Christmas is creeping up on us. I have been watching the yearly holiday fare on television - Miracle on 34th Street, Holiday Inn, White Christmas, Apocalypse Now...okay, maybe not that last one. White Christmas, although clearly the lesser of the three movies, oddly, is my favorite. Although the song, "What do you do with a General when he's no longer a General?" may be the most awkward title for a song ever written. And poor Rosemary Clooney dances like a shot rabbit. Danny Kaye is decidedly unfunny and the outdoor sets are all obviously indoors. And yet, it's my favorite. Go figure.
Speaking of Holiday fare...Angie and I traveled over to Hollywood Friday night to see our friend, John Bader, in a show called "Bob's Holiday Office Party" at The Hudson Theater. Let me just say right off the bat that I can't remember ever laughing so hard at a stage play. The whole thing is sheer chaos. Complete anarchy up there on the boards. A play that manages to offend everyone in the audience at some point or another. I loved it.
I don't have the program in front of me because Angie went on a cleaning binge yesterday and threw away anything that wasn't bolted to the floor. I'm surprised Franny and Zooey made it though it alive. So I can't give proper credit to the writers and actors.
In any event, it's a great piece of work. Just when you think it can't get any zanier, it does. It builds to jaw-dropping heights of political incorrectness. If that sort of thing disturbs your sensitivities, it's probably not the play for you. Hardly anything or anyone escapes unscathed. I adored it.
It is exactly what it sounds like - a small-town, insurance company holiday party. The narrow-minded, outwardly republican conservative townfolk, all proceed to get rip-roaring drunk throughout the evening until the stage becomes a moving version of a Hieronymus Bosch painting by the end. Every time I thought they couldn't get any more ridiculous, they did. As I was gasping for breath I noticed an elderly couple near us staring, frozen and shocked, at the proceedings on stage. Which of course only made me laugh harder.
John is in the rather thankless role of a 'straight man' throughout, but he's such a fine actor he still manages to get his share of laughs out of it. One of the writers, Joe Keyes, plays the small-town sheriff and is absolute perfection. Mr. Keyes is a very, very funny actor.
The play has been running continually, every Christmas, for fifteen years here in Los Angeles and Angie and I have decided to make it our annual must-see holiday event. I think today is the last performance of it for 2010, but we will be dragging our more open-minded friends to it next year.
One kind of feels like they need a shower after watching it...but in a good way. This is really funny stuff and even more so because it's clear the actors are having the time of their lives up there. The script has been designed in such a way that allows the more versatile actors to adlib at their leisure, most notably the hysterical Mr. Keyes.
Years ago I did a long run of a half-scripted, half-improvised show called Flannigan's Wake on the East Coast. Also a pretty funny show, but nowhere near as funny as this one. In addition, Bob's Holiday Office Party has been slightly updated every year so that it keeps up with the times. There's a scathing section on Obama and Bush early in the play that's just priceless.
So...next year about this time, keep it in mind if you live in the LA area. It's worth every penny of the admission price.
Back to rehearsal today for me. Had a full run-thru yesterday for the designers. Everyone on hand did their best, but it's very early in the proceedings and there were, to put it mildly, a few rough spots - specifically from the first moment to the last. To be expected. Nonetheless, daunting. This is hard shit.
Back at it again all day today. We have a ten day break from it coming up...and then we're back in rehearsal on January 2. In a perfect world, I'll be off book by then which, of course, means I'll be singing this stuff ad nauseum back in Missouri over the holidays. So be it. Has to be done.
Los Angeles is in the middle of a Noah's Ark type rain these days. A little depressing. My consolation, however, is knowing that my former home, Chicago, is in the midst of its usual minus 40 degree December and January. Good Lord, I'm glad I don't live there anymore.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
'Pretty isn't beautiful, Georgie...'
'Pretty isn't beautiful, Georgie. Pretty is what changes. What the eye arranges, is what is beautiful.' Those are my favorite lyrics of any musical I've ever seen or done. It's from Sunday in the Park with George. Sondheim, of course.
I am torn sometimes about this acting thing that I do. Sometimes I think it's just a ridiculously childish occupation for an adult. Brando claims to have felt that way after about 1965 or so. "Just not a suitably mature livelihood," was his direct quote. Yesterday I was scouting around online and reading a number of reviews from various productions of this play I'm doing, Adding Machine. And I ran across a couple of interviews with actors that have played the role I'm doing, Mr. Zero.
As is the norm in this sort of publicity-driven business, the actors all got very high-falutin' about it, talking about their rather lofty approach to allegedly 'doing' the character. As constant readers of this blog might suspect, I'm usually just amused by that kind of drivel. However, having said that, I read something interesting from an actor that played the role somewhere in Florida last year. He said something along the lines of, "This guy (the character of Mr. Zero) is a complete asshole, but it's not his fault. My father drove a bus for forty years, got out of bed at 5am everyday to do a job he hated so that his children might have food and shelter. I think of that every night before I do the play."
I thought about that a lot yesterday before I headed into rehearsal.
For many years now, I've subscribed to the idea that acting is not about the actor. This idea found a foothold in my thinking many years ago when I first read J.D. Salinger's exceptional short novel, Franny and Zooey (not coincidentally, the name of my dogs). In that piece of writing Salinger says that all performance, regardless of the medium, is all about 'the fat lady.' That is to say, the audience.
It was further reinforced by my teacher of note, Michael Moriarty, in the late eighties in New York, who taught a very anti-method approach to the craft. The moment acting becomes intellectually masturbatory, it becomes, in my mind anyway, rather silly and self-indulgent. I'm always mildly amused when I hear actors drone on about 'their character.'
It is impossible to play 'metaphor' or 'allegory' or 'symbolism.' All we can do is play the next moment as honestly as we can. I, nor anyone for that matter, cannot 'act' the plight of the common man, or the rise and fall of civilization or anything remotely like that.
Is the actor's performance any more 'layered' or 'deep' if he conjures up images of lofty philosophizing while in the midst of his work? I don't think so. And yet. And yet. Sometimes one gets hold of a role that begs for it. Consequently, once the nuts and bolts of the performance are mastered, I don't see any harm in going deeper, if the piece allows it. That's what I was thinking about yesterday after reading these interviews.
Of course, I haven't mastered the nuts and bolts of the performance yet so it's all moot anyway at this point. But, I suspect, I soon will. And at that juncture of the rehearsal process, I think I'll start exploring an area of performance I've not allowed myself for a long time. That is to say, the very dangerous area I call the 'what does it all mean' area.
There's a lot in this piece of writing. A lot. Last night I listened as the musical director and the director had a very civil conversation about the propulsion of the play...one pointing out the desired effect of clarity in the music, the other saying none of that would matter anyway if the audience lost the thread of plot and theme. Both were right. Ultimately none of it had or has anything to do with me. The most I can contribute is to play the next moment before me honestly and with sincere intention. And, of course, in such a manner that the audience can hear me and understand me. Mamet talks about this in his two wry, sarcastic and wise books on acting.
I think it's a perfectly legitimate conversation for the musical director and the director to have, and frankly, I was pleased they were having it. And again, in the final analysis, it has absolutely nothing to do with my work on the piece. Thankfully, both are very, very good at what they do, so the conversation never got past the theoretical.
As I've told my students many times over the years, theatre is not a democracy as much as we'd like to dress it up and pretend it is. At its best it is a single and powerful vision. This may not apply to film, but it most certainly does to stage. The problem with this, just like any other profession be it plumbing or ballet or steering a boat, is that sometimes the person helming the ship is a moron. That is not, by any stretch of the imagination, the case of this ship, however. Thank God. I have been on that ship many times and it is not pleasant.
In this case, much to my delight, everyone involved in the steering of this particular ship is very good at it. This makes me feel safe as an actor. Trust is so terribly important. Without it the final product becomes disjointed and muddy. I can say without reservation that in this singular instance I have complete trust in our respective directors.
I say all of this to make a point. When everyone involved in a production is expertly taking care of his or her bidness...well, it's just an indescribable pleasure to work on a project of this sort. All I have to do is the next right thing, the next interesting moment, the next fascination bit of business, the next clear thought. Even though we, the actors, may be light years away from what we're trying to achieve, we can all rest easy that we are, like that insurance company, in 'good hands.'
A much needed day off today. Kind of. I'll still drag the script and score out and start working in a bit. I'll still think about it all day. I'll still let everything we've done up to this point percolate. And I'll still think about what I, personally, can do in my own small way to make this project 'beautiful' and not 'pretty.'
See you tomorrow.
I am torn sometimes about this acting thing that I do. Sometimes I think it's just a ridiculously childish occupation for an adult. Brando claims to have felt that way after about 1965 or so. "Just not a suitably mature livelihood," was his direct quote. Yesterday I was scouting around online and reading a number of reviews from various productions of this play I'm doing, Adding Machine. And I ran across a couple of interviews with actors that have played the role I'm doing, Mr. Zero.
As is the norm in this sort of publicity-driven business, the actors all got very high-falutin' about it, talking about their rather lofty approach to allegedly 'doing' the character. As constant readers of this blog might suspect, I'm usually just amused by that kind of drivel. However, having said that, I read something interesting from an actor that played the role somewhere in Florida last year. He said something along the lines of, "This guy (the character of Mr. Zero) is a complete asshole, but it's not his fault. My father drove a bus for forty years, got out of bed at 5am everyday to do a job he hated so that his children might have food and shelter. I think of that every night before I do the play."
I thought about that a lot yesterday before I headed into rehearsal.
For many years now, I've subscribed to the idea that acting is not about the actor. This idea found a foothold in my thinking many years ago when I first read J.D. Salinger's exceptional short novel, Franny and Zooey (not coincidentally, the name of my dogs). In that piece of writing Salinger says that all performance, regardless of the medium, is all about 'the fat lady.' That is to say, the audience.
It was further reinforced by my teacher of note, Michael Moriarty, in the late eighties in New York, who taught a very anti-method approach to the craft. The moment acting becomes intellectually masturbatory, it becomes, in my mind anyway, rather silly and self-indulgent. I'm always mildly amused when I hear actors drone on about 'their character.'
It is impossible to play 'metaphor' or 'allegory' or 'symbolism.' All we can do is play the next moment as honestly as we can. I, nor anyone for that matter, cannot 'act' the plight of the common man, or the rise and fall of civilization or anything remotely like that.
Is the actor's performance any more 'layered' or 'deep' if he conjures up images of lofty philosophizing while in the midst of his work? I don't think so. And yet. And yet. Sometimes one gets hold of a role that begs for it. Consequently, once the nuts and bolts of the performance are mastered, I don't see any harm in going deeper, if the piece allows it. That's what I was thinking about yesterday after reading these interviews.
Of course, I haven't mastered the nuts and bolts of the performance yet so it's all moot anyway at this point. But, I suspect, I soon will. And at that juncture of the rehearsal process, I think I'll start exploring an area of performance I've not allowed myself for a long time. That is to say, the very dangerous area I call the 'what does it all mean' area.
There's a lot in this piece of writing. A lot. Last night I listened as the musical director and the director had a very civil conversation about the propulsion of the play...one pointing out the desired effect of clarity in the music, the other saying none of that would matter anyway if the audience lost the thread of plot and theme. Both were right. Ultimately none of it had or has anything to do with me. The most I can contribute is to play the next moment before me honestly and with sincere intention. And, of course, in such a manner that the audience can hear me and understand me. Mamet talks about this in his two wry, sarcastic and wise books on acting.
I think it's a perfectly legitimate conversation for the musical director and the director to have, and frankly, I was pleased they were having it. And again, in the final analysis, it has absolutely nothing to do with my work on the piece. Thankfully, both are very, very good at what they do, so the conversation never got past the theoretical.
As I've told my students many times over the years, theatre is not a democracy as much as we'd like to dress it up and pretend it is. At its best it is a single and powerful vision. This may not apply to film, but it most certainly does to stage. The problem with this, just like any other profession be it plumbing or ballet or steering a boat, is that sometimes the person helming the ship is a moron. That is not, by any stretch of the imagination, the case of this ship, however. Thank God. I have been on that ship many times and it is not pleasant.
In this case, much to my delight, everyone involved in the steering of this particular ship is very good at it. This makes me feel safe as an actor. Trust is so terribly important. Without it the final product becomes disjointed and muddy. I can say without reservation that in this singular instance I have complete trust in our respective directors.
I say all of this to make a point. When everyone involved in a production is expertly taking care of his or her bidness...well, it's just an indescribable pleasure to work on a project of this sort. All I have to do is the next right thing, the next interesting moment, the next fascination bit of business, the next clear thought. Even though we, the actors, may be light years away from what we're trying to achieve, we can all rest easy that we are, like that insurance company, in 'good hands.'
A much needed day off today. Kind of. I'll still drag the script and score out and start working in a bit. I'll still think about it all day. I'll still let everything we've done up to this point percolate. And I'll still think about what I, personally, can do in my own small way to make this project 'beautiful' and not 'pretty.'
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.'
We staggered through the entire show last night. Only took us about six hours. Actually, less than two. But it felt like six. Nothing to do now but keep at it.
In a few days Angie and I are heading back to Missouri for Christmas. Well, Springfield. I don't really think of Springfield as 'Missouri,' although it obviously is. I have very few bad memories of Springfield. That's where I attended undergraduate school (SMSU, now MSU). Those days were mostly a lot of fun. It's the earlier days, the days of growing up in small-town, mid-Missouri that were loathesome for me. I'm always a little amused when I hear people talk about 'the good, old days.' Here's a simple and misunderstood truism: these are the good, old days.
Anyway, lots of things planned for the ten-day break in the Ozarks...seeing old friends, hanging out with Angie's family (shockingly normal as compared to mine), eating out at lots of not-to-be-missed restaurants (Springfield, oddly enough, is quite famous, locally speaking, for its 'cashew chicken' of all things).
Angie has been getting lots of calls from her family along the lines of 'what does Clif like?' This is our first Christmas as a married couple. The Peabody clan is trying to get a read on me, I guess. I've met them all, of course, but they don't really know me and vice-versa. At this point I guess I'm still just the 'bald, quiet guy that seems to always be around our Angie' to them. Except, of course, her immediate family. Her mom and step-dad and her dad and step-mom, that is. I think they like me well enough. I certainly like them.
So I hear her on the phone with brothers and aunts, etc. I only hear Angie's side of the conversation. "Well, he likes to read. He likes Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinatra. He likes argyle socks. Um. What else? He likes hats. What? No, he doesn't care for tools. He doesn't do tools. Hm? No, he's not really into NASCAR. I'm not sure he'd read a NASCAR magazine. He likes boxing. Yes, I said boxing. As in, 'boxing matches.' Yes. Muhammad Ali, that sort of thing. He likes to watch old fight films. He collects them. I said he collects them. No, not boxers. Boxing MATCHES. Yes, to watch. Hm? Oh, yes, he's seen them all. He know who's going to win. He likes to watch them anyway. What's that? No, I don't why. I haven't a clue. But that's what he does. Oh, yes, books. That's always a good idea. He loves books. Well, he likes fantasy. I say, fantasy. Books about wizards and elves. I don't know why. But he does. Uh, huh. Wizards and elves and thirty year old boxing matches. Hm? Oh, yes, he listens to music. He likes Frank Sinatra. But he's already got all those CDs, so don't get any of those. Well, he likes Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello and Tom Waits. Tom Waits. He's a singer. He has a growly voice. Yes, he likes that. Yes, I know. He's somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.' That's him exactly."
So back at rehearsal tonight. I told our director last night that I was having a 'mid-rehearsal crisis of confidence.' He said, why? I said, because I know all the notes I just have no idea in which order they go.
Franny and Zooey are silently demanding a walk. I shall take them.
See you tomorrow.
In a few days Angie and I are heading back to Missouri for Christmas. Well, Springfield. I don't really think of Springfield as 'Missouri,' although it obviously is. I have very few bad memories of Springfield. That's where I attended undergraduate school (SMSU, now MSU). Those days were mostly a lot of fun. It's the earlier days, the days of growing up in small-town, mid-Missouri that were loathesome for me. I'm always a little amused when I hear people talk about 'the good, old days.' Here's a simple and misunderstood truism: these are the good, old days.
Anyway, lots of things planned for the ten-day break in the Ozarks...seeing old friends, hanging out with Angie's family (shockingly normal as compared to mine), eating out at lots of not-to-be-missed restaurants (Springfield, oddly enough, is quite famous, locally speaking, for its 'cashew chicken' of all things).
Angie has been getting lots of calls from her family along the lines of 'what does Clif like?' This is our first Christmas as a married couple. The Peabody clan is trying to get a read on me, I guess. I've met them all, of course, but they don't really know me and vice-versa. At this point I guess I'm still just the 'bald, quiet guy that seems to always be around our Angie' to them. Except, of course, her immediate family. Her mom and step-dad and her dad and step-mom, that is. I think they like me well enough. I certainly like them.
So I hear her on the phone with brothers and aunts, etc. I only hear Angie's side of the conversation. "Well, he likes to read. He likes Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinatra. He likes argyle socks. Um. What else? He likes hats. What? No, he doesn't care for tools. He doesn't do tools. Hm? No, he's not really into NASCAR. I'm not sure he'd read a NASCAR magazine. He likes boxing. Yes, I said boxing. As in, 'boxing matches.' Yes. Muhammad Ali, that sort of thing. He likes to watch old fight films. He collects them. I said he collects them. No, not boxers. Boxing MATCHES. Yes, to watch. Hm? Oh, yes, he's seen them all. He know who's going to win. He likes to watch them anyway. What's that? No, I don't why. I haven't a clue. But that's what he does. Oh, yes, books. That's always a good idea. He loves books. Well, he likes fantasy. I say, fantasy. Books about wizards and elves. I don't know why. But he does. Uh, huh. Wizards and elves and thirty year old boxing matches. Hm? Oh, yes, he listens to music. He likes Frank Sinatra. But he's already got all those CDs, so don't get any of those. Well, he likes Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello and Tom Waits. Tom Waits. He's a singer. He has a growly voice. Yes, he likes that. Yes, I know. He's somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.' That's him exactly."
So back at rehearsal tonight. I told our director last night that I was having a 'mid-rehearsal crisis of confidence.' He said, why? I said, because I know all the notes I just have no idea in which order they go.
Franny and Zooey are silently demanding a walk. I shall take them.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Back at it...
Back in the late eighties I studied with the brilliant actor/writer/pianist/composer, Michael Moriarty for several years. Right up until Michael started doing Law and Order, in fact. After that he no longer had time to teach. Which was a shame because Michael was a very gifted and gentle teacher. Not to mention a brilliant actor. One of the reasons Michael was so good as a teacher, I think, is because he had been there himself, under fire, on the front line of artistic combat, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Many times. And what's more, he has a shelf full of Tony's and Emmy's to prove it.
So over the time I worked with Michael I got a lot of opportunities to pick his brain, listen to stories and anectdotes. Michael has worked with everyone from Katherine Hepburn to Tennessee Williams to Robert DeNiro to Jack Nicholson to Meryl Streep. He has wonderful memories of them all and is a great storyteller.
One of the stories I remember him recounting to me one night was about doing 'Bang the Drum Slowly' with DeNiro. He said there was a scene, I believe it was set in a public bathroom in the film, where DeNiro's character had to vomit into a toilet while Michael was standing outside the stall. Michael's character could hear it all happening. For those who don't know the film, the DeNiro character is dying from some disease (never actually named). Both play big league baseball players.
In any event, DeNiro wanted, as was his usual approach in those days, absolute realism. So when it came time to shoot that scene he came in with one of those long, iced tea spoons. And just before every take of him throwing up, he would jam the spoon into the back of his throat to instigate his gag reflex. Over and over. Quite a few takes to get just the right one, Michael recalled. And, as he stood there watching this he thought to himself, 'I'm just not that serious about all this. It's only a movie, for Pete's sake.'
Another time, years back, I was doing the wonderful Lanford Wilson play, Fifth of July. I'd done it once before way back in college and was doing it again in an off-broadway revival at Circle-in-the-Square in New York. Wilson himself was on hand for a good part of the rehearsal period and actually wrote some new dialogue for our production. Marshall Mason was directing again.
In the play, two of the characters come very close to a fist fight. One is holding some gardening shears and uses them as a weapon to ward off the other character. It's a great moment and very tense. Anyway, during one late rehearsal, the moment got out of hand quite unexpectedly and the two actors actually threw some punches before the rest of us could get between them. Their relationship off-stage was never the same which was sad because they had been friends. In the aftermath of this little incident I remember thinking the same thing Michael had thought in that bathroom years before...'I'm just not that serious about all this.' Certainly not serious enough to lose control of myself and throw a punch in rehearsal. Not only does that violate nearly every acting instinct I have, it's just plain counter-productive. What is to be gained from something like that?
A moment like that comes from the passion of the artist. I honestly don't think these two guys (I've long since lost touch with both) had any sort of anger against each other, they just got lost in the moment.
Trying to churn out a perfect product is a myth that we who work on the stage chase relentlessly. And, I might add, without success. But we can't help ourselves. We're too passionate about it. And we'd certainly never do anything less than our very best.
That moment in Fifth of July never worked again because the actors wouldn't let themselves go that far again. They were both quietly ashamed of it. They later apologized and went out for drinks together and laughed about it, but the damage was done. There was an unhealthy tension between them for the rest of the run. It was an intangible thing, but there.
I love artists. People who are not only passionate about what they do, be it painting or acting or music or sculpting or dancing, but also good at it. I adore that passion. I thrive on it. It inspires me.
I recently played the lead role in one of my own plays. It was a tremendously difficult process. Egos ran rampant, my own included. A loggerhead was reached, of sorts, between myself (not only the actor but the playwright) and the director. We disagreed vehemently on our respective visions of the play. In the end we had a tremendously successful product, but it was really tough getting there. I sincerely regret some of the arguments we had about the play. In the final analysis, it didn't matter. The material soared anyway.
I was reminded of the passion of the artist last night as I stood aside and watched all of these unbelievably talented artists doing what they do best. I felt and feel terribly fortunate to be involved. There's nothing quite like the feeling of knowing the material is as good as the work. It's the same feeling I get every time I've worked on a piece of Shakespeare. There is a genius there that we all find ourselves trying to match. Everyone wants perfection. And that's how it should be.
I can't even begin to relay to you, Gentle Reader, the jaw-dropping talent involved in this piece: Ron Sossi, Alan Patrick Kenny, Kelly Lester, Rob Herring, Christine Horn, just to name the principals. The ensemble is every bit as extraordinary. During one of the breaks last night, I was listening to our musical director (Alan) and one of our ensemble members (Travis Leland) casually sing through some music from another show. I was stunned. These guys are just so, so good at what they do. Even when they're just playing around.
Back at it today. Music is out, script is out, pouring over it first thing in the morning. As a playwright I know how volatile the process of creating can be. And as an actor I know how very much it means to try and do justice to a good piece of writing. And I recognize and appreciate the fine line between passion and frustration. On one hand it makes for some sleepless nights. On the other hand it makes for a truly indescribable feeling of accomplishment. And the journey, bumps and all, is a beautiful and worthwhile thing.
See you tomorrow.
So over the time I worked with Michael I got a lot of opportunities to pick his brain, listen to stories and anectdotes. Michael has worked with everyone from Katherine Hepburn to Tennessee Williams to Robert DeNiro to Jack Nicholson to Meryl Streep. He has wonderful memories of them all and is a great storyteller.
One of the stories I remember him recounting to me one night was about doing 'Bang the Drum Slowly' with DeNiro. He said there was a scene, I believe it was set in a public bathroom in the film, where DeNiro's character had to vomit into a toilet while Michael was standing outside the stall. Michael's character could hear it all happening. For those who don't know the film, the DeNiro character is dying from some disease (never actually named). Both play big league baseball players.
In any event, DeNiro wanted, as was his usual approach in those days, absolute realism. So when it came time to shoot that scene he came in with one of those long, iced tea spoons. And just before every take of him throwing up, he would jam the spoon into the back of his throat to instigate his gag reflex. Over and over. Quite a few takes to get just the right one, Michael recalled. And, as he stood there watching this he thought to himself, 'I'm just not that serious about all this. It's only a movie, for Pete's sake.'
Another time, years back, I was doing the wonderful Lanford Wilson play, Fifth of July. I'd done it once before way back in college and was doing it again in an off-broadway revival at Circle-in-the-Square in New York. Wilson himself was on hand for a good part of the rehearsal period and actually wrote some new dialogue for our production. Marshall Mason was directing again.
In the play, two of the characters come very close to a fist fight. One is holding some gardening shears and uses them as a weapon to ward off the other character. It's a great moment and very tense. Anyway, during one late rehearsal, the moment got out of hand quite unexpectedly and the two actors actually threw some punches before the rest of us could get between them. Their relationship off-stage was never the same which was sad because they had been friends. In the aftermath of this little incident I remember thinking the same thing Michael had thought in that bathroom years before...'I'm just not that serious about all this.' Certainly not serious enough to lose control of myself and throw a punch in rehearsal. Not only does that violate nearly every acting instinct I have, it's just plain counter-productive. What is to be gained from something like that?
A moment like that comes from the passion of the artist. I honestly don't think these two guys (I've long since lost touch with both) had any sort of anger against each other, they just got lost in the moment.
Trying to churn out a perfect product is a myth that we who work on the stage chase relentlessly. And, I might add, without success. But we can't help ourselves. We're too passionate about it. And we'd certainly never do anything less than our very best.
That moment in Fifth of July never worked again because the actors wouldn't let themselves go that far again. They were both quietly ashamed of it. They later apologized and went out for drinks together and laughed about it, but the damage was done. There was an unhealthy tension between them for the rest of the run. It was an intangible thing, but there.
I love artists. People who are not only passionate about what they do, be it painting or acting or music or sculpting or dancing, but also good at it. I adore that passion. I thrive on it. It inspires me.
I recently played the lead role in one of my own plays. It was a tremendously difficult process. Egos ran rampant, my own included. A loggerhead was reached, of sorts, between myself (not only the actor but the playwright) and the director. We disagreed vehemently on our respective visions of the play. In the end we had a tremendously successful product, but it was really tough getting there. I sincerely regret some of the arguments we had about the play. In the final analysis, it didn't matter. The material soared anyway.
I was reminded of the passion of the artist last night as I stood aside and watched all of these unbelievably talented artists doing what they do best. I felt and feel terribly fortunate to be involved. There's nothing quite like the feeling of knowing the material is as good as the work. It's the same feeling I get every time I've worked on a piece of Shakespeare. There is a genius there that we all find ourselves trying to match. Everyone wants perfection. And that's how it should be.
I can't even begin to relay to you, Gentle Reader, the jaw-dropping talent involved in this piece: Ron Sossi, Alan Patrick Kenny, Kelly Lester, Rob Herring, Christine Horn, just to name the principals. The ensemble is every bit as extraordinary. During one of the breaks last night, I was listening to our musical director (Alan) and one of our ensemble members (Travis Leland) casually sing through some music from another show. I was stunned. These guys are just so, so good at what they do. Even when they're just playing around.
Back at it today. Music is out, script is out, pouring over it first thing in the morning. As a playwright I know how volatile the process of creating can be. And as an actor I know how very much it means to try and do justice to a good piece of writing. And I recognize and appreciate the fine line between passion and frustration. On one hand it makes for some sleepless nights. On the other hand it makes for a truly indescribable feeling of accomplishment. And the journey, bumps and all, is a beautiful and worthwhile thing.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Adding Machine, a Musical. Opens January 22, 2011, Odyssey Theater, Los Angeles.
A long weekend of rehearsal. Wednesday we have our 'designer run thru.' To the uninitiated, this is not a run for Calvin Klein and that ilk, but rather a run of the show for the set, lighting, sound and costume designers. It is their first opportunity to see the piece translated from page to stage.
Thursday, if I'm not mistaken, we have our 'sitzprobe.' This is our first opportunity to sing all the music while sitting around the full orchestra.
Josh Schmidt, bless his heart, has written a musical so dense, so complex, so perfectly melded together as to be mind-boggling at times. And difficult. So difficult. I actually stopped a music rehearsal briefly yesterday to ask our music director, the stalwart and always good-humored Alan Patrick Kenny, if he didn't think Josh was perhaps having a bit of fun with us at times. It's hard to describe without hearing the music, but there are moments in the score which seem simply random. Alan assured me he didn't. I could only smile and push on.
I'm reminded of the apocryphal story about Shakespeare and his leading actor, Richard Burbage. It is oft repeated in the acting world. The story is that Shakespeare and Burbage were getting drunk together one night and Burbage, known to be a huge egoist, claimed that Shakespeare could not write a part he couldn't play. Shakespeare then wrote Hamlet. The inside joke is that Hamlet is a character that, as Olivier says in the opening of his film of the play, 'cannot make up his mind.' The one thing an actor cannot play, at least for long stretches, is indecision. The reason being that generally speaking the most important thing an actor does is make choices, make decisions. It is at the very heart of an actor's 'intentions' and 'motivation.' So there's Hamlet, unable to do so.
The reason it reminds me of this story is because there are moments, musically speaking, in the play that seem completely haphazard, intentionally random. Yet they're not. They fit together perfectly. It's just not readily apparent.
So all of us, not just myself, but all of us - Kelly Lester, Christine Horn, Rob Herring - all of us that have some solo stuff, find ourselves occasionally just stopping the proceedings now and then and saying..."Is that right? Is this a misprint? Do you actually want me to sing a C there instead of a D?"
Josh, if you're reading this, you've written a slice of sly genius. God forbid an actor should try and get comfortable singing one of these songs. If the others are like me, just when I start to think I've got this, I realize I don't. It's maddening.
But brilliant.
After a marathon couple of rehearsal periods this weekend, I'm back at the drawing board all day, listening to this stuff, singing along with it, making notations in the score, doing it again, trying to shove it into my muscle memory, trying once more. Repitition is the soul of art.
Sometimes, after a show, I get this question from an audience member: How do you remember all of those lines. Well, I'll tell you how. I say them 10,000 times before you ever hear them for the first time. It's that simple.
Due to complications beyond anyone's control, we've added a couple of new ensemble members into the show as of yesterday. They're both very good. The show just notched up a bit because of their contributions. Very exciting.
Two of my best friends, John Bader and Jim Barbour, are both off doing gigs of their own right now: Jim in NY doing his Christmas Concert to full houses at the historic 'Birdland' club in that city and John is doing a flat-out, no-holds-barred holiday farce over at the Hudson Theater here in LA. Angie and I are going to see John this Friday on my one night off. Unfortunately, we weren't able to see Jimmy this year. We saw his holiday concert tour last year, however, and it's astonishing. James Barbour has one of the finest voices in the world today. Not America, not NYC, not LA...but the world. If you haven't seen him do it, do so immediately. It's awesome. There's a reason Jim is one of the most highly sought-after Broadway leading men around today, and it ain't because he fits the costumes. He's amazing. And Johnny is back on stage after a long absence (John does a ton of film and commercial work these days). It'll be good to see him back doing what he does so well.
Sorry. Had to plug my buddies there. I don't plug mediocre stuff, though. Both Jim and John have more talent than is usually thought humanly possible. I am very lucky to have such talented friends. For one thing it makes it so much easier to talk to them after I see them perform. I don't have to say things like, "You know, I couldn't see anyone else in that role but you." Or, "Boy, you got close this time, didn't you?" Or, "You were wearing the nicest hat I think I've ever seen tonight."
So...back at it. Turn off the TV, put on the headphones, crank up the CD, pull out the score, dim the lights, concentrate, George, concentrate...see a perfect tree...
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, if I'm not mistaken, we have our 'sitzprobe.' This is our first opportunity to sing all the music while sitting around the full orchestra.
Josh Schmidt, bless his heart, has written a musical so dense, so complex, so perfectly melded together as to be mind-boggling at times. And difficult. So difficult. I actually stopped a music rehearsal briefly yesterday to ask our music director, the stalwart and always good-humored Alan Patrick Kenny, if he didn't think Josh was perhaps having a bit of fun with us at times. It's hard to describe without hearing the music, but there are moments in the score which seem simply random. Alan assured me he didn't. I could only smile and push on.
I'm reminded of the apocryphal story about Shakespeare and his leading actor, Richard Burbage. It is oft repeated in the acting world. The story is that Shakespeare and Burbage were getting drunk together one night and Burbage, known to be a huge egoist, claimed that Shakespeare could not write a part he couldn't play. Shakespeare then wrote Hamlet. The inside joke is that Hamlet is a character that, as Olivier says in the opening of his film of the play, 'cannot make up his mind.' The one thing an actor cannot play, at least for long stretches, is indecision. The reason being that generally speaking the most important thing an actor does is make choices, make decisions. It is at the very heart of an actor's 'intentions' and 'motivation.' So there's Hamlet, unable to do so.
The reason it reminds me of this story is because there are moments, musically speaking, in the play that seem completely haphazard, intentionally random. Yet they're not. They fit together perfectly. It's just not readily apparent.
So all of us, not just myself, but all of us - Kelly Lester, Christine Horn, Rob Herring - all of us that have some solo stuff, find ourselves occasionally just stopping the proceedings now and then and saying..."Is that right? Is this a misprint? Do you actually want me to sing a C there instead of a D?"
Josh, if you're reading this, you've written a slice of sly genius. God forbid an actor should try and get comfortable singing one of these songs. If the others are like me, just when I start to think I've got this, I realize I don't. It's maddening.
But brilliant.
After a marathon couple of rehearsal periods this weekend, I'm back at the drawing board all day, listening to this stuff, singing along with it, making notations in the score, doing it again, trying to shove it into my muscle memory, trying once more. Repitition is the soul of art.
Sometimes, after a show, I get this question from an audience member: How do you remember all of those lines. Well, I'll tell you how. I say them 10,000 times before you ever hear them for the first time. It's that simple.
Due to complications beyond anyone's control, we've added a couple of new ensemble members into the show as of yesterday. They're both very good. The show just notched up a bit because of their contributions. Very exciting.
Two of my best friends, John Bader and Jim Barbour, are both off doing gigs of their own right now: Jim in NY doing his Christmas Concert to full houses at the historic 'Birdland' club in that city and John is doing a flat-out, no-holds-barred holiday farce over at the Hudson Theater here in LA. Angie and I are going to see John this Friday on my one night off. Unfortunately, we weren't able to see Jimmy this year. We saw his holiday concert tour last year, however, and it's astonishing. James Barbour has one of the finest voices in the world today. Not America, not NYC, not LA...but the world. If you haven't seen him do it, do so immediately. It's awesome. There's a reason Jim is one of the most highly sought-after Broadway leading men around today, and it ain't because he fits the costumes. He's amazing. And Johnny is back on stage after a long absence (John does a ton of film and commercial work these days). It'll be good to see him back doing what he does so well.
Sorry. Had to plug my buddies there. I don't plug mediocre stuff, though. Both Jim and John have more talent than is usually thought humanly possible. I am very lucky to have such talented friends. For one thing it makes it so much easier to talk to them after I see them perform. I don't have to say things like, "You know, I couldn't see anyone else in that role but you." Or, "Boy, you got close this time, didn't you?" Or, "You were wearing the nicest hat I think I've ever seen tonight."
So...back at it. Turn off the TV, put on the headphones, crank up the CD, pull out the score, dim the lights, concentrate, George, concentrate...see a perfect tree...
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
This one's going out of the park...
Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, picking the right people for a cast, that is to say, people that actually get along, is nearly as important as picking the right people for the play itself. A bad apple or two in a cast over a long run can really disrupt morale. Been there, done that.
Of course, it's nearly an impossible thing to do. It would be nice if people came into the auditon and said, "Listen, I'm putting on my best face here today because it's an audition. But once you cast me, I'll do everything within my power to poison the show and make the other actors miserable." No, hardly ever see that.
It's a roll of the dice. On the other hand, sometimes, quite accidentally, a show is cast in such a way that the cast almost immediately becomes a sort of self-supporting family. I've seen that, too, and when it happens it's truly a beautiful thing.
Over the years, I've learned the best thing to do is stay out of it. It's easier to do this if one can go home every night after the show. If one happens to live in the same city, that is. For years, I would be jobbed out from NYC to various cities up and down the East Coast. In those situations, it's a little more difficult to rise above the bickering and silliness inside a cast because everyone is always together. And a national tour, of which I've done a couple, too, is even harder.
There's an old and tired one-liner in the business, mostly repeated by stage managers, I've found, that goes like this: "Wanna hear an actor bitch? Hire him." Unfortunately, it's all too true sometimes.
Case in point...I once did a two-show summer season with a very good LORT Theater in Virginia. The first show of the Summer was the Kaufman and Hart Pulitzer Prize-winner, 'You Can't Take it with You.' Strangest damn thing - the cast, almost immediately, was at each other's throats. Nearly everyone hated the director (not me, however, because the director was one of my oldest and closest friends), they didn't like each other, they found the show itself tedious. Three actors, over the course of the rehearsal period, were shipped back to NY and replaced. By the time the play opened and started running, it was the most flagrant case of 'upstaging' I believe I've ever seen. Absolute chaos on stage. A nightly, ego-laden horror show. I was very unhappy during that run. I would go back to my hotel room every night, uncork a bottle of scotch and try and forget the play I was doing.
As it turned out, I was the only 'hold over' into the next show of the summer, which was the wonderful musical, '1776.' This was the first time I'd done it (I later did it again in Florida). Twenty three actors hauled in from NYC, Chicago and Los Angeles to do it. Twenty one guys, two girls (the wives of Jefferson and Adams). One would think this would be the show that had internal strife because of the number of people and the disproportionate ratio of guys and girls. Not so. This cast turned out to be one of my favorite casts of over 100 professional shows I did over my career. Everyone got along famously. The guys played poker nearly every night. We took trips to Civil War Battlefields on our dark days. We hung out for drinks after the show. Several love affairs blossomed. To this day, I remember that cast and show very fondly.
So it really is a crap shoot. Hopefully, regardless of the interactions among the cast, the audience is blissfully ignorant. Unfortunately, that's not always the case. That ambiguous term 'chemistry' comes into play. It's not tangible but an audience can sometimes feel it.
Okay. Done with that. Last night I suffered a bit of insomnia, a recurring theme in my life since I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes some months back. Doesn't happen often anymore, but it still does now and then. So I stayed up and watched, back to back, 'White Christmas' and 'Holiday Inn.' And was happy as a clam. Bing Crosby was one charming mofo. Big ears and all. There I was, sitting on the couch with Franny and Zooey on either side of me, choking up at the end of both movies. Fortunately, Angie had already gone to bed so I didn't have to pretend to drop something on the floor so I could wipe my eyes.
Another long rehearsal today. I'm chomping at the bit. I love this play. I'm awed by the music. I'm entranced by the talent surrounding me. I adore the director's approach to it. Great musical director. Wonderful staff all around. This one is going out of the park, folks.
See you tomorrow.
Of course, it's nearly an impossible thing to do. It would be nice if people came into the auditon and said, "Listen, I'm putting on my best face here today because it's an audition. But once you cast me, I'll do everything within my power to poison the show and make the other actors miserable." No, hardly ever see that.
It's a roll of the dice. On the other hand, sometimes, quite accidentally, a show is cast in such a way that the cast almost immediately becomes a sort of self-supporting family. I've seen that, too, and when it happens it's truly a beautiful thing.
Over the years, I've learned the best thing to do is stay out of it. It's easier to do this if one can go home every night after the show. If one happens to live in the same city, that is. For years, I would be jobbed out from NYC to various cities up and down the East Coast. In those situations, it's a little more difficult to rise above the bickering and silliness inside a cast because everyone is always together. And a national tour, of which I've done a couple, too, is even harder.
There's an old and tired one-liner in the business, mostly repeated by stage managers, I've found, that goes like this: "Wanna hear an actor bitch? Hire him." Unfortunately, it's all too true sometimes.
Case in point...I once did a two-show summer season with a very good LORT Theater in Virginia. The first show of the Summer was the Kaufman and Hart Pulitzer Prize-winner, 'You Can't Take it with You.' Strangest damn thing - the cast, almost immediately, was at each other's throats. Nearly everyone hated the director (not me, however, because the director was one of my oldest and closest friends), they didn't like each other, they found the show itself tedious. Three actors, over the course of the rehearsal period, were shipped back to NY and replaced. By the time the play opened and started running, it was the most flagrant case of 'upstaging' I believe I've ever seen. Absolute chaos on stage. A nightly, ego-laden horror show. I was very unhappy during that run. I would go back to my hotel room every night, uncork a bottle of scotch and try and forget the play I was doing.
As it turned out, I was the only 'hold over' into the next show of the summer, which was the wonderful musical, '1776.' This was the first time I'd done it (I later did it again in Florida). Twenty three actors hauled in from NYC, Chicago and Los Angeles to do it. Twenty one guys, two girls (the wives of Jefferson and Adams). One would think this would be the show that had internal strife because of the number of people and the disproportionate ratio of guys and girls. Not so. This cast turned out to be one of my favorite casts of over 100 professional shows I did over my career. Everyone got along famously. The guys played poker nearly every night. We took trips to Civil War Battlefields on our dark days. We hung out for drinks after the show. Several love affairs blossomed. To this day, I remember that cast and show very fondly.
So it really is a crap shoot. Hopefully, regardless of the interactions among the cast, the audience is blissfully ignorant. Unfortunately, that's not always the case. That ambiguous term 'chemistry' comes into play. It's not tangible but an audience can sometimes feel it.
Okay. Done with that. Last night I suffered a bit of insomnia, a recurring theme in my life since I was diagnosed with Type II diabetes some months back. Doesn't happen often anymore, but it still does now and then. So I stayed up and watched, back to back, 'White Christmas' and 'Holiday Inn.' And was happy as a clam. Bing Crosby was one charming mofo. Big ears and all. There I was, sitting on the couch with Franny and Zooey on either side of me, choking up at the end of both movies. Fortunately, Angie had already gone to bed so I didn't have to pretend to drop something on the floor so I could wipe my eyes.
Another long rehearsal today. I'm chomping at the bit. I love this play. I'm awed by the music. I'm entranced by the talent surrounding me. I adore the director's approach to it. Great musical director. Wonderful staff all around. This one is going out of the park, folks.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
More on Process, et al.
I often tell my students this truism: a play is only as good as its weakest actor. I believe that, too. I had a college acting teacher, the late Howard Orms, whom I was constantly challenging. Howard had been in academia a long, long time. He'd studied at Yale around the same time Paul Newman was there (a story Howard related many times) and came from what can politely be called an 'old school' approach to acting. I was pretty hard on Howard as a student because I was young and stupid and didn't know what I know now, which is, process has virtually nothing to do with talent. These days, a hundred years later it seems sometimes, I have no respect whatsoever for academic acting classes. But even though I didn't always agree with Howard (he was a devotee of Uta Hagen's book 'Respect for Acting') he did, now and again, say something that stuck with me. One of those things was this: 90 percent of the actors in this country are unemployed. And 90 percent of THAT 90 percent, deserve to be.
The main reason I have problems with academic acting teachers, however, is their complete disregard for how the business actually works. Now, I realize this is a sweeping generalization and it doesn't always apply. I'm sure there are some dandy college acting teachers out there somewhere.
I love Stella Adler's statement about Marlon Brando, in my opinion the finest American actor of the 20th century. She said, "I taught him nothing. He already knew how to act. Better than anyone I'd ever seen, in fact. I simply nudged him in the right direction." And therein lies my general feeling about acting teachers. Brando is always held up as the poster boy for the American 'Method.' And yet, aside from his early work with Adler, he really didn't subscribe to that process. The famed Actor's Studio to this day holds him up as an example of their teachings. The truth is, Brando only attended a few classes there. And he abhored Strasberg. Thought he was windbag. Now, others - Newman, Dean, Winters, Page, Pacino - did, in fact, worship at the feet of Lee Strasberg. But not Brando.
Brando at some point very early on realized what most actors take a lifetime to discover: theatre is Machiavellian. That is to say, the ends always justify the means.
By this, I don't mean to say that bad behavior is encouraged, but rather that process is, ultimately, not so terribly important. The very best of our ilk, actors, that is, realize that great acting is about great moments. And in any given script, one is given only a few great moments. Even Hamlet and Willy Loman are only given a few really startling moments. The rest is just plot and exposition. One of the primary jobs of the actor is to realize and capitalize on those moments.
But not at the expense of the play. In Lawrence Olivier's famous post-war Hamlet, the Hamlet that many actors measured themselves against for decades, there was a moment towards the end of the play in which Olivier would vault himself some 20 feet off a ledge into the arms of a half dozen soldiers during a daring sword fight. He would then throw himself into a forward roll and come up slashing his rapier. Early in his career, Olivier was an extremely physical and athletic actor. The critics raved about the leap. The audience got to the point where they would actually applaud it. Apparently, it was breathtaking. A few weeks into the run of the play Olivier cut it. He later said he couldn't continue to do it because audiences were coming to see Hamlet not because it's one of the greatest stories ever told, but because they wanted to see him make that death-defying leap. A tremendously brave decision. In that very same play, Shakespeare writes slyly, "The play's the thing." In other words, the play itself, not the actors, not the direction, not the special effects, not the music, not the process, is what the evening should be about. David Mamet writes about this very same thing in his two books on acting called 'Truth and Lies' and 'THEATER.' Although Mamet is a bit cantankerous about it, I could not possibly agree more.
But back to this 'weakest actor' statement. There's a new movie out right now called True Grit, a remake of the original John Wayne film in which The Duke won a surprising Academy Award. If you've seen that original film you'll know what I'm talking about. It's a good picture. Wayne is at his very best. And only one thing keeps it from being a great picture, a classic film: Glen Campbell. He's terrible. Just embarrassing. The weakest actor in that film keeps it from being great. And plays are no different.
Off to rehearsal in a couple of hours. I've made a lot of sacrifices to do this role, turned down other projects, adjusted my life around it, essentially. And I don't regret it one moment. To quote my acting teacher of note, Michael Moriarty, again, "If you turn down Hamlet for a buck fifty to do Rosencrantz for a hundred bucks, you're a fool." The play is going through a bit of off-stage drama right now, but I'm in it to the end. I'm sticking with the girl who brought me, as a buddy of mine used to say.
See you tomorrow.
The main reason I have problems with academic acting teachers, however, is their complete disregard for how the business actually works. Now, I realize this is a sweeping generalization and it doesn't always apply. I'm sure there are some dandy college acting teachers out there somewhere.
I love Stella Adler's statement about Marlon Brando, in my opinion the finest American actor of the 20th century. She said, "I taught him nothing. He already knew how to act. Better than anyone I'd ever seen, in fact. I simply nudged him in the right direction." And therein lies my general feeling about acting teachers. Brando is always held up as the poster boy for the American 'Method.' And yet, aside from his early work with Adler, he really didn't subscribe to that process. The famed Actor's Studio to this day holds him up as an example of their teachings. The truth is, Brando only attended a few classes there. And he abhored Strasberg. Thought he was windbag. Now, others - Newman, Dean, Winters, Page, Pacino - did, in fact, worship at the feet of Lee Strasberg. But not Brando.
Brando at some point very early on realized what most actors take a lifetime to discover: theatre is Machiavellian. That is to say, the ends always justify the means.
By this, I don't mean to say that bad behavior is encouraged, but rather that process is, ultimately, not so terribly important. The very best of our ilk, actors, that is, realize that great acting is about great moments. And in any given script, one is given only a few great moments. Even Hamlet and Willy Loman are only given a few really startling moments. The rest is just plot and exposition. One of the primary jobs of the actor is to realize and capitalize on those moments.
But not at the expense of the play. In Lawrence Olivier's famous post-war Hamlet, the Hamlet that many actors measured themselves against for decades, there was a moment towards the end of the play in which Olivier would vault himself some 20 feet off a ledge into the arms of a half dozen soldiers during a daring sword fight. He would then throw himself into a forward roll and come up slashing his rapier. Early in his career, Olivier was an extremely physical and athletic actor. The critics raved about the leap. The audience got to the point where they would actually applaud it. Apparently, it was breathtaking. A few weeks into the run of the play Olivier cut it. He later said he couldn't continue to do it because audiences were coming to see Hamlet not because it's one of the greatest stories ever told, but because they wanted to see him make that death-defying leap. A tremendously brave decision. In that very same play, Shakespeare writes slyly, "The play's the thing." In other words, the play itself, not the actors, not the direction, not the special effects, not the music, not the process, is what the evening should be about. David Mamet writes about this very same thing in his two books on acting called 'Truth and Lies' and 'THEATER.' Although Mamet is a bit cantankerous about it, I could not possibly agree more.
But back to this 'weakest actor' statement. There's a new movie out right now called True Grit, a remake of the original John Wayne film in which The Duke won a surprising Academy Award. If you've seen that original film you'll know what I'm talking about. It's a good picture. Wayne is at his very best. And only one thing keeps it from being a great picture, a classic film: Glen Campbell. He's terrible. Just embarrassing. The weakest actor in that film keeps it from being great. And plays are no different.
Off to rehearsal in a couple of hours. I've made a lot of sacrifices to do this role, turned down other projects, adjusted my life around it, essentially. And I don't regret it one moment. To quote my acting teacher of note, Michael Moriarty, again, "If you turn down Hamlet for a buck fifty to do Rosencrantz for a hundred bucks, you're a fool." The play is going through a bit of off-stage drama right now, but I'm in it to the end. I'm sticking with the girl who brought me, as a buddy of mine used to say.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Day of the Actor.
Yesterday was a pure actor's day. Shot all day long on 'From the East to the West' in a dirty tack room surrounded by horses and then drove over to West L.A. for rehearsal for Adding Machine. Exhausting, but it's a kind of exhausted I like.
Rehearsal went well. It was entirely book work, no music. My bailiwick. Ron is a calming yet decisive director. A cerebral director not given to hyperbole. I like that very much.
The night before was rough, however, and I left for the night fairly frustrated. Mostly at myself. The process is very specific now and writing about it in a blog is a bit difficult. Suffice to say we are heading into a really rough time in the rehearsal period now. The 'don't quite have the lines but have some of them, but can't quite put the book down' period. Nerves get frayed.
But the real fun yesterday was shooting the tack room scene in 'From the East to the West.' Just my buddy, Chad Coe, myself and the director, the cinematographer and the sound crew. All crammed into a very small, smelly, dusty room with the pervading horse fumes. Nonetheless, spirits were high and we got some great footage. Watched some of the 'rushes,' although I'm told they're not called that anymore, and it looked great.
The film goes into 'post' now and my job is officially over. I'm sincerely looking forward to seeing it.
So I had to switch gears and go from playing a bigoted, angry, volatile redneck on film to a bigoted, angry, volatile blue-collar guy on stage. I guess not that big of a stretch after all.
Although at this point I can only see the play, Adding Machine, in my mind's eye, I am beginning to suspect it will be brilliant. Much of it is squarely on my shoulders, there's no getting around that. I am surrounded by consumate professionals, really astonishing talents. Naturally, I'm nervous. But I'm also uncharacteristically optimistic. I'm not one, at least I hope I'm not, given to unearned superlatives, but I think I can say this is the single most difficult piece of theatre I've ever done.
So...a rare night off. Angie is cooking an amazing dinner for us, stuffed chicken breasts, asparagus, baked potatoes. I'm salivating even as I write this because my office is adjacent to the kitchen and the aromas are wafting through the French doors. What's more I've Netflixed a new documentary on the third Ali-Frazier fight, The Thrilla' in Manilla, and I can't wait to watch it tonight.
A great dinner with my beautiful wife, a great fight on DVD, Franny and Zooey at my feet...Jesus Christ, I'm a lucky guy some days.
See you tomorrow.
Rehearsal went well. It was entirely book work, no music. My bailiwick. Ron is a calming yet decisive director. A cerebral director not given to hyperbole. I like that very much.
The night before was rough, however, and I left for the night fairly frustrated. Mostly at myself. The process is very specific now and writing about it in a blog is a bit difficult. Suffice to say we are heading into a really rough time in the rehearsal period now. The 'don't quite have the lines but have some of them, but can't quite put the book down' period. Nerves get frayed.
But the real fun yesterday was shooting the tack room scene in 'From the East to the West.' Just my buddy, Chad Coe, myself and the director, the cinematographer and the sound crew. All crammed into a very small, smelly, dusty room with the pervading horse fumes. Nonetheless, spirits were high and we got some great footage. Watched some of the 'rushes,' although I'm told they're not called that anymore, and it looked great.
The film goes into 'post' now and my job is officially over. I'm sincerely looking forward to seeing it.
So I had to switch gears and go from playing a bigoted, angry, volatile redneck on film to a bigoted, angry, volatile blue-collar guy on stage. I guess not that big of a stretch after all.
Although at this point I can only see the play, Adding Machine, in my mind's eye, I am beginning to suspect it will be brilliant. Much of it is squarely on my shoulders, there's no getting around that. I am surrounded by consumate professionals, really astonishing talents. Naturally, I'm nervous. But I'm also uncharacteristically optimistic. I'm not one, at least I hope I'm not, given to unearned superlatives, but I think I can say this is the single most difficult piece of theatre I've ever done.
So...a rare night off. Angie is cooking an amazing dinner for us, stuffed chicken breasts, asparagus, baked potatoes. I'm salivating even as I write this because my office is adjacent to the kitchen and the aromas are wafting through the French doors. What's more I've Netflixed a new documentary on the third Ali-Frazier fight, The Thrilla' in Manilla, and I can't wait to watch it tonight.
A great dinner with my beautiful wife, a great fight on DVD, Franny and Zooey at my feet...Jesus Christ, I'm a lucky guy some days.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Last Tango in Los Angeles: John Lennon and Robert Fiedler.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: John Lennon and Robert Fiedler.: "Robert Fiedler (bending, middle of photograph) in How The Other Half Loves, Springfield, Missouri, 1981. Thirty years ago today I was getti..."
John Lennon and Robert Fiedler.
Robert Fiedler (bending, middle of photograph) in How The Other Half Loves, Springfield, Missouri, 1981.
So, on this particular day, Robert looked more agitated than usual. "What's wrong?" I asked.
And that's how I discovered John Lennon had been shot and killed outside his Dakota apartment on the upper west side of New York City. Later that night Robert and I got very drunk together and he cried inconsolably for a long time.
Later in my life I was to live a few blocks from that very spot and often walked past it. I'm a bit ashamed to say John Lennon was never a super hero for me. At least not then. Later, of course, as I matured and began to do a little thinking on my own, he became a hero. But not then. But he was Robert's hero. Robert loved and adhered to everything John Lennon stood for. So, now, all these years later, when I hear a Lennon song or think of John Lennon in any context, it is Robert I think of.
Robert lived a doomed, painful and incredibly difficult life. He was destined to live a life of 'adolescence prolonged' as the poet Louise Bogan once wrote. He left college early and moved to NYC to be an actor. To be honest, he had a real shot at it, too. Robert was a gifted performer. I was still in college but would write to Robert in NY every now and then. I had naive visions of Robert conquering that city overnight. I envied him his courage for leaving the safe cacoon of education and pursuing his dreams in the big city. He landed a job at a small restaurant on 36th and 3rd called Lilly Langtrees. Later when I moved to the city it bacame a regular drinking spot for me as I waited for Robert to get off work from his waiting job so we could go out and find trouble together. And we usually did.
Strangely, I don't remember Robert ever auditioning for a single thing in New York. He may have, but I don't remember it. But it didn't matter or seem particularly worrisome back in those days because we were far too busy drinking and doing every drug know to man. I've never been too circumspect about that period of my life, so I think this comes as no surprise. The difference between Robert and I was that I eventually (took me a while) pulled out of that abyss. Robert never did. I don't know why, but I managed somehow to pull the diving plane up at the last minute. Robert didn't. He, like so many others I've known, plunged deeper and deeper into the lifestyle of the doomed. Like myself, he came from a background of addiction and fell into it as naturally as breathing.
A few years later I found myself visiting Robert in a program for the 'mentally unbalanced.' We got some laughs from that one. He would pull himself together there and then go back out and do it all over again. He spent a lot of time on any number of couches in any number of apartments I had throughout the eighties and nineties in New York, newly released from the hospital and promising he would never drink again. Of course, he would, and the cycle would start all over again. Once, it appeared, he'd had enough. I gave him plane fare to get to Alabama where his family had moved. I lost track of him for several years then. Late one night some time later I got a call from him. He was in Los Angeles. He was very drunk. Said he had just been cast as the 'head Klingon' on the new Star Trek movie, I forget which one. Said he'd changed his name and the make up would prevent me from recognizing him in the movie, but it was him. Not a bad fantasy, I thought later. Not bad at all.
A few more years went by. Got a call from Boston. He was very drunk. It was late at night, of course. Said he'd found the girl of his dreams and was going back to school to become a professor of American literature. Said he was very happy now and then fell asleep holding the phone. In the background I could hear John Lennon sincerely singing, "Imagine there's no countries...it's easy if you try."
A couple more years went by. Late night call. He was back in Mobile, Alabama. Very drunk. Said he had bought a lot of land there and was working as a DJ on the radio. In the background I could hear John Lennon screaming the song 'Mother.'
A few years ago I got an email from him out of the blue. He was in Florida. Said he was clean and sober and working as a columnist for the local paper. I looked it up online. And you know what? He was. He had several journalistic essays online from that paper. He was a featured political columnist. We began to talk now and then on the phone. He was deeply involved with AA. Knew all the catch phrases, all the jargon, all the inside dope from that sometimes noble, sometimes crippling organization. He sounded good. He was married. Had a little girl. She had down syndrome and was the light of his life. He seemed happy.
Then the emails stopped. I lost him again. And last year, quite accidentally, I discovered from a mutual acquaintance, he had put a needle into his arm in a dingy hotel room in Springfield, Missouri, a few miles from that coffee vending machine where on this day, in 1981, he'd told me about the death of John Lennon.
Today I'm thinking of my doomed friend, Robert Fiedler. He was a good guy. He tried hard. It wasn't enough. I think of him everytime I hear John Lennon sing a song.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Theatre is not a democracy...
A long reheasal yesterday...I must admit, as we moved into hour six I hit the wall. Just sort of stopped thinking. It was an unwelcome reminder that I don't have the power to concentrate for long periods of time like I did as a youngster. Nonetheless, a great deal was accomplished.
This play has so many arresting, startling moments and images in the first three quarters of the show, it's difficult to top these moments. And yet, it's necessary to take the show to higher and more interesting places as the play progresses. It's just common dramaturgical sense.
In a sense, it's the fault of the play itself. It achieves so very much throughout that the ensemble (and by this I mean the music, the direction, the acting, the actors, the plot, the theme) is sorely pressed to top itself. It's kind of like watching Death of a Salesman all the way to the end and finally, Willy says, "That darned Biff, why, he makes me a little crazy sometimes. Oh, well, back to work." Just doesn't quite do the piece justice.
To be fair, I was really tired by the time we reached the blocking for the end of the show, so I may have been a bit cynical by that point. In any event, I can't help but think we're missing something. Something big. Something unexpected. A completely new, 'out of the box' way to look at it. I'm carefully not going into specifics here because it just wouldn't make a lot of sense to anyone who isn't involved in the piece. And of course, there's the impossibly complicated music, too. Haven't even begun to try and add that to the mix yet.
Ron is a surprising director, thriving on the unexpected. He never does what I think he might. That's a compliment of the highest order, incidentally. I love that.
Maybe today's rehearsal will shine a new light on the stuff we're tackling at the end of the play. Most likely it will.
In any event, the play is so explosive. Yesterday we'd be shuffling along, connecting the dots, being sort of pedestrian about the work and then suddenly and without warning a moment would come along and the piece just soars. It reaches a level of drama usually reserved for high opera. At this point in the process we still just get glimpses of it, brief moments of 'AH, HA!' And then, like a young bird trying to take flight, we're back to the hard work of actually mounting it. But the cool thing is we all feel it, we all see it, we all hear it, however quickly.
Sometimes I have a low threshold of tolerance for myself. I am frustrated when I don't have the tools to do what I want when I want it. It's entirely my fault. I see a moment that I want, an image I'd like to portray and yet I know I can't get to it yet. And then I get a little pissed off at myself. I know that sounds a little nebulous, but it's the best I can explain it.
There is a piece of music in the latter part of the play, a song that the character of Daisy (being performed by the wonderful Christine Horn) carries, that is giving me fits. I simply can't hear it yet. Today is all about that piece of music. I plan on listening to it about 1,000 times. I can't make a contribution to the play in this section unless I'm completely secure with the music. It's making our musical director a bit frustrated, too, and I can't blame him one bit. It's a classic example of looking for the softer, easier path rather than just buckle down and do what it takes to get it under my belt. A character flaw of mine, to be sure. So after a little whining to myself last night, a little blaming other people, a little kvetching, I finally realized it's squarely on my shoulders, no one else's. I have to work harder. I have to do more. I have to give it the time it deserves. If something isn't working for me, it's my fault, no one else's.
In early today for costume fittings and then back to the drawing board. No excuses.
So...alright...hm. Enough personal flogging. Gonna have some breakfast and dig in. It's time I took my own advice (something I tell my students all the time), "Theatre, ultimately, no matter how we try and dress it up, is not a democracy." So I've been given my assignment. It's up to me to do it.
See you tomorrow.
This play has so many arresting, startling moments and images in the first three quarters of the show, it's difficult to top these moments. And yet, it's necessary to take the show to higher and more interesting places as the play progresses. It's just common dramaturgical sense.
In a sense, it's the fault of the play itself. It achieves so very much throughout that the ensemble (and by this I mean the music, the direction, the acting, the actors, the plot, the theme) is sorely pressed to top itself. It's kind of like watching Death of a Salesman all the way to the end and finally, Willy says, "That darned Biff, why, he makes me a little crazy sometimes. Oh, well, back to work." Just doesn't quite do the piece justice.
To be fair, I was really tired by the time we reached the blocking for the end of the show, so I may have been a bit cynical by that point. In any event, I can't help but think we're missing something. Something big. Something unexpected. A completely new, 'out of the box' way to look at it. I'm carefully not going into specifics here because it just wouldn't make a lot of sense to anyone who isn't involved in the piece. And of course, there's the impossibly complicated music, too. Haven't even begun to try and add that to the mix yet.
Ron is a surprising director, thriving on the unexpected. He never does what I think he might. That's a compliment of the highest order, incidentally. I love that.
Maybe today's rehearsal will shine a new light on the stuff we're tackling at the end of the play. Most likely it will.
In any event, the play is so explosive. Yesterday we'd be shuffling along, connecting the dots, being sort of pedestrian about the work and then suddenly and without warning a moment would come along and the piece just soars. It reaches a level of drama usually reserved for high opera. At this point in the process we still just get glimpses of it, brief moments of 'AH, HA!' And then, like a young bird trying to take flight, we're back to the hard work of actually mounting it. But the cool thing is we all feel it, we all see it, we all hear it, however quickly.
Sometimes I have a low threshold of tolerance for myself. I am frustrated when I don't have the tools to do what I want when I want it. It's entirely my fault. I see a moment that I want, an image I'd like to portray and yet I know I can't get to it yet. And then I get a little pissed off at myself. I know that sounds a little nebulous, but it's the best I can explain it.
There is a piece of music in the latter part of the play, a song that the character of Daisy (being performed by the wonderful Christine Horn) carries, that is giving me fits. I simply can't hear it yet. Today is all about that piece of music. I plan on listening to it about 1,000 times. I can't make a contribution to the play in this section unless I'm completely secure with the music. It's making our musical director a bit frustrated, too, and I can't blame him one bit. It's a classic example of looking for the softer, easier path rather than just buckle down and do what it takes to get it under my belt. A character flaw of mine, to be sure. So after a little whining to myself last night, a little blaming other people, a little kvetching, I finally realized it's squarely on my shoulders, no one else's. I have to work harder. I have to do more. I have to give it the time it deserves. If something isn't working for me, it's my fault, no one else's.
In early today for costume fittings and then back to the drawing board. No excuses.
So...alright...hm. Enough personal flogging. Gonna have some breakfast and dig in. It's time I took my own advice (something I tell my students all the time), "Theatre, ultimately, no matter how we try and dress it up, is not a democracy." So I've been given my assignment. It's up to me to do it.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Busy, busy, busy...
More blocking yesterday. All day. Although, I must admit, it was a great rehearsal. We're getting into 'crunch time' despite the inordinantly long rehearsal period. This is a show that swings every club in the bag. High comedy to kitchen sink drama to flat-out farce. It's quite a journey, to say the least.
Yesterday was especially beneficial to me (aside from the very necessary blocking, of course) because it gave me a place to start, physically speaking, with this very long and very hard song, Zero's Confession. Until yesterday, I didn't quite know what Ron had in mind for it. Now I do, and I must say, it's absolutely riveting. In fact, it's such a powerful image, I won't even write about it. Don't wanna ruin the sight of it if someone comes to see this.
Also got to sing it while blocking it, which was very helpful.
Long day today. Meeting with the director and producer of From the East to the West this morning, we're blocking out one of the scenes for the cameras. Then an audition for a short film this afternoon and then, of course, rehearsal all night.
I was asked to send, via email, some photographic images of myself to our graphic designer for the show this past weekend. She is in Europe and yesterday sent back our flyer/poster for the show. She's done a very striking, yet unflattering likeness of me for it. I'll post it as soon as it's completed.
Tons more to write about today, but I'm afraid I'm pressed for time. I'll catch up tomorrow.
See you then.
Yesterday was especially beneficial to me (aside from the very necessary blocking, of course) because it gave me a place to start, physically speaking, with this very long and very hard song, Zero's Confession. Until yesterday, I didn't quite know what Ron had in mind for it. Now I do, and I must say, it's absolutely riveting. In fact, it's such a powerful image, I won't even write about it. Don't wanna ruin the sight of it if someone comes to see this.
Also got to sing it while blocking it, which was very helpful.
Long day today. Meeting with the director and producer of From the East to the West this morning, we're blocking out one of the scenes for the cameras. Then an audition for a short film this afternoon and then, of course, rehearsal all night.
I was asked to send, via email, some photographic images of myself to our graphic designer for the show this past weekend. She is in Europe and yesterday sent back our flyer/poster for the show. She's done a very striking, yet unflattering likeness of me for it. I'll post it as soon as it's completed.
Tons more to write about today, but I'm afraid I'm pressed for time. I'll catch up tomorrow.
See you then.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Ah, Blocking.
After a long blocking rehearsal yesterday, Angie and I came home and behaved quite shamelessly infantile by eating hotdogs and tater tots and watching cartoons.
Now, make no mistake, when I say 'cartoons' I don't mean The Jetsons or Josie and the Pussycats. Oh, no. We had netflixed a few films that we'd never seen, only heard about. The first was an absolutely wonderful little movie called 'Up.'
The film is unapologetically manipulative. And that's not a knock. I like films that are unapologetically manipulative. Serious film people apparently don't. I think that's a Scorcese-influenced line of thought, however. I don't see anything in the world wrong with manipulating an audience.
'Up' is a small film, animated, of course, about an old man who has lost his wife, his passion for life, his reason for living in the complicated world of today and so decides to take a trip to South America in memory of his daredevil, late spouse. He ties thousands of balloons to his house and just floats there on the winds. He accidentally takes a young boy scout with him. Zaniness ensues. And that's about all I can say about it without spoiling the whole thing. Except to say I cried three times during the movie. That's a lot for me. And I laughed out loud a lot, too. It's a quirky little movie and I recommend it highly.
Back in rehearsal today. Not a lot to say about these rehearsals. We're blocking. And blocking is blocking. Not terribly exciting. Certainly necessary. But it is what it is. Everybody does it differently. Ron tends to veer toward the 'trial and error' approach. When I direct, I like to speed through the blocking and then start fixing, molding and shaping. Others I know have an 'organic' approach. That is to say, let the actors do what 'feels' right. That can be a bit risky because sometimes you have actors that don't like to work that way.
I have, on occasion, worked with a group of top-flight actors who, quite literally, block themselves. And if one is blessed with the right actors, often times they come up with blocking that's better than what was initially planned anyway. Usually takes some real veterans to make that work, however.
Back to the drawing board today. Blocking and discussing. I was a little amused yesterday because Kelly (playing my wife in the play) was offering lots of input (all quite sensible, I might add) and at one point looked at me and said something like, "Do you have an opiniion on any of this?" I had remained silent up to this point. The truth is, I did have an opinion, but what I didn't have was an insight into Ron's overall concept yet. So to add my two cents would be entirely based on what I wanted to do. So it's all moot at this point. It doesn't matter what I want.
So more of the same today. It's all part of the process.
Angie is sitting in temporarily as AD (assistant director) until someone can be hired for that job. The former AD had to step out of the project because of conflicts. I think she's having fun doing it. She's been out of the theater biz for a long time (she's been a casting director for film and TV for many years now) so I think she's kind of amused to be doing it again. When she first moved out to Southern California a couple of decades ago, her first professional job was with The Old Globe Theater in San Diego. I don't think she's really dabbled in theater work since then.
So...
See you tomorrow.
Now, make no mistake, when I say 'cartoons' I don't mean The Jetsons or Josie and the Pussycats. Oh, no. We had netflixed a few films that we'd never seen, only heard about. The first was an absolutely wonderful little movie called 'Up.'
The film is unapologetically manipulative. And that's not a knock. I like films that are unapologetically manipulative. Serious film people apparently don't. I think that's a Scorcese-influenced line of thought, however. I don't see anything in the world wrong with manipulating an audience.
'Up' is a small film, animated, of course, about an old man who has lost his wife, his passion for life, his reason for living in the complicated world of today and so decides to take a trip to South America in memory of his daredevil, late spouse. He ties thousands of balloons to his house and just floats there on the winds. He accidentally takes a young boy scout with him. Zaniness ensues. And that's about all I can say about it without spoiling the whole thing. Except to say I cried three times during the movie. That's a lot for me. And I laughed out loud a lot, too. It's a quirky little movie and I recommend it highly.
Back in rehearsal today. Not a lot to say about these rehearsals. We're blocking. And blocking is blocking. Not terribly exciting. Certainly necessary. But it is what it is. Everybody does it differently. Ron tends to veer toward the 'trial and error' approach. When I direct, I like to speed through the blocking and then start fixing, molding and shaping. Others I know have an 'organic' approach. That is to say, let the actors do what 'feels' right. That can be a bit risky because sometimes you have actors that don't like to work that way.
I have, on occasion, worked with a group of top-flight actors who, quite literally, block themselves. And if one is blessed with the right actors, often times they come up with blocking that's better than what was initially planned anyway. Usually takes some real veterans to make that work, however.
Back to the drawing board today. Blocking and discussing. I was a little amused yesterday because Kelly (playing my wife in the play) was offering lots of input (all quite sensible, I might add) and at one point looked at me and said something like, "Do you have an opiniion on any of this?" I had remained silent up to this point. The truth is, I did have an opinion, but what I didn't have was an insight into Ron's overall concept yet. So to add my two cents would be entirely based on what I wanted to do. So it's all moot at this point. It doesn't matter what I want.
So more of the same today. It's all part of the process.
Angie is sitting in temporarily as AD (assistant director) until someone can be hired for that job. The former AD had to step out of the project because of conflicts. I think she's having fun doing it. She's been out of the theater biz for a long time (she's been a casting director for film and TV for many years now) so I think she's kind of amused to be doing it again. When she first moved out to Southern California a couple of decades ago, her first professional job was with The Old Globe Theater in San Diego. I don't think she's really dabbled in theater work since then.
So...
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Singing as Zero.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Singing as Zero.: "We sang/read thru the entire show last night. 'Twas not bad. Not great, but not bad. I'm speaking for myself, of course. Others may have..."
Singing as Zero.
We sang/read thru the entire show last night. 'Twas not bad. Not great, but not bad. I'm speaking for myself, of course. Others may have felt differently. I wasn't quite prepared to do so, but Ron wanted to hear the whole thing out loud and so...well, that's what we did. I made a decision to do the whole thing in character, that is to say, not to worry about my voice and its peculiarities, but to go ahead and sing the show, as much as possible, anyway, in the persona of Mr. Zero. I think it may have been a good decision.
I'm sitting here trying to think of how to explain the difference, for the lay reader, between 'Clif's voice' and 'Zero's voice.' Musically speaking, of course, there is no difference...either I know the notes, the rhythms, the meter, the tone, the placement, the harmonies, etc., or I don't. But mentally, there's a difference. Now, admittedly, I'm light years away from 'finding' Zero. (Quick insertion here for those just tuning in - Mr. Zero is the character I'm playing in the brilliant new musical Adding Machine at The Odyssey Theater in Los Angeles.)
Anyway, back to the difference in my mindset last night. I made a thousand mistakes, most small, some large. But I kept moving on. At the most I'd get a quick 'eyebrow raise' from Alan (musical director). But the thing I'm trying to convey here, I suppose, is that I was not struck by lightning, the beams of the theater didn't fall on me, Alan or Ron didn't shoot me straight away with a concealed revolver, the other performers didn't get up and walk out in disgust, none of that. We just moved on. Now, I know this sounds like a rookie observation. But honestly, it was enormously beneficial for me to sing and act through the whole damn thing without stopping or grieving over what I'd just done wrong.
And on the bright side, I did a few things right. Not many, but a few.
And also, I found some things. Moments, beats, thoughts that don't occur to me as "Clif" came to me last night as "Zero." Nebulous, to be sure. But it's true. All of this sounds terribly 'actor-y,' I know, but it was a real epiphany of sorts last night for me.
And, as I suspected all along, I was exhausted by the end of the show. And that's just standing there and singing and acting...not even doing it full out.
Today the blocking continues where we left off. I still don't have a full visual idea of how some of it is going to work. Which is odd, because usually I can 'see' the whole thing in my head almost immediately and thus plan my performance accordingly. Not so with this this piece. There are some transitions and musical interludes in the show that quite frankly I have no idea what's going on.
In any event, I'm having a really great time doing this. The next hurdle will be memorization and I suspect it's going to be really difficult. We have a ten day break over the holiday and I'll be working on this piece every single day.
Angie and I are heading back to Missouri for the break. I love hanging out with her family. They're good people. It will be a very 'family' kind of Christmas. My own childhood Christmas memories usually involved lots of whiskey and shouting and drama, so it will be nice to establish new Christmas memories with her and her family. This 'being married' gig is turning out to be pretty cool.
See you tomorrow.
I'm sitting here trying to think of how to explain the difference, for the lay reader, between 'Clif's voice' and 'Zero's voice.' Musically speaking, of course, there is no difference...either I know the notes, the rhythms, the meter, the tone, the placement, the harmonies, etc., or I don't. But mentally, there's a difference. Now, admittedly, I'm light years away from 'finding' Zero. (Quick insertion here for those just tuning in - Mr. Zero is the character I'm playing in the brilliant new musical Adding Machine at The Odyssey Theater in Los Angeles.)
Anyway, back to the difference in my mindset last night. I made a thousand mistakes, most small, some large. But I kept moving on. At the most I'd get a quick 'eyebrow raise' from Alan (musical director). But the thing I'm trying to convey here, I suppose, is that I was not struck by lightning, the beams of the theater didn't fall on me, Alan or Ron didn't shoot me straight away with a concealed revolver, the other performers didn't get up and walk out in disgust, none of that. We just moved on. Now, I know this sounds like a rookie observation. But honestly, it was enormously beneficial for me to sing and act through the whole damn thing without stopping or grieving over what I'd just done wrong.
And on the bright side, I did a few things right. Not many, but a few.
And also, I found some things. Moments, beats, thoughts that don't occur to me as "Clif" came to me last night as "Zero." Nebulous, to be sure. But it's true. All of this sounds terribly 'actor-y,' I know, but it was a real epiphany of sorts last night for me.
And, as I suspected all along, I was exhausted by the end of the show. And that's just standing there and singing and acting...not even doing it full out.
Today the blocking continues where we left off. I still don't have a full visual idea of how some of it is going to work. Which is odd, because usually I can 'see' the whole thing in my head almost immediately and thus plan my performance accordingly. Not so with this this piece. There are some transitions and musical interludes in the show that quite frankly I have no idea what's going on.
In any event, I'm having a really great time doing this. The next hurdle will be memorization and I suspect it's going to be really difficult. We have a ten day break over the holiday and I'll be working on this piece every single day.
Angie and I are heading back to Missouri for the break. I love hanging out with her family. They're good people. It will be a very 'family' kind of Christmas. My own childhood Christmas memories usually involved lots of whiskey and shouting and drama, so it will be nice to establish new Christmas memories with her and her family. This 'being married' gig is turning out to be pretty cool.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back...
Last night in rehearsal I was yet again reminded of the extraordinary level of talent I'll be onstage with in Adding Machine. Kelly Lester, playing Mrs. Zero, my wife in the play, once again set the tone for the rehearsal by singing a couple of duets with me. And I use the term 'with me' loosely. Kelly sings a song and there may or may not be someone singing with her. If there is someone singing with her no one really notices because she's an absolute vocal juggernaut. I told her last night she was a 'freak of nature' (in a good way). And she is.
Then Rob Herring took over and sang his numbers. Rob is up for an Ovation Award this year (that's LA's version of The Tony) for his work earlier in the season on Sondheim's Sweeny Todd. He sort of 'let loose the dogs of war' last night and blew the roof off the place. Rob and Kelly both are that rare combination of performer that sing and act at the highest possible level.
And then Christine Horn, playing my mistress in the play, Daisy, sang her songs and had everyone weeping uncontrollably. Well, perhaps not uncontrollably, but I think it fair to say, her voice is so beautiful everyone in the room was visibly moved. Christine has just come off a two-year national tour of The Lion King. She's really quite breathtaking onstage. She possesses a remarkably pure insturment. Quite stunning, really.
And then I sang. Or rather, I croaked through my stuff. I told Angie last night after rehearsal that it's really joltingly clear I'm not in the same league as these guys, vocally speaking. Fortunately, the piece is written that way, sort of. And I stress 'sort of.' My character has a buttload of stuff to sing, so it's not as if they can carry me.
Toward the end of the play, I have a couple of musical segments to warble through. I've spent so much time working on my big number, Zero's Confession, that I've neglected the other stuff to a certain extent. Yesterday I worked on those later numbers here at home, singing them through about 112 times. Naturally, once I got to rehearsal and started singing them it was as though I'd never heard them. Oy. Very frustrating.
So I left rehearsal last night in a snit. At myself, that is. Alan Patrick Kenny, our unflagging musical director, is being terribly kind and encouraging toward me and my efforts. He assures me there's nothing to worry about...yet. Ron Sossi, our director for this astonishing piece of theatre, has clearly taken a calculated risk by casting an 'actor who sings' rather than a 'singer who acts.'.
There's nothing to do except re-double my efforts today. Back to the drawing board. I reminded myself last night that the reason I took this role initially was because for the first time in years I had serious doubts as to whether I could even DO the damned thing. I'm so used to being the 'hired gun' on a play, that I've almost forgotten what it's like to struggle with the material. Well, last night it became clear to me all over again that this material is not within easy reach. I'll be perfectly honest...I'd forgotten what it's like to be scared.
Rehearsal starts today for the film version of my play, From the East to the West. Following that, I'll be back at work on this music. I'll do it and do it and then do it again. Repitition is indeed the soul of art. I will learn to sing every single note of this score as though no one has ever sung it before. I shall 'compose it on the spot' as Alan says. I will work as hard as I can and if that's not enough I'll work harder. And if all else fails, I'm close to the 405 and I can always just step in front of a big truck.
See you tomorrow.
Then Rob Herring took over and sang his numbers. Rob is up for an Ovation Award this year (that's LA's version of The Tony) for his work earlier in the season on Sondheim's Sweeny Todd. He sort of 'let loose the dogs of war' last night and blew the roof off the place. Rob and Kelly both are that rare combination of performer that sing and act at the highest possible level.
And then Christine Horn, playing my mistress in the play, Daisy, sang her songs and had everyone weeping uncontrollably. Well, perhaps not uncontrollably, but I think it fair to say, her voice is so beautiful everyone in the room was visibly moved. Christine has just come off a two-year national tour of The Lion King. She's really quite breathtaking onstage. She possesses a remarkably pure insturment. Quite stunning, really.
And then I sang. Or rather, I croaked through my stuff. I told Angie last night after rehearsal that it's really joltingly clear I'm not in the same league as these guys, vocally speaking. Fortunately, the piece is written that way, sort of. And I stress 'sort of.' My character has a buttload of stuff to sing, so it's not as if they can carry me.
Toward the end of the play, I have a couple of musical segments to warble through. I've spent so much time working on my big number, Zero's Confession, that I've neglected the other stuff to a certain extent. Yesterday I worked on those later numbers here at home, singing them through about 112 times. Naturally, once I got to rehearsal and started singing them it was as though I'd never heard them. Oy. Very frustrating.
So I left rehearsal last night in a snit. At myself, that is. Alan Patrick Kenny, our unflagging musical director, is being terribly kind and encouraging toward me and my efforts. He assures me there's nothing to worry about...yet. Ron Sossi, our director for this astonishing piece of theatre, has clearly taken a calculated risk by casting an 'actor who sings' rather than a 'singer who acts.'.
There's nothing to do except re-double my efforts today. Back to the drawing board. I reminded myself last night that the reason I took this role initially was because for the first time in years I had serious doubts as to whether I could even DO the damned thing. I'm so used to being the 'hired gun' on a play, that I've almost forgotten what it's like to struggle with the material. Well, last night it became clear to me all over again that this material is not within easy reach. I'll be perfectly honest...I'd forgotten what it's like to be scared.
Rehearsal starts today for the film version of my play, From the East to the West. Following that, I'll be back at work on this music. I'll do it and do it and then do it again. Repitition is indeed the soul of art. I will learn to sing every single note of this score as though no one has ever sung it before. I shall 'compose it on the spot' as Alan says. I will work as hard as I can and if that's not enough I'll work harder. And if all else fails, I'm close to the 405 and I can always just step in front of a big truck.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Blocking Rehearsal.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Blocking Rehearsal.: "Blocking rehearsal last night. Generally speaking, one of the more tedious nights of the rehearsal process. Last night didn't feel that w..."
Blocking Rehearsal.
Blocking rehearsal last night. Generally speaking, one of the more tedious nights of the rehearsal process. Last night didn't feel that way, however. Ron Sossi, the veteran director and Los Angeles theater legend, is helming the piece. Ron probably wouldn't appreciate being called a 'Los Angeles theater legend,' but he really is. He's also, thank heavens, an incredibly astute director.
Before the opening readthru of the script, the table rehearsal, Ron said something I liked very much. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, "When I was younger I used to plan a show out meticulously; blocking it on paper, finding the beats, doing all the paper work that they teach in school these days...now I just kind of throw everything up against a wall and see what sticks."
He wasn't just whistling Dixie. That's what we did last night. I love that. Try this, try that, discard that, keep that, give this moment a chance, try it a different way, etc. Love it.
Years ago I did a play called The Dropper at a new play festival in the south. Good play, actually. Written by Ron McClarty. In addition to myself, there was an actor in the cast that was 81 years old. I loved sitting and talking to him for hours and hours. He had been a stage actor all his life. He'd worked with everyone, including Sir John Gielgud once. He said that on the first day of blocking the play he was doing, Gielgud said to the cast, "I wouldn't bother writing any of this down. Everything will change in a week or so. And don't bother writing that down, either, because it will change yet again before we open. In fact, if I were you, I'd ignore me altogether for awhile." I kind of got that feeling from Ron last night. He steadfastly refuses to 'set' anything. He's been doing this a long, long time and he clearly understands something I tell my students all the time, "There is no right or wrong in the theatre, there is only what works and what doesn't work."
I also appreciate his complete lack of 'offstage drama.' You can't be in this business as long as he has and still take everything so seriously. I'm reminded of a story of Hitchcock working with Kim Novak on a film. Ms. Novak had apparently been taking a few classes at the actor's studio with Lee Stasberg and was becoming quite uppity about her 'art.' Now, Kim Novak, even at her best, was nothing to write home about. So there was a moment in the filming when Hitchcock asked her to walk from the door to the table. She refused to do it. Said there was no motivation to do so. Said she could only do it if Hitchcock explained her intentions to her. So Hitchcock allegedly pulled her aside and said, very softly, "Kim, dear. It's only a movie."
That is precisely the vibe Ron Sossi gives off as a director. And personally, I couldn't be happier about it.
Tomorrow rehearsals start for the filming of my play, From the East to the West. Shooting commences next Thursday. Nice.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The First Plateau.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The First Plateau.: "An eye-opening rehearsal last night, to say the least. This is my 112th professional, Equity production as an actor. And over the course o..."
The First Plateau.
An eye-opening rehearsal last night, to say the least. This is my 112th professional, Equity production as an actor. And over the course of those shows I'd like to think (although sometimes I'm not so sure) I've learned some things. One thing I always wait for in the rehearsal process, and it nearly always happens, is what I like to call the 'first plateau.' It usually happens about two weeks into rehearsal (for non-musicals, usually a little earlier). This is when the cast has a rehearsal that finally gives everyone a glimpse of what is possible. It's a heady feeling. This is what happened last night.
One of my co-stars in this piece is a remarkably talented actress named Kelly Lester. She, like myself I'm surmising, has a long history in this silly little business. And in this play, she, too, has a brutally long and complicated song. Her major song comes at the top of the show, right out of the gate. Mine is about halfway through. So when the curtain metaphorically goes up, the first thing the audience will see and hear is Kelly. And as anyone who's done musical theater can tell you, it's crucial, absolutely crucial, to knock 'em out immediately.
Kelly's song, even more so than mine, I dare say, is a combination of impossible range, intensely complicated rhythms and complex counting on the part of the actor. Kelly came in last night and hit it out of the park on the first swing. During the break I told her, completely sincerely, "You've just set the bar impossibly high for the rest of us." I meant it. It was a dazzling display of virtuoso talent. Even Alan (Alan Patrick Kenny, our encyclopedic musical director, himself unbelievably talented) normally somewhat subdued during rehearsal, was whooping with excitement. I am not, at least vocally, involved in the first number, so I only had to sit and listen to it. Our ensemble nailed it right along with her. Alan has said a couple of times in this process thus far, "Musical theater at it's very best must appear as though the actor is composing the score 'on the spot.'" Well, that's what it looked like. It is, and will be, a tour de force for her. I often tell my students that a play is only as good as its weakest actor. I hope I'm not getting ahead of myself here, but I honestly don't think we need worry about that with this piece. There simply are no 'weak' actors.
The next 'plateau' will probably occur during the sitzprobe, which is German for 'sit and sing.' That has been my experience, anyway. We'll continue along on this current path, working at this high level of expectation, that is to say, and I suspect the next time we all jump to a higher plane will be when the orchestra is present and we all hear the fullness of the score underneath us. That day is always tremendously exciting. I remember the second time I did Camelot I did it with an orchestra of about twenty-five musicians. We were all in an acoustically perfect rehearsal hall in Pennsylvania and when the music (remember, we had been used to working with simply a piano) and the strings swelled beneath us, it was a little bit of magic. Always works that way. I've done a play called 1940's Radio Hour a total of six times around the country. That play, as the title would suggest, is all about jazz/swing music from the forties. The first time the cast works with the onstage full orchestra, complete with swinging brass, it's electric. Every single time.
So, we're finally off and running. Off and flying, actually. The rest of the evening went well, too. I was even a little happy with my massive number, Zero's Confession. There are still spots in the song that concern me deeply (there are two moments in which I'm compelled to sing high Fs...and by the time I get to them they are, well, just not there) but I have some ideas. I mentioned to Alan last night that I'd like to 'negotiate' with him about the spots in the song that I can emotionally express without actually singing. He smiled and said, "Okay." I think it will be up to me to demonstrate whether they can work or not.
So, finally, a rehearsal yesterday I didn't walk away from in angst. I knew it would happen, I just didn't know when.
See you tomorrow.
One of my co-stars in this piece is a remarkably talented actress named Kelly Lester. She, like myself I'm surmising, has a long history in this silly little business. And in this play, she, too, has a brutally long and complicated song. Her major song comes at the top of the show, right out of the gate. Mine is about halfway through. So when the curtain metaphorically goes up, the first thing the audience will see and hear is Kelly. And as anyone who's done musical theater can tell you, it's crucial, absolutely crucial, to knock 'em out immediately.
Kelly's song, even more so than mine, I dare say, is a combination of impossible range, intensely complicated rhythms and complex counting on the part of the actor. Kelly came in last night and hit it out of the park on the first swing. During the break I told her, completely sincerely, "You've just set the bar impossibly high for the rest of us." I meant it. It was a dazzling display of virtuoso talent. Even Alan (Alan Patrick Kenny, our encyclopedic musical director, himself unbelievably talented) normally somewhat subdued during rehearsal, was whooping with excitement. I am not, at least vocally, involved in the first number, so I only had to sit and listen to it. Our ensemble nailed it right along with her. Alan has said a couple of times in this process thus far, "Musical theater at it's very best must appear as though the actor is composing the score 'on the spot.'" Well, that's what it looked like. It is, and will be, a tour de force for her. I often tell my students that a play is only as good as its weakest actor. I hope I'm not getting ahead of myself here, but I honestly don't think we need worry about that with this piece. There simply are no 'weak' actors.
The next 'plateau' will probably occur during the sitzprobe, which is German for 'sit and sing.' That has been my experience, anyway. We'll continue along on this current path, working at this high level of expectation, that is to say, and I suspect the next time we all jump to a higher plane will be when the orchestra is present and we all hear the fullness of the score underneath us. That day is always tremendously exciting. I remember the second time I did Camelot I did it with an orchestra of about twenty-five musicians. We were all in an acoustically perfect rehearsal hall in Pennsylvania and when the music (remember, we had been used to working with simply a piano) and the strings swelled beneath us, it was a little bit of magic. Always works that way. I've done a play called 1940's Radio Hour a total of six times around the country. That play, as the title would suggest, is all about jazz/swing music from the forties. The first time the cast works with the onstage full orchestra, complete with swinging brass, it's electric. Every single time.
So, we're finally off and running. Off and flying, actually. The rest of the evening went well, too. I was even a little happy with my massive number, Zero's Confession. There are still spots in the song that concern me deeply (there are two moments in which I'm compelled to sing high Fs...and by the time I get to them they are, well, just not there) but I have some ideas. I mentioned to Alan last night that I'd like to 'negotiate' with him about the spots in the song that I can emotionally express without actually singing. He smiled and said, "Okay." I think it will be up to me to demonstrate whether they can work or not.
So, finally, a rehearsal yesterday I didn't walk away from in angst. I knew it would happen, I just didn't know when.
See you tomorrow.
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