do as ordered. I remember seeing that film a long time ago, this was before Hanks had established himself as the very fine actor he is today, and saying to the person next to me in the theatre, "This guy is good. He's more than just a sitcom actor." Little did I know.
So I practiced walking around my back yard as Harry. Finally, I found the walk. And as I've discovered throughout my career, once I've found the walk, the rest usually follows fairly quickly.
Next was the voice. As I mentioned before, I had in mind the growling, tender, volatile sound of George C. Scott. But I also had to incorporate that hard R, sort of ugly, southern Missouri sound. Listen to the actress Holly Hunter in nearly everything she does...that's the sound. Fortunately this part was pretty easy because that's where I grew up and many years ago had worked hard to actually discard that dialect in my voice. Now all I had to do was bring it back.
Next was the psychological gesture. Every character has something they do, either vocally or physically, that is singular to who they are. In this case, I've incorporated two gestures: the slight pause before certain words as Harry allows his brain to catch up with his mouth (Duvall does this especially well with some characters) and a sweeping, open hand gesture he uses to make a point.
Also the stillness of the character. Ben Kingsley once said he's spent his entire professional life learning to be still. I like that. A stillness on stage from a character can be quite chilling. Every instinct in an actors body tells him to move, keep moving, do something, shuffle, grimace, drop the head, lick the lips, clench the teeth, change the stance, sit forward, etc. To work against those instincts and find a stillness often times allows the audience themselves to place upon the actor exactly what they want him to feel at any given time. It is an aspect of "Naked Face" work, too. Lose the emotion in the face, and let the audience do the work for you. It is not easy because, as I said, it goes against every instinct the actor has. But, when done right, it is really, really compelling.
This is something I strive for with Harry.
Had a friend watch rehearsal a while back...afterward he said something to the effect, "I'd like to see in Harry this such and such reaction." I could not possibly agree less. I'd like to show NOTHING and let the audience decide what they'd like to see. It is an odd approach, I know, but that's what I teach to my students and that's what I strive for as an actor. A lot of times, like this guy, a respected veteran actor here in LA, they just don't get it. But that's okay.
Alright, so I've got the walk, the shoes, the voice, the inflection, the psychological gesture, the speech rhythm, the stillness, the motionless threat of the character. What next?
For me, what's next, are the externals, the costume, the set, the heat under the lights, the other characters, the relationships, the blocking, the props, the space itself. All of that is now incorporated. So how does Harry and his walk, his talk, his posture, his stature, react to all of this? Suddenly it starts to get interesting and really complicated. The fun part.
Moriarty once told me long ago when I asked him about the actor Jon Voight, whom Michael had known for many years, to take note at how brilliant Voight was when he "had something to work with." That is to say, an accent or a limp or something external. Then, he said, look how hard he struggles when he doesn't have any of that, when he essentially is just play Jon Voight. Day and night. Michael was right. Voight is one of those actors that soars when he has a hook to hang on to. Something to play with, some "thing" that is different. But take all that stuff away and Voight struggles. I know exactly how he feels.
Last night at rehearsal as we worked through Act II, several times I stopped and did it again as Harry would do it, physically, that is. Makes all the difference in the world. Cross stage left as Clif and it won't stick. But cross stage left as Harry, in his halting, swaggering, injured-athlete walk, and it sticks forever.
An old friend of mine, a director, once said something to me in passing that has been in my mind for three decades. He said, "What you do in rehearsal is what you're going to do in performance." A seemingly common sense piece of advice. I dare say it has turned out to be far, far more than that. Somewhere deep in an actors mind is the idea that he will "explode" on stage opening night, once the audience is there. It is not true. Even veteran actors think this sometimes..."well, I'm not worried, I'll pull all the stops out when I get an audience." This is very dangerous thinking. What we do in rehearsal is, when under moment to moment pressure under the lights on opening night, is EXACTLY what we will do on stage. A very important and often self-preserving piece of advice.
I also remember doing 1776 years ago. The guy playing Ben Franklin, an older gentleman, made me laugh very hard one day. He called me aside and asked me to listen to his "three different accents" that he had narrowed it down to for Franklin. He spoke a few lines in the first "accent." Then he did the second. Then the third. I swear they were exactly the same. No change whatsoever. But I didn't want to topple this guy's perception of himself. He, clearly, really thought there was a difference. I said, straight-faced, "Oh, the second one, definitely." He seemed pleased and went about his work.
The point is, sometimes the work is only visible to the actor. And that's necessary. It's important. And it's what this silly pretending business is all about.
See you tomorrow.
So I thought I'd write a bit about the process I'm taking to become Harry, the character I'm playing in From the East to the West.
My approach has always been an "outside in" approach as opposed to an "inside out" approach. It's the old Olivier quote...I run as fast as I can and hope someone throws me the ball (see earlier blog). The first thing I do is find the walk. I experiment with different centers of gravity, find out what kind of shoes or boots I'm gonna be wearing, go through my mental inventory of people I've known that might have a similar walk, throw it all together in a pot and see what I have. In the case of Harry, two things came to mind. One is a next door neighbor I had as a kid. His name was Freeman Stark and he was, earlier in his life, a star athlete. He still had the slightly pigeon-toed, swaggering walk of the confident athlete. But he was older, in his forties, by the time I knew him and there was an added element. His knees were going. So in addition to the "athlete" walk, there was also a slight groaning about his movement. He was still graceful, but there was a slight hitch here and there, and a definite reluctance of his body to get going. It was still a rather intimidating walk.
The other image was Tom Hanks way back when he did "A League of Their Own." Same sort of thing, an athlete gone to seed, his knees and hips refusing to do as ordered. I remember seeing that film a long time ago, this was before Hanks had established himself as the very fine actor he is today, and saying to the person next to me in the theatre, "This guy is good. He's more than just a sitcom actor." Little did I know.
So I practiced walking around my back yard as Harry. Finally, I found the walk. And as I've discovered throughout my career, once I've found the walk, the rest usually follows fairly quickly.
Next was the voice. As I mentioned before, I had in mind the growling, tender, volatile sound of George C. Scott. But I also had to incorporate that hard R, sort of ugly, southern Missouri sound. Listen to the actress Holly Hunter in nearly everything she does...that's the sound. Fortunately this part was pretty easy because that's where I grew up and many years ago had worked hard to actually discard that dialect in my voice. Now all I had to do was bring it back.
Next was the psychological gesture. Every character has something they do, either vocally or physically, that is singular to who they are. In this case, I've incorporated two gestures: the slight pause before certain words as Harry allows his brain to catch up with his mouth (Duvall does this especially well with some characters) and a sweeping, open hand gesture he uses to make a point.
Also the stillness of the character. Ben Kingsley once said he's spent his entire professional life learning to be still. I like that. A stillness on stage from a character can be quite chilling. Every instinct in an actors body tells him to move, keep moving, do something, shuffle, grimace, drop the head, lick the lips, clench the teeth, change the stance, sit forward, etc. To work against those instincts and find a stillness often times allows the audience themselves to place upon the actor exactly what they want him to feel at any given time. It is an aspect of "Naked Face" work, too. Lose the emotion in the face, and let the audience do the work for you. It is not easy because, as I said, it goes against every instinct the actor has. But, when done right, it is really, really compelling.
This is something I strive for with Harry.
Had a friend watch rehearsal a while back...afterward he said something to the effect, "I'd like to see in Harry this such and such reaction." I could not possibly agree less. I'd like to show NOTHING and let the audience decide what they'd like to see. It is an odd approach, I know, but that's what I teach to my students and that's what I strive for as an actor. A lot of times, like this guy, a respected veteran actor here in LA, they just don't get it. But that's okay.
Alright, so I've got the walk, the shoes, the voice, the inflection, the psychological gesture, the speech rhythm, the stillness, the motionless threat of the character. What next?
For me, what's next, are the externals, the costume, the set, the heat under the lights, the other characters, the relationships, the blocking, the props, the space itself. All of that is now incorporated. So how does Harry and his walk, his talk, his posture, his stature, react to all of this? Suddenly it starts to get interesting and really complicated. The fun part.
Moriarty once told me long ago when I asked him about the actor Jon Voight, whom Michael had known for many years, to take note at how brilliant Voight was when he "had something to work with." That is to say, an accent or a limp or something external. Then, he said, look how hard he struggles when he doesn't have any of that, when he essentially is just play Jon Voight. Day and night. Michael was right. Voight is one of those actors that soars when he has a hook to hang on to. Something to play with, some "thing" that is different. But take all that stuff away and Voight struggles. I know exactly how he feels.
Last night at rehearsal as we worked through Act II, several times I stopped and did it again as Harry would do it, physically, that is. Makes all the difference in the world. Cross stage left as Clif and it won't stick. But cross stage left as Harry, in his halting, swaggering, injured-athlete walk, and it sticks forever.
An old friend of mine, a director, once said something to me in passing that has been in my mind for three decades. He said, "What you do in rehearsal is what you're going to do in performance." A seemingly common sense piece of advice. I dare say it has turned out to be far, far more than that. Somewhere deep in an actors mind is the idea that he will "explode" on stage opening night, once the audience is there. It is not true. Even veteran actors think this sometimes..."well, I'm not worried, I'll pull all the stops out when I get an audience." This is very dangerous thinking. What we do in rehearsal is, when under moment to moment pressure under the lights on opening night, is EXACTLY what we will do on stage. A very important and often self-preserving piece of advice.
I also remember doing 1776 years ago. The guy playing Ben Franklin, an older gentleman, made me laugh very hard one day. He called me aside and asked me to listen to his "three different accents" that he had narrowed it down to for Franklin. He spoke a few lines in the first "accent." Then he did the second. Then the third. I swear they were exactly the same. No change whatsoever. But I didn't want to topple this guy's perception of himself. He, clearly, really thought there was a difference. I said, straight-faced, "Oh, the second one, definitely." He seemed pleased and went about his work.
The point is, sometimes the work is only visible to the actor. And that's necessary. It's important. And it's what this silly pretending business is all about.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
An Excerpt: From the East to the West - 2/16, 2/17, 2/18
FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST, a new play written and directed by Clifford Morts.
A Benefit Performance for the prestigious NoHo Arts Center.
Executive Producer: Teal Sherer
February 16, 17 and 18. 8:00pm.
Call 818-508-7101 Extension 1 for production information, Extension 7 for reservations.
Featuring: Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Alex Robert Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Assistant Director/Production Stage Manager - Mary Evans.
An evening of wounds reopened, secrets revealed and a family in turmoil. Funny and dark, a play, ultimately, of forgiveness and tolerance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harry
Kevin! (Harry suddenly gets up and crosses quickly down to Kevin on the lawn.) You marry that little girl! Don’t let her get away! Ask her now! Before you both go away to college. Ask her ‘for it’s too late!
Kevin
(Startled.) Well, we’ve talked about it and . . .
Harry
(Taking him by the shoulders.) Don’t talk about it! Do it! Ask her!
Kevin
Well, she . . .
Harry
You take her out to a field. Take her out to a fresh cut field, boy. Lay her down. Smother her with kisses.
Kevin
We don’t . . .
Harry
Listen to me! (Beat.) Listen to me. Don’t waste one more second, boy. Things’ll change on you if you do. Things’ll slip away, boy. Listen to me hard, now. You take that pretty little girl out to a field and spread a blanket. Lay her down and promise her the world. Tell her you’ll give her a life she can’t even dream of. Kiss her on the lips and set her on a cloud, boy. Set her on a cloud. Don’t lose the days, son. Don’t let ‘em get away! Don’t let ‘em get away. Don’t wake up alone one more day, boy!
Kevin
Okay! Okay! I will. That hurts.
Harry
(Easing his grip.) Oh. Sorry, son. (Beat.) It’s just that . . . I don't want you to not know what’s important. You do your runnin’, boy. You got your whole damn life to run. You go to college and get yourself a good job. Buy yourself a nice little house. Plant a garden. Do ALL of that! But take that little girl and make her your wife. Do it today, boy! Don’t waste no more days! Not one more goddamn day!
Kevin
Okay, Mr. Cooke. (Beat.) Okay. (Backing off.) I’ll come back by to see Cory, okay? Just tell him I said hey. (Beat.) I’m sorry about Mrs. Cooke, sir. She was a nice lady.
Harry
(Looking hard at Kevin.) Marry that girl.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
See you tomorrow.
A Benefit Performance for the prestigious NoHo Arts Center.
Executive Producer: Teal Sherer
February 16, 17 and 18. 8:00pm.
Call 818-508-7101 Extension 1 for production information, Extension 7 for reservations.
Featuring: Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Alex Robert Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Assistant Director/Production Stage Manager - Mary Evans.
An evening of wounds reopened, secrets revealed and a family in turmoil. Funny and dark, a play, ultimately, of forgiveness and tolerance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harry
Kevin! (Harry suddenly gets up and crosses quickly down to Kevin on the lawn.) You marry that little girl! Don’t let her get away! Ask her now! Before you both go away to college. Ask her ‘for it’s too late!
Kevin
(Startled.) Well, we’ve talked about it and . . .
Harry
(Taking him by the shoulders.) Don’t talk about it! Do it! Ask her!
Kevin
Well, she . . .
Harry
You take her out to a field. Take her out to a fresh cut field, boy. Lay her down. Smother her with kisses.
Kevin
We don’t . . .
Harry
Listen to me! (Beat.) Listen to me. Don’t waste one more second, boy. Things’ll change on you if you do. Things’ll slip away, boy. Listen to me hard, now. You take that pretty little girl out to a field and spread a blanket. Lay her down and promise her the world. Tell her you’ll give her a life she can’t even dream of. Kiss her on the lips and set her on a cloud, boy. Set her on a cloud. Don’t lose the days, son. Don’t let ‘em get away! Don’t let ‘em get away. Don’t wake up alone one more day, boy!
Kevin
Okay! Okay! I will. That hurts.
Harry
(Easing his grip.) Oh. Sorry, son. (Beat.) It’s just that . . . I don't want you to not know what’s important. You do your runnin’, boy. You got your whole damn life to run. You go to college and get yourself a good job. Buy yourself a nice little house. Plant a garden. Do ALL of that! But take that little girl and make her your wife. Do it today, boy! Don’t waste no more days! Not one more goddamn day!
Kevin
Okay, Mr. Cooke. (Beat.) Okay. (Backing off.) I’ll come back by to see Cory, okay? Just tell him I said hey. (Beat.) I’m sorry about Mrs. Cooke, sir. She was a nice lady.
Harry
(Looking hard at Kevin.) Marry that girl.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
See you tomorrow.
Monday, February 8, 2010
And Once Again...The Damned Lines.
Sometimes I think it's good to let go of a play for a little while. That's what I did yesterday. My beautiful and empathetic girlfriend, Angie, encouraged me not to think of it for a day. Of course, it didn't work. My mind was whirling all day. But one good thing came from it; I figured out the last moment of the piece, something that was giving me fits.
Also, I have always been able to compartmentalize what is bothering me throughout my life. I get restless, irritable and discontent sometimes, particularly when I have a new play going up. I've been restless, irritable and discontent for a week or so now. But I couldn't put my finger on it until yesterday. My philosophy has always been, "Find out what's really bothering you and fix it. Don't wallow in it, just fix it." Problem is, until yesterday, I didn't really know what was bothering me. During the football game yesterday, I figured it out. (Saints! Yes!) The lines. I still don't have the damn lines.
So today, I'm in "fix it" mode.
Today, I attack the lines with renewed vigor. It is the old actor's nightmare (so perfectly described in Christopher Durang's one-act). If I don't have the lines down perfectly, I'm off balance. Insecure. Searching.
I have visions of what might happen if I'm still flailing about on opening night.
There are some very famous stories in the theatre about this. One is with Olivier. Although it is not so much about lines as it is false cues. It seems during a performance of a Noel Coward piece, Olivier was opposite a young actor when the phone rang on stage, completely at the wrong time. They both froze for an instant. Finally, Olivier picked it up, said hello, listened for a second, and then handed the phone to the terrified, young actor and said, "It's for you."
Another one of my favorites was during the famous Julius Caeser that was done in the park with Pacino, Sheen and Hermann. New York production. Apparently someone had neglected to turn the phone off backstage during one of the performances. Ed Hermann himself told me this story. The director, months earlier, had had the brilliant idea of casting both "senior" senators and "junior" senators in the assassination scene (when the senate rises up and brutally stabs to death poor Caeser). So he had gone to the Equity Lounge in NYC (I've been there many times) and simply shouted out, "Anyone in here over 60 wanna be in a play?" Now back in those days, at any given time, one could find a dozen or so old Borscht Belt actors, probably hadn't worked in years, hanging around, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, gossiping. They all leapt at the opportunity. Now, remember, these were guys that still remembered Vaudeville. So here they are, all dressed in togas, doing the very slow and menacing scene in which Caesar is riddled with knives. As they back away from the body after stabbing him repeatedly, fake blood everywhere, silence on the stage as they begin to realize what they've just done, the phone starts ringing very loudly backstage. There is a beat as they all process this. Finally one of the old guys, in a loud stage whisper, with perfect timing, in a Bronx accent, says, "What if it's for Caesar?"
I directed myself some years back in an odd, little play called Redwood Curtain, up in Rochester, NY. I was directing and acting in the piece. As usual, as opening night loomed closer, I was still dragging the script around with me. I was petrified of putting it down. One of the actors in the show came to me at one point and said, "You know, you walk around here telling everyone what to do, how to proceed, marking your lines, giving notes, and every so often you put the script down and act and it scares the living shit out of all of us." A backhanded compliment, to be sure.
So today is all about lines. Saying them, walking around, saying them again.
In the play, there is a moment when Harry (the role I'm playing) has to fall to his hands and knees because of the overwhelming emotion of the moment. It is a very dramatic beat. So, I'm an old guy now, somedays older than others, and I'm not fluid and comfortable about falling on stage (after all, at my age I could break a hip and have to push that little button on my wrist band and say, "I've fallen and I can't get up"). So there I am in my backyard practicing falling down. My dog Zooey was out with me that day. She was terribly disconcerted by all this. I'd say my line and then fall to the ground, over and over. Fortunately, we have an enclosed backyard, so no one can see in. I can only imagine what the neighbors might have thought.
I remember, years ago in NY, I had a buddy in to visit me for a few days. He was not an actor, not in the theatre, in fact he was an architect. I had an audition that I simply had to go to. So he went along with me. As we walked in, hundreds of actors were sitting around, staring straight ahead, and seemingly talking to themselves. To me, of course, I didn't think anything of it. They were simply saying their lines. But afterwards, my buddy said to me, "I felt like I was in an asylum."
I have a hundred weird audition stories, like any actor, and someday I'll recount a few. It is an odd time for the actor, full of tension and ego and insecurity. Of course, strange things happen.
But today...today I memorize. And memorize. And memorize. It just has to be done. No getting around it. Repetition is the soul of art.
See you tomorrow.
Also, I have always been able to compartmentalize what is bothering me throughout my life. I get restless, irritable and discontent sometimes, particularly when I have a new play going up. I've been restless, irritable and discontent for a week or so now. But I couldn't put my finger on it until yesterday. My philosophy has always been, "Find out what's really bothering you and fix it. Don't wallow in it, just fix it." Problem is, until yesterday, I didn't really know what was bothering me. During the football game yesterday, I figured it out. (Saints! Yes!) The lines. I still don't have the damn lines.
So today, I'm in "fix it" mode.
Today, I attack the lines with renewed vigor. It is the old actor's nightmare (so perfectly described in Christopher Durang's one-act). If I don't have the lines down perfectly, I'm off balance. Insecure. Searching.
I have visions of what might happen if I'm still flailing about on opening night.
There are some very famous stories in the theatre about this. One is with Olivier. Although it is not so much about lines as it is false cues. It seems during a performance of a Noel Coward piece, Olivier was opposite a young actor when the phone rang on stage, completely at the wrong time. They both froze for an instant. Finally, Olivier picked it up, said hello, listened for a second, and then handed the phone to the terrified, young actor and said, "It's for you."
Another one of my favorites was during the famous Julius Caeser that was done in the park with Pacino, Sheen and Hermann. New York production. Apparently someone had neglected to turn the phone off backstage during one of the performances. Ed Hermann himself told me this story. The director, months earlier, had had the brilliant idea of casting both "senior" senators and "junior" senators in the assassination scene (when the senate rises up and brutally stabs to death poor Caeser). So he had gone to the Equity Lounge in NYC (I've been there many times) and simply shouted out, "Anyone in here over 60 wanna be in a play?" Now back in those days, at any given time, one could find a dozen or so old Borscht Belt actors, probably hadn't worked in years, hanging around, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, gossiping. They all leapt at the opportunity. Now, remember, these were guys that still remembered Vaudeville. So here they are, all dressed in togas, doing the very slow and menacing scene in which Caesar is riddled with knives. As they back away from the body after stabbing him repeatedly, fake blood everywhere, silence on the stage as they begin to realize what they've just done, the phone starts ringing very loudly backstage. There is a beat as they all process this. Finally one of the old guys, in a loud stage whisper, with perfect timing, in a Bronx accent, says, "What if it's for Caesar?"
I directed myself some years back in an odd, little play called Redwood Curtain, up in Rochester, NY. I was directing and acting in the piece. As usual, as opening night loomed closer, I was still dragging the script around with me. I was petrified of putting it down. One of the actors in the show came to me at one point and said, "You know, you walk around here telling everyone what to do, how to proceed, marking your lines, giving notes, and every so often you put the script down and act and it scares the living shit out of all of us." A backhanded compliment, to be sure.
So today is all about lines. Saying them, walking around, saying them again.
In the play, there is a moment when Harry (the role I'm playing) has to fall to his hands and knees because of the overwhelming emotion of the moment. It is a very dramatic beat. So, I'm an old guy now, somedays older than others, and I'm not fluid and comfortable about falling on stage (after all, at my age I could break a hip and have to push that little button on my wrist band and say, "I've fallen and I can't get up"). So there I am in my backyard practicing falling down. My dog Zooey was out with me that day. She was terribly disconcerted by all this. I'd say my line and then fall to the ground, over and over. Fortunately, we have an enclosed backyard, so no one can see in. I can only imagine what the neighbors might have thought.
I remember, years ago in NY, I had a buddy in to visit me for a few days. He was not an actor, not in the theatre, in fact he was an architect. I had an audition that I simply had to go to. So he went along with me. As we walked in, hundreds of actors were sitting around, staring straight ahead, and seemingly talking to themselves. To me, of course, I didn't think anything of it. They were simply saying their lines. But afterwards, my buddy said to me, "I felt like I was in an asylum."
I have a hundred weird audition stories, like any actor, and someday I'll recount a few. It is an odd time for the actor, full of tension and ego and insecurity. Of course, strange things happen.
But today...today I memorize. And memorize. And memorize. It just has to be done. No getting around it. Repetition is the soul of art.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
From The East to the West
An excerpt: FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST. February 16,17, 18, 2010,
NoHo Arts Center,
11136 Magnolia,
North Hollywood, CA.
Written and Directed by Clifford Morts
Featuring Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Robert Alex Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Executive Producer Teal Sherer
Producer NoHo Arts Center
Assistant Director Mary Evans
HARRY (to his youngest son, Cory, on the death of his mother):
"Well . . . Cory . . . this is the first and last time I’m gonna say this. I swear that. You’re her son. You deserve to know. (Beat.) We was covin’ out. Back up in six-mile cove. That spot where we always go. Peaceful. Quiet. No boats to speak of, really. No wake, no waves. Momma was a-sittin’ out back. On the back deck of the houseboat. She was sippin’ a salty dog. She’d taken to those lately. Gin, grapefruit juice, salt on the rim. I was at the wheel lettin’ the anchor down. Just holdin’ the button lettin’ the electric anchor down. We’d only just stopped the engines. Just as peaceful. I heard . . . I heard, now that I think of it, a boat, an engine, a buzz, like a far off fly or something, off in the distance. It was pitch black. Couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Not close, I thought. She called up, "Harry, there’s a ski boat a-followin’ us." Pitch black. I said, "A what? Where is it?" It was so dark I was feelin’ around tryin' to find the guard rail. And then, good God almighty, that son of a bitch must’ve run right square into the back of the boat. I’d stepped around the wheel and was standin’ next to the rail lookin’ in the wrong direction. That son of a bitch hit us and I just went to flyin’. Knocked me way the hell out into the middle of the goddamned lake. I came up and looked and saw that damned boat parked right up on top of the goddamned houseboat. Right up on the top. The boat was sinkin’ then. Ass end first. Just sinkin’, quick as shit. I started in to swimmin’ back as fast as I could, and I got to within maybe ten, fifteen feet of the boat, half of it was underwater by then, and I run right smack dab into your momma. She was gone, I know’d it right away. Her body . . . her head was . . . she was in bad shape, Cory. And I . . . held onto her . . . she flipped up on me then, her body sort of corked up, wrong end up, and her . . . shoes came off. I grabbed ‘em. Both of ‘em ‘fore they could get away, float away, lose ‘em in the water, slide away, sink, sink. And I held your momma up by the hair, by her bloody, bloody red hair, and her shoes, her shoes, up with the other hand. Kickin’ my feet like crazy to stay afloat. Up over my head. I wanted to . . . it seemed important to . . . keep ‘em dry. I don’t know what the Sam-hell I was thinkin’. She just, she just liked those shoes so damn much, I didn’t want them to get ruint. I honestly don’t know how long it was. Long enough to have a long conversation with her. I talked a blue streak. The boat was sunk. Gone. Them two fellas in the other boat was both wearin’ life jackets and I could see ‘em floatin’ a little ways off. They was both knocked out, I guess. They was both quiet. So I just held your momma up and her shoes and kicked my feet till I started thinkin’ I would just sink right along with her. Talkin’ to her. Talkin’ ‘bout personal things, you know. Stuff only me and your momma cared about. Stuff only me and her would know. And then a-finally. I could hear a boat full-out. Full throttle. Off in the yonder. Coast Guard, I knew. I knew it would be just few seconds then afore I was okay. And I give your momma a kiss on her bloody face and her . . . bloody hair and . . . and . . . told her . . . I’d see her in a little while. Save a place at the table for me. (Cory whimpers and breaks someplace very deep.) I made sure she was decent, covered up. And they pulled us out. Took your momma away from me. Covered her up. Put a blanket around me. Tried to take her shoes from me. Tried to take those shoes from me. Tried to . . . they couldn’t get my fingers to loosen off-a them shoes. Had to pry ‘em. (Pause.) I never wanted a drink so bad in all my natural life. But I held onto them shoes like they was the goddamn crown of thorns or some goddamn thing. (Beat.) I got ‘em upstairs."
See you tomorrow.
NoHo Arts Center,
11136 Magnolia,
North Hollywood, CA.
Written and Directed by Clifford Morts
Featuring Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Robert Alex Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Executive Producer Teal Sherer
Producer NoHo Arts Center
Assistant Director Mary Evans
HARRY (to his youngest son, Cory, on the death of his mother):
"Well . . . Cory . . . this is the first and last time I’m gonna say this. I swear that. You’re her son. You deserve to know. (Beat.) We was covin’ out. Back up in six-mile cove. That spot where we always go. Peaceful. Quiet. No boats to speak of, really. No wake, no waves. Momma was a-sittin’ out back. On the back deck of the houseboat. She was sippin’ a salty dog. She’d taken to those lately. Gin, grapefruit juice, salt on the rim. I was at the wheel lettin’ the anchor down. Just holdin’ the button lettin’ the electric anchor down. We’d only just stopped the engines. Just as peaceful. I heard . . . I heard, now that I think of it, a boat, an engine, a buzz, like a far off fly or something, off in the distance. It was pitch black. Couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Not close, I thought. She called up, "Harry, there’s a ski boat a-followin’ us." Pitch black. I said, "A what? Where is it?" It was so dark I was feelin’ around tryin' to find the guard rail. And then, good God almighty, that son of a bitch must’ve run right square into the back of the boat. I’d stepped around the wheel and was standin’ next to the rail lookin’ in the wrong direction. That son of a bitch hit us and I just went to flyin’. Knocked me way the hell out into the middle of the goddamned lake. I came up and looked and saw that damned boat parked right up on top of the goddamned houseboat. Right up on the top. The boat was sinkin’ then. Ass end first. Just sinkin’, quick as shit. I started in to swimmin’ back as fast as I could, and I got to within maybe ten, fifteen feet of the boat, half of it was underwater by then, and I run right smack dab into your momma. She was gone, I know’d it right away. Her body . . . her head was . . . she was in bad shape, Cory. And I . . . held onto her . . . she flipped up on me then, her body sort of corked up, wrong end up, and her . . . shoes came off. I grabbed ‘em. Both of ‘em ‘fore they could get away, float away, lose ‘em in the water, slide away, sink, sink. And I held your momma up by the hair, by her bloody, bloody red hair, and her shoes, her shoes, up with the other hand. Kickin’ my feet like crazy to stay afloat. Up over my head. I wanted to . . . it seemed important to . . . keep ‘em dry. I don’t know what the Sam-hell I was thinkin’. She just, she just liked those shoes so damn much, I didn’t want them to get ruint. I honestly don’t know how long it was. Long enough to have a long conversation with her. I talked a blue streak. The boat was sunk. Gone. Them two fellas in the other boat was both wearin’ life jackets and I could see ‘em floatin’ a little ways off. They was both knocked out, I guess. They was both quiet. So I just held your momma up and her shoes and kicked my feet till I started thinkin’ I would just sink right along with her. Talkin’ to her. Talkin’ ‘bout personal things, you know. Stuff only me and your momma cared about. Stuff only me and her would know. And then a-finally. I could hear a boat full-out. Full throttle. Off in the yonder. Coast Guard, I knew. I knew it would be just few seconds then afore I was okay. And I give your momma a kiss on her bloody face and her . . . bloody hair and . . . and . . . told her . . . I’d see her in a little while. Save a place at the table for me. (Cory whimpers and breaks someplace very deep.) I made sure she was decent, covered up. And they pulled us out. Took your momma away from me. Covered her up. Put a blanket around me. Tried to take her shoes from me. Tried to take those shoes from me. Tried to . . . they couldn’t get my fingers to loosen off-a them shoes. Had to pry ‘em. (Pause.) I never wanted a drink so bad in all my natural life. But I held onto them shoes like they was the goddamn crown of thorns or some goddamn thing. (Beat.) I got ‘em upstairs."
See you tomorrow.
Friday, February 5, 2010
On Giving Notes and Muhammad Ali...
Some time back I was watching an interview with Angelo Dundee, Muhammad Ali's trainer. Dundee was with Ali his entire career. He's a squat, little man with a glaring Brooklyn accent, exactly like a boxing trainer is supposed to look and sound. Right out of Central Casting.
So one of the questions asked was, "How did you train Muhammad Ali? With his ego and natural gifts, what could you tell him to make him better?" Dundee said early on he discovered he couldn't train Ali the way he trained other fighters. So what he did was this: if Ali were working in the ring and he wasn't doing something Dundee wanted him to do, say, throw the jab off the hook, Dundee would tell him in the corner between rounds, "I love the way you're throwing that jab off the hook. I've never seen another fighter do it so perfectly. It's a thing of beauty, watching you throw that jab immediately after the hook. I don't know how you do it, Muhammad." And then Ali, who was NOT throwing the jab off the hook, would get off the stool and go out and do exactly that. And more importantly, actually think it was his idea. Great insight from Dundee into working with this genius of a fighter.
It is a great thing for a director to know, too. Not that I employ it so shamelessly as Mr. Dundee. But sometimes its best to let the actor think he's come up with something on his own. As I've said before, I'm an actor first, a playwright second and a director third. I adore actors. They are the most fascinating, child-like, intelligent people I know; full of doubt and confidence all at once. And when they're at the top of their game, they are thoroughbreds. I have worked with so many directors that simply don't understand this.
So sometimes its necessary to use this backward sort of encouragement. "I love the way you're taking that tiny pause before the line in order to nail that laugh. Really nice moment for you." That's all that need be said. The next time through, you can be absolutely sure that tiny pause will be there.
This is not patronizing. Not in the least. I believe its making a point without the carnage of actually giving a note. Note-giving is a delicate thing. I used to work with this tin despot of a director down south that would give hours, HOURS, of notes...caustic, horrible notes that included personal attacks, long, weeping stories from his own childhood, a performance unto themselves, these note-giving sessions. I used to think, "Are we rehearsing a play or watching a one-man show?"
So, last night we threw off the sickliness of the night before and attacked the piece with renewed vigor. The play's lead actor, Chad Coe, came in rearing to go. He'd obviously done a lot of "processing" over the past 24 hours and was shockingly cleaner, sharper and more focused. His is the most difficult character in the play. I'm very careful with how I direct him because of that. Its just simply not a case of "you cross here and say the line." Its a tough-assed role to do. Glad he's doing it, in fact, and not me.
The other two principal actors in the play have their curious strengths and weaknesses, too. Nickella Moschetti, playing Eileen, is one of the most instinctive actors I've seen in many, many years. Frankly, I have no idea what her process is and I honestly don't care. I worked with another actress like her years ago named Katherine Kelly in Glass Menagerie. They seem to be incapable of being dishonest onstage. There is some governor in their internal engine that won't let them be fake. This can be daunting to another actor like myself who's just openly fake sometimes. Working with people like that makes me sigh and put my acting tricks away. Just tuck them all away in a bag somewhere. Cause if I'm not glaringly honest with her onstage, I come out looking very, very stilted and manipulative. Nickella makes me a better actor because of this. That's saying something.
J.R. Mangels is working on the other big role. I get J.R. I completely know where he's coming from. Like myself, he can sniff out a laugh line from about two miles away. And he knows, he KNOWS, he'll get the laugh, too. And like myself, sometimes he has to purposely NOT go for the laugh in order to serve the greater good, the play itself. He's a fun actor to watch.
So here we are, this little band of Charlie in the Boxes, at the exact halfway point of the rehearsal process. We open this thing on February 16, right around 8:00 at night. Eleven days, thirteen hours, or something like that. And I've gone from being a tad stressed and rather doubtful, to being full of optimism and rather sprightly.
Today we're adding the music and sound to the mix. Sort of like sprinkling some pepper into an already spicy chili. Should be fun.
See you tomorrow.
So one of the questions asked was, "How did you train Muhammad Ali? With his ego and natural gifts, what could you tell him to make him better?" Dundee said early on he discovered he couldn't train Ali the way he trained other fighters. So what he did was this: if Ali were working in the ring and he wasn't doing something Dundee wanted him to do, say, throw the jab off the hook, Dundee would tell him in the corner between rounds, "I love the way you're throwing that jab off the hook. I've never seen another fighter do it so perfectly. It's a thing of beauty, watching you throw that jab immediately after the hook. I don't know how you do it, Muhammad." And then Ali, who was NOT throwing the jab off the hook, would get off the stool and go out and do exactly that. And more importantly, actually think it was his idea. Great insight from Dundee into working with this genius of a fighter.
It is a great thing for a director to know, too. Not that I employ it so shamelessly as Mr. Dundee. But sometimes its best to let the actor think he's come up with something on his own. As I've said before, I'm an actor first, a playwright second and a director third. I adore actors. They are the most fascinating, child-like, intelligent people I know; full of doubt and confidence all at once. And when they're at the top of their game, they are thoroughbreds. I have worked with so many directors that simply don't understand this.
So sometimes its necessary to use this backward sort of encouragement. "I love the way you're taking that tiny pause before the line in order to nail that laugh. Really nice moment for you." That's all that need be said. The next time through, you can be absolutely sure that tiny pause will be there.
This is not patronizing. Not in the least. I believe its making a point without the carnage of actually giving a note. Note-giving is a delicate thing. I used to work with this tin despot of a director down south that would give hours, HOURS, of notes...caustic, horrible notes that included personal attacks, long, weeping stories from his own childhood, a performance unto themselves, these note-giving sessions. I used to think, "Are we rehearsing a play or watching a one-man show?"
So, last night we threw off the sickliness of the night before and attacked the piece with renewed vigor. The play's lead actor, Chad Coe, came in rearing to go. He'd obviously done a lot of "processing" over the past 24 hours and was shockingly cleaner, sharper and more focused. His is the most difficult character in the play. I'm very careful with how I direct him because of that. Its just simply not a case of "you cross here and say the line." Its a tough-assed role to do. Glad he's doing it, in fact, and not me.
The other two principal actors in the play have their curious strengths and weaknesses, too. Nickella Moschetti, playing Eileen, is one of the most instinctive actors I've seen in many, many years. Frankly, I have no idea what her process is and I honestly don't care. I worked with another actress like her years ago named Katherine Kelly in Glass Menagerie. They seem to be incapable of being dishonest onstage. There is some governor in their internal engine that won't let them be fake. This can be daunting to another actor like myself who's just openly fake sometimes. Working with people like that makes me sigh and put my acting tricks away. Just tuck them all away in a bag somewhere. Cause if I'm not glaringly honest with her onstage, I come out looking very, very stilted and manipulative. Nickella makes me a better actor because of this. That's saying something.
J.R. Mangels is working on the other big role. I get J.R. I completely know where he's coming from. Like myself, he can sniff out a laugh line from about two miles away. And he knows, he KNOWS, he'll get the laugh, too. And like myself, sometimes he has to purposely NOT go for the laugh in order to serve the greater good, the play itself. He's a fun actor to watch.
So here we are, this little band of Charlie in the Boxes, at the exact halfway point of the rehearsal process. We open this thing on February 16, right around 8:00 at night. Eleven days, thirteen hours, or something like that. And I've gone from being a tad stressed and rather doubtful, to being full of optimism and rather sprightly.
Today we're adding the music and sound to the mix. Sort of like sprinkling some pepper into an already spicy chili. Should be fun.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Dreaded First Run-thru...
We ran the play last night. It was everything I expected it to be at this point: sloppy, slow, tedious, ugly, dishonest and chaotic. Aside from that, not so bad.
I was particularly bad. I'm wearing several hats on this one: actor, writer, director, producer, sound designer and cheerleader. The only thing I did well last night was cheerleader. That may have had something to do with the short skirt and matching sweater with the embroidered "E/W" on it that I chose to wear. I wanted to just wear jeans but Angie said the cheerleading outfit brought out my eyes.
Years ago I saw the great George C. Scott onstage with John Cullum (also a fine actor) in a terrible play called Boys of Autumn. It was about Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer grown up. Huck (Scott) was an old hermit and Tom (Cullum) was on the run as a child molester. Talk about beating your sacred cow. Anyway, the play was pretty bad; talky, uneventful, full of rambling monologues. But, hey, George C. Scott. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Scott barely moved a muscle during the performance. Stood like an old oak in the middle of the stage while Cullum walked around him most of the night. His performance, even in this dreck, was mesmerizing. And that growling, tender, scary voice of his.
That's my role model for Harry (the character I'm playing).
The problem is that he's George C. Scott and, well, I'm not.
We haven't even begun to plug in all the technical stuff - lighting, sound, props, etc. So that was bothering me. Also, I'm beginning to second guess myself. This doesn't come as a surprise. It happens in every play. But the thing to do, and this comes from a butt-load of stage time, is to remember that there is a reason the first choice was settled on to begin with. Trust that choice. I'm trying to.
My buddy, John Bader, watched it last night. And for a few minutes we discussed the play at intermission. Amidst all the gobbledygook (that's what I heard, anyway, cause my mind was a million miles away) I heard him say, "What are their objectives?" That stopped me. Wow. It suddenly occurred to me I had to go back to Acting 101 again. Indeed. What ARE our objectives?
It is the little things I miss, as often as not. It is sort of like attempting the triple gainer before you've learned the cannonball. As a director I have skipped over a few things, not because I didn't know they were there, but because I just assumed everyone knew about them. And what is it they say about "assume?" Heavens.
So Johnny is right on this one. Wrong on some other things, I think. But dead on with this comment. It is the lifeblood of the actor's work...what do you want? That's the building block for everything...what do you want? What do you want? It informs everything, every choice, every reading, every nuance and shading, every movement. What do you want?
I also learned last night that I don't have the stage stamina that I once had. In a role this large and with this much emotion involved, I pooped out. I got tired at round five or six. I didn't have the whole fight in me. This will come back, I'm sure. But it caught me off-guard last night.
As always, I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night because I was thinking of a thousand things that needed fixing. We still have 12 days left to put it all together. But the rubber is meeting the road now, the idealism of the rehearsal process has come to an end. We have reached the "put up or shut up" moment.
Fortunate for me I have some really fine actors around to make me look good. To make the play look good. To rescue this dismal business. I'm only joking, of course. But a part of me is really wary right now. Can this be done? Will anyone be the least bit interested in all this yammering? Can we fascinate? Are we on the right path? Does anyone even care?
Oy.
See you tomorrow.
I was particularly bad. I'm wearing several hats on this one: actor, writer, director, producer, sound designer and cheerleader. The only thing I did well last night was cheerleader. That may have had something to do with the short skirt and matching sweater with the embroidered "E/W" on it that I chose to wear. I wanted to just wear jeans but Angie said the cheerleading outfit brought out my eyes.
Years ago I saw the great George C. Scott onstage with John Cullum (also a fine actor) in a terrible play called Boys of Autumn. It was about Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer grown up. Huck (Scott) was an old hermit and Tom (Cullum) was on the run as a child molester. Talk about beating your sacred cow. Anyway, the play was pretty bad; talky, uneventful, full of rambling monologues. But, hey, George C. Scott. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Scott barely moved a muscle during the performance. Stood like an old oak in the middle of the stage while Cullum walked around him most of the night. His performance, even in this dreck, was mesmerizing. And that growling, tender, scary voice of his.
That's my role model for Harry (the character I'm playing).
The problem is that he's George C. Scott and, well, I'm not.
We haven't even begun to plug in all the technical stuff - lighting, sound, props, etc. So that was bothering me. Also, I'm beginning to second guess myself. This doesn't come as a surprise. It happens in every play. But the thing to do, and this comes from a butt-load of stage time, is to remember that there is a reason the first choice was settled on to begin with. Trust that choice. I'm trying to.
My buddy, John Bader, watched it last night. And for a few minutes we discussed the play at intermission. Amidst all the gobbledygook (that's what I heard, anyway, cause my mind was a million miles away) I heard him say, "What are their objectives?" That stopped me. Wow. It suddenly occurred to me I had to go back to Acting 101 again. Indeed. What ARE our objectives?
It is the little things I miss, as often as not. It is sort of like attempting the triple gainer before you've learned the cannonball. As a director I have skipped over a few things, not because I didn't know they were there, but because I just assumed everyone knew about them. And what is it they say about "assume?" Heavens.
So Johnny is right on this one. Wrong on some other things, I think. But dead on with this comment. It is the lifeblood of the actor's work...what do you want? That's the building block for everything...what do you want? What do you want? It informs everything, every choice, every reading, every nuance and shading, every movement. What do you want?
I also learned last night that I don't have the stage stamina that I once had. In a role this large and with this much emotion involved, I pooped out. I got tired at round five or six. I didn't have the whole fight in me. This will come back, I'm sure. But it caught me off-guard last night.
As always, I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night because I was thinking of a thousand things that needed fixing. We still have 12 days left to put it all together. But the rubber is meeting the road now, the idealism of the rehearsal process has come to an end. We have reached the "put up or shut up" moment.
Fortunate for me I have some really fine actors around to make me look good. To make the play look good. To rescue this dismal business. I'm only joking, of course. But a part of me is really wary right now. Can this be done? Will anyone be the least bit interested in all this yammering? Can we fascinate? Are we on the right path? Does anyone even care?
Oy.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
On Dialects and Perception...
Watched Brando in a movie from 1967 called Reflections in a Golden Eye last night. It's one of those southern gothic things...based upon a Carson McCullers novel, Brando's accent is so thick at times it's almost impossible to decipher what the hell he's saying. Angela kept turning to me and asking, "What did he just say?" Elizabeth Taylor is also in it and she's at her callous best. But the movie is pretty bad. Brando stepped in as a favor, more or less, to Taylor and John Huston, the director, after Montgomery Clift died. When I first saw it years ago I was dumbfounded by Brando's eccentric dialect choice. And then a couple of years after that I listened to a live radio broadcast of an interview with Tennessee Williams. Suddenly it hit me. Brando was doing a dead-on impersonation of Tennessee Williams. How clever.
But the whole thing got me thinking about accents. Nearly every actor thinks he can do great accents. Nearly every actor is wrong. I used to do a lot of work down at a LORT D theatre in Virginia called Mill Mountain. I loved that theatre (they went under about six months ago, alas). Anyway, a good buddy of mine, Ernie Zulia, was the Associate Artistic Director there for some years and I would sometimes wander over to his office for a very specific fun thing I liked to do: look at the thousands of resumes and headshots he would get in the course of his day. I could spend hours doing that. And Ernie, cool guy that he is, used to just pile them up on a big chair as they came in. I'd walk into his office and he'd point to the stack of resumes and just go on about his business and I'd sit there quietly ruffling through them and occasionally giggling. So I noticed that nearly every actor in the stack felt compelled to list their "accents and dialects." They would say, somewhere down toward the bottom of the page, usually under the "miscellaneous" section: Dialects: British, American South, New York (those were always the big three) and then they'd get a tad more specific - German, French, Russian, Australian, Indian, Italian, etc. Sometimes they'd get weird - Cherokee, was one I remember. Huh? Casting Director: "Um, could you give those lines again, this time try it in a Navajo dialect." Actor: "I'm terribly sorry, I can only do Cherokee." Casting Director: "Ah, yes, I see that now here on the resume. Pity."
The other thing that used to tickle me was the "Age Range" that was sometimes listed up near the Height and Weight and Contact Number. This was really just unpredictable. Actors with wonderful credits on their resume, seemingly clear-thinking, talented people, would just fall apart when it came to this "Age Range" business. I remember one guy put down: "Age Range - 18-96." Oh, boy. So again, a scenario came to mind. There's a play called Night of the Iguana. One of the principal characters in it is an old man named Nonno. Nonno is decribed in the play as being 97 years old. Casting Director: "So, if you wouldn't mind, please, take a look at Nonno on page 26." Actor: "Excuse me?" Casting Director: "Yes, Nonno on page 26, please." Actor: "Do you have my resume in front of you?" Casting Director: "Yes, yes, right here." Actor: "And what does it say?" Casting Director: "Pardon me?" Actor: (getting upset) "What does it SAY?" Casting Director: "Say?" Actor: It says AGE RANGE - 18 to 96! Nonno is 97! I CAN'T DO 97! I CAN PLAY 96! 96! NOT 97!"
Actors obsess over their resume and headshot. It's understandable. We control so little in the business we've attached ourselves to so when we finally have something we can control, like a resume and headshot, we tend to get very obsessive. We show the pictures to everyone to get their opinion: friends, relatives, acting teachers, cab drivers, anyone who will take a moment to look at an 8x10 shot of us. "Do you think that little smile is too much like a smirk? Cause I really don't wanna come across as a smirker. What do you think? That blouse. Do you think it looks like something Melissa Gilbert would wear? Cause I really don't wanna bring Melissa Gilbert to mind. My hair. What do you think? I've parted it about a eighth of an inch higher than I usually do cause I'm trying to come across as a little smarter than I am in real life. What do you think? Is the picture of me smarter than the real me?" It gets silly, really it does.
But, having written all that, I love it. I just adore it. I would sit for hours in Ernie's office all those years ago, giggling at the resumes and headshots...but not AT the actors, I wouldn't think they were fools, no quite the opposite, I LOVED their little peccadillos, their private obsessions on how others perceived them. Actors are the most amusing, interesting, aware people I know. I love being around them...my own kind. And I love reading what they hope for themselves and love reading what they've done that they're proud of. Actors, with their resumes and pretty shots of themselves, are exactly like people....only more so.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go practice my mid-central-urban-ethnic-second generation-Irish Maryland dialect.
See you tomorrow.
But the whole thing got me thinking about accents. Nearly every actor thinks he can do great accents. Nearly every actor is wrong. I used to do a lot of work down at a LORT D theatre in Virginia called Mill Mountain. I loved that theatre (they went under about six months ago, alas). Anyway, a good buddy of mine, Ernie Zulia, was the Associate Artistic Director there for some years and I would sometimes wander over to his office for a very specific fun thing I liked to do: look at the thousands of resumes and headshots he would get in the course of his day. I could spend hours doing that. And Ernie, cool guy that he is, used to just pile them up on a big chair as they came in. I'd walk into his office and he'd point to the stack of resumes and just go on about his business and I'd sit there quietly ruffling through them and occasionally giggling. So I noticed that nearly every actor in the stack felt compelled to list their "accents and dialects." They would say, somewhere down toward the bottom of the page, usually under the "miscellaneous" section: Dialects: British, American South, New York (those were always the big three) and then they'd get a tad more specific - German, French, Russian, Australian, Indian, Italian, etc. Sometimes they'd get weird - Cherokee, was one I remember. Huh? Casting Director: "Um, could you give those lines again, this time try it in a Navajo dialect." Actor: "I'm terribly sorry, I can only do Cherokee." Casting Director: "Ah, yes, I see that now here on the resume. Pity."
The other thing that used to tickle me was the "Age Range" that was sometimes listed up near the Height and Weight and Contact Number. This was really just unpredictable. Actors with wonderful credits on their resume, seemingly clear-thinking, talented people, would just fall apart when it came to this "Age Range" business. I remember one guy put down: "Age Range - 18-96." Oh, boy. So again, a scenario came to mind. There's a play called Night of the Iguana. One of the principal characters in it is an old man named Nonno. Nonno is decribed in the play as being 97 years old. Casting Director: "So, if you wouldn't mind, please, take a look at Nonno on page 26." Actor: "Excuse me?" Casting Director: "Yes, Nonno on page 26, please." Actor: "Do you have my resume in front of you?" Casting Director: "Yes, yes, right here." Actor: "And what does it say?" Casting Director: "Pardon me?" Actor: (getting upset) "What does it SAY?" Casting Director: "Say?" Actor: It says AGE RANGE - 18 to 96! Nonno is 97! I CAN'T DO 97! I CAN PLAY 96! 96! NOT 97!"
Actors obsess over their resume and headshot. It's understandable. We control so little in the business we've attached ourselves to so when we finally have something we can control, like a resume and headshot, we tend to get very obsessive. We show the pictures to everyone to get their opinion: friends, relatives, acting teachers, cab drivers, anyone who will take a moment to look at an 8x10 shot of us. "Do you think that little smile is too much like a smirk? Cause I really don't wanna come across as a smirker. What do you think? That blouse. Do you think it looks like something Melissa Gilbert would wear? Cause I really don't wanna bring Melissa Gilbert to mind. My hair. What do you think? I've parted it about a eighth of an inch higher than I usually do cause I'm trying to come across as a little smarter than I am in real life. What do you think? Is the picture of me smarter than the real me?" It gets silly, really it does.
But, having written all that, I love it. I just adore it. I would sit for hours in Ernie's office all those years ago, giggling at the resumes and headshots...but not AT the actors, I wouldn't think they were fools, no quite the opposite, I LOVED their little peccadillos, their private obsessions on how others perceived them. Actors are the most amusing, interesting, aware people I know. I love being around them...my own kind. And I love reading what they hope for themselves and love reading what they've done that they're proud of. Actors, with their resumes and pretty shots of themselves, are exactly like people....only more so.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go practice my mid-central-urban-ethnic-second generation-Irish Maryland dialect.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Sick People in Love
Been sick as a dog for a couple of days. The old adage is true, "If you don't have your health, you don't have anything." Much better today.
On Sunday I saw a beautiful, quirky, little musical under development called Sick People in Love. Years ago I became infatuated with a musical called Falsettos, by William Finn. All through the night on Sunday, I was reminded again and again of that show. I saw it twice, in fact, once with Michael Rupert in the lead and once with Mandy Patinkin in the the lead. Rupert was better in the role but, as always, Patinkin was more fun to watch.
Anyway, the music in Sick People in Love reminded me of Finn's intricate melodies in Falsettos. Sick People was written by Nickella Maschetti and her husband (who's name escapes me at the moment). The dialogue is often sharp and witty with a couple of unexpected long monologues dropped in the middle of the piece. And, delightfully, a talking, singing boar's head.
Afterwards, the generous authors, allowed a "talk-back." That is to say, the audience (all invited) were allowed to suggest ideas and share their thoughts with the creators and actors. I, personally, am never comfortable with this sort of thing. Not to say I haven't done it. George S. Kauffman once said, "Human beings have four basic needs: the need to procreate, the need for food, the need for shelter and the need to re-write someone else's play."
The audience seemed a tad confused by the whopping monologues in the midst of this beautiful, little piece. I, too, thought at first they were out of place. Upon reflection, however, I don't. In fact, rather than an obstacle, I think they present an opportunity...sing half of it, speak half of it. Another musical I rather like, Working by Stephen Schartz and Studs Terkel, comes to mind. So add incidental music, simple melody lines, a little water and shake. Easily fixed and at the same time the information and subtle metaphors in the monologues are still there.
As a playwright I have always considered monologues to be arias.
The other thing that came to mind on Sunday was the fact that the audience can really only see about ten percent of what the author's see in their mind's eye. Plays are meant to be seen; not read, not contemplated, not workshopped, but seen. I think everyone can identify with sitting around some lame high school english class reading Romeo and Juliet out loud. Or in my case, Julius Caesar. Here I am sitting there at the age of seventeen, trying to grasp Shakespeare's allegorical history. Years later I saw JC on stage with Martin Sheen and Al Pacino and Edward Hermann in Joseph Papp's famous production in the park. It was meant to be seen, to be experienced. It was altogether a different play than the one I read in english class all those years before. See, plays don't come to life until they're onstage. Plays are quite literally Frankenstein's Monster, dead pieces of meat before the lightning is utilized...and the lightning is the audience, the final ingredient, the bit of brandy dripped onto the writing at the last second and the fire blazes up.
So I'm sitting there watching Sick People in Love and thinking to myself, "How extraordinary this moment is. I'm watching something from nothing. I'm watching someone else's vision being shaped from dust. This is Providence."
Now, of course, I've been there a few times myself. Early on I found myself in this artistic trial by fire. We read a play of mine called Death in Des Moines (based on Thomas Mann's Death in Venice) years ago in NY. The comments afterward lacerated me. Then and there, in that little studio on the upper west, I decided to never do this again. Don't get me wrong, I think at times, a little workshopping never hurt anybody. But its a very, very delicate thing. The absolute right people have to be in the room. And the comments can't be sweeping re-writes of the show itself. They must be specific. They must be helpful. They must be, in the true sense of the word, criticism. Often times what happens is that once the play is heard by an outsider, he then comments on what HE would have done with a similar idea. No. That's not workshopping, that's ego. In fact, it's detrimental to the project itself.
I hope NoHo considers producing this piece, this lovely Sick People in Love. James Mellon, the AD at NoHo, likes the piece a lot, I think, and not surprisingly, had the the single most astute comment of the evening. What a beautiful thing to have this great space called NoHo to create and breath life into our creations.
I could see the two young authors flinch a little as the comments roiled in Sunday night. To them I say, don't worry about it. Use what you like, utterly discard what you don't. This is your vision, your piece. Creation is not a democracy. Incorporate other ideas and let fly the dogs of new possibilities. Besides, at the end of the day, YOUR name is under the title, no one else's.
Sick People in Love is a small piece of joy. I can't wait to see it fly someday.
See you tomorrow.
On Sunday I saw a beautiful, quirky, little musical under development called Sick People in Love. Years ago I became infatuated with a musical called Falsettos, by William Finn. All through the night on Sunday, I was reminded again and again of that show. I saw it twice, in fact, once with Michael Rupert in the lead and once with Mandy Patinkin in the the lead. Rupert was better in the role but, as always, Patinkin was more fun to watch.
Anyway, the music in Sick People in Love reminded me of Finn's intricate melodies in Falsettos. Sick People was written by Nickella Maschetti and her husband (who's name escapes me at the moment). The dialogue is often sharp and witty with a couple of unexpected long monologues dropped in the middle of the piece. And, delightfully, a talking, singing boar's head.
Afterwards, the generous authors, allowed a "talk-back." That is to say, the audience (all invited) were allowed to suggest ideas and share their thoughts with the creators and actors. I, personally, am never comfortable with this sort of thing. Not to say I haven't done it. George S. Kauffman once said, "Human beings have four basic needs: the need to procreate, the need for food, the need for shelter and the need to re-write someone else's play."
The audience seemed a tad confused by the whopping monologues in the midst of this beautiful, little piece. I, too, thought at first they were out of place. Upon reflection, however, I don't. In fact, rather than an obstacle, I think they present an opportunity...sing half of it, speak half of it. Another musical I rather like, Working by Stephen Schartz and Studs Terkel, comes to mind. So add incidental music, simple melody lines, a little water and shake. Easily fixed and at the same time the information and subtle metaphors in the monologues are still there.
As a playwright I have always considered monologues to be arias.
The other thing that came to mind on Sunday was the fact that the audience can really only see about ten percent of what the author's see in their mind's eye. Plays are meant to be seen; not read, not contemplated, not workshopped, but seen. I think everyone can identify with sitting around some lame high school english class reading Romeo and Juliet out loud. Or in my case, Julius Caesar. Here I am sitting there at the age of seventeen, trying to grasp Shakespeare's allegorical history. Years later I saw JC on stage with Martin Sheen and Al Pacino and Edward Hermann in Joseph Papp's famous production in the park. It was meant to be seen, to be experienced. It was altogether a different play than the one I read in english class all those years before. See, plays don't come to life until they're onstage. Plays are quite literally Frankenstein's Monster, dead pieces of meat before the lightning is utilized...and the lightning is the audience, the final ingredient, the bit of brandy dripped onto the writing at the last second and the fire blazes up.
So I'm sitting there watching Sick People in Love and thinking to myself, "How extraordinary this moment is. I'm watching something from nothing. I'm watching someone else's vision being shaped from dust. This is Providence."
Now, of course, I've been there a few times myself. Early on I found myself in this artistic trial by fire. We read a play of mine called Death in Des Moines (based on Thomas Mann's Death in Venice) years ago in NY. The comments afterward lacerated me. Then and there, in that little studio on the upper west, I decided to never do this again. Don't get me wrong, I think at times, a little workshopping never hurt anybody. But its a very, very delicate thing. The absolute right people have to be in the room. And the comments can't be sweeping re-writes of the show itself. They must be specific. They must be helpful. They must be, in the true sense of the word, criticism. Often times what happens is that once the play is heard by an outsider, he then comments on what HE would have done with a similar idea. No. That's not workshopping, that's ego. In fact, it's detrimental to the project itself.
I hope NoHo considers producing this piece, this lovely Sick People in Love. James Mellon, the AD at NoHo, likes the piece a lot, I think, and not surprisingly, had the the single most astute comment of the evening. What a beautiful thing to have this great space called NoHo to create and breath life into our creations.
I could see the two young authors flinch a little as the comments roiled in Sunday night. To them I say, don't worry about it. Use what you like, utterly discard what you don't. This is your vision, your piece. Creation is not a democracy. Incorporate other ideas and let fly the dogs of new possibilities. Besides, at the end of the day, YOUR name is under the title, no one else's.
Sick People in Love is a small piece of joy. I can't wait to see it fly someday.
See you tomorrow.
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