Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Television.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Television.: "We probably watch too much television in this house. To be fair, I do spend a good deal of time reading, but usually that comes toward the ..."
Television.
We probably watch too much television in this house. To be fair, I do spend a good deal of time reading, but usually that comes toward the end of the evening. I also spend a hefty amount of time writing, but that's tough to do sometimes because there are often distractions around here keeping me from it. But true to our latter day, twentieth century roots, Angie and I tend to equate television after dinner, sitting together on the couch with the dogs around us, our 'family time.'
We always watch the news, of course. I've discovered since being here, however, that local news in the LA area is laughable. For whatever reason, Angie alwyas turns it to channel 4, which is NBC, for the local news. I don't know why this is because there is an anchor guy on that NBC affiliate named Chuck Henry who may be the single most incompetent news announcer I've ever seen or heard. He announces everything as though he's just spotted a new float in a parade coming around the corner, be it the Japan disaster or the most recent murder in East LA. There's always a subdued smile playing around his delighted lips as he reports in his carnival barker voice the latest horror of humanity. But most annoying and unnerving is his 'between stories banter.' It takes innanity to a whole different level. His comments are not only sort of stop-in-your-tracks stupid, they're unbelievably insensitive. And of course the fact that he clearly thinks he's the height of wit makes it even more unbearable. And yet, we watch him. Sometimes, when Angie isn't around, I flip it over to The Fox network for the local news. Unlike the national Fox folk who are unabashedly conservative and anti-Obama, that doesn't seem to be the case with the local guys. Plus, apparently Fox can't afford nice chairs because they make them stand up, awkardly so, to do the news.
In any event, once the news, both local and national, is over, the real battle for the TV begins. Angie prefers 'Dancing with the Stars' and 'American Idol.' I don't hold this against her because having seen both a few times, I admit it IS easy to get involved with that nonsense. The other night I found myself in an embarrassing conversation about whether the dance we'd just seen was indeed a 'quick step.' I had to disengage in the middle of it because I suddenly heard myself saying something like, "I really think it was too modern for a quick step. It bordered on jive. And although they did it well, I felt they didn't have the clean arm movements and step precision they had last week. And Ralph Macchio's line wasn't right. He needs to work on his posture a bit for next week." It was at this point I realized what I was saying and threw up in my mouth just a little a bit. I had to step out back and take some deep breaths and think of Eugene O'Neill and Sergio Eisenstein.
If left to my own devices I will always choose either The History Channel or The Military Channel. Last week there was a fascinating piece called 'Third Reich, the fall.' Pretty gritty stuff. Filmed by Germans, about Germans between the years 1939 and 1945. I was mesmerized. Angie tends to call all of these programs, 'The Hitler show.' She thinks they're all the same program. Whether it be WWII in Color or World at War or Iwo Jima or U-Boats in the North Sea or America at War...she thinks it's all the same show, The Hitler Show. So she always says, "We've seen this already. It's the Hitler Show. You watched it last night." To which I reply, "It is NOT the Hitler Show. There is no such program called The Hitler Show. This is about comparing and contrasting the Sherman tank and the Panzer tank in the Battle of the Bulge." To which she replies, "Yes. Exactly. The Hitler Show. We've seen that one." It's a no-win situation.
Fortunately, we mostly agree on our Netflix selections. Except every now and then when I start ordering a bunch of boxing documentaries. She doesn't care for that and will protest by standing in the kitchen for hours at a time silently weeping.
Bravo used to show episodes of The West Wing everyday. They've stopped doing that, which is too bad, because Angie and I could watch West Wing episodes until the cows come home. I've made no secret about the fact that I sincerely believe it to be the finest network television show in the history of broadcasting. At least the first five seasons until Sorkin bailed out. I never get tired of them simply for the writing. It's like going to school every time I see one. Sorkin is a master storyteller and I steal from him relentlessly. I don't know if the likes of it will ever come around again. And the parallels to the current administration are absolutely startling sometimes.
Angie is also a big fan of something called 'The Dog Whisperer,' which is about a Mexican obsessed with being 'The Pack Leader." I don't pay much attention to it, but now and then I look at it for a few minutes. This guy (I think, not surprisingly, his name is 'Cesar') likes to kicks dogs (gently, to be fair) and push them to the ground and demand allegiance from them. He is forever prattling on about being 'The Pack Leader.' These poor dogs, most of them small ones that couldn't hurt a tit-mouse, are bullied into following his every command. Now and then, in his insatiable pursuit of being 'The Pack Leader' he'll stare them down until they're so uncomfortable they roll over and pretend to die. This Cesar guy likes it when they do that and subsequently swaggers around for awhile afterwards touting himself as 'the true and undisputed champion of all Pack Leaders' in broken English. Sounds like a little overcompensating to me. Nonetheless, Angie is convinced this guy is Dr. Doolittle. Frankly, I don't know why he calls himself a 'whisperer,' because he always shouts. His claim, apparently, is that the dog is never wrong but the owners need training. I think his show should be called 'The Dog Bullier.'
Another beautiful day in So Cal. My buddy Jeff and his family came to visit us from Colorado last week and the entire time turned out to be rainy and cold. He'll probably never believe now that Southern California is almost never like that.
See you tomorrow.
We always watch the news, of course. I've discovered since being here, however, that local news in the LA area is laughable. For whatever reason, Angie alwyas turns it to channel 4, which is NBC, for the local news. I don't know why this is because there is an anchor guy on that NBC affiliate named Chuck Henry who may be the single most incompetent news announcer I've ever seen or heard. He announces everything as though he's just spotted a new float in a parade coming around the corner, be it the Japan disaster or the most recent murder in East LA. There's always a subdued smile playing around his delighted lips as he reports in his carnival barker voice the latest horror of humanity. But most annoying and unnerving is his 'between stories banter.' It takes innanity to a whole different level. His comments are not only sort of stop-in-your-tracks stupid, they're unbelievably insensitive. And of course the fact that he clearly thinks he's the height of wit makes it even more unbearable. And yet, we watch him. Sometimes, when Angie isn't around, I flip it over to The Fox network for the local news. Unlike the national Fox folk who are unabashedly conservative and anti-Obama, that doesn't seem to be the case with the local guys. Plus, apparently Fox can't afford nice chairs because they make them stand up, awkardly so, to do the news.
In any event, once the news, both local and national, is over, the real battle for the TV begins. Angie prefers 'Dancing with the Stars' and 'American Idol.' I don't hold this against her because having seen both a few times, I admit it IS easy to get involved with that nonsense. The other night I found myself in an embarrassing conversation about whether the dance we'd just seen was indeed a 'quick step.' I had to disengage in the middle of it because I suddenly heard myself saying something like, "I really think it was too modern for a quick step. It bordered on jive. And although they did it well, I felt they didn't have the clean arm movements and step precision they had last week. And Ralph Macchio's line wasn't right. He needs to work on his posture a bit for next week." It was at this point I realized what I was saying and threw up in my mouth just a little a bit. I had to step out back and take some deep breaths and think of Eugene O'Neill and Sergio Eisenstein.
If left to my own devices I will always choose either The History Channel or The Military Channel. Last week there was a fascinating piece called 'Third Reich, the fall.' Pretty gritty stuff. Filmed by Germans, about Germans between the years 1939 and 1945. I was mesmerized. Angie tends to call all of these programs, 'The Hitler show.' She thinks they're all the same program. Whether it be WWII in Color or World at War or Iwo Jima or U-Boats in the North Sea or America at War...she thinks it's all the same show, The Hitler Show. So she always says, "We've seen this already. It's the Hitler Show. You watched it last night." To which I reply, "It is NOT the Hitler Show. There is no such program called The Hitler Show. This is about comparing and contrasting the Sherman tank and the Panzer tank in the Battle of the Bulge." To which she replies, "Yes. Exactly. The Hitler Show. We've seen that one." It's a no-win situation.
Fortunately, we mostly agree on our Netflix selections. Except every now and then when I start ordering a bunch of boxing documentaries. She doesn't care for that and will protest by standing in the kitchen for hours at a time silently weeping.
Bravo used to show episodes of The West Wing everyday. They've stopped doing that, which is too bad, because Angie and I could watch West Wing episodes until the cows come home. I've made no secret about the fact that I sincerely believe it to be the finest network television show in the history of broadcasting. At least the first five seasons until Sorkin bailed out. I never get tired of them simply for the writing. It's like going to school every time I see one. Sorkin is a master storyteller and I steal from him relentlessly. I don't know if the likes of it will ever come around again. And the parallels to the current administration are absolutely startling sometimes.
Angie is also a big fan of something called 'The Dog Whisperer,' which is about a Mexican obsessed with being 'The Pack Leader." I don't pay much attention to it, but now and then I look at it for a few minutes. This guy (I think, not surprisingly, his name is 'Cesar') likes to kicks dogs (gently, to be fair) and push them to the ground and demand allegiance from them. He is forever prattling on about being 'The Pack Leader.' These poor dogs, most of them small ones that couldn't hurt a tit-mouse, are bullied into following his every command. Now and then, in his insatiable pursuit of being 'The Pack Leader' he'll stare them down until they're so uncomfortable they roll over and pretend to die. This Cesar guy likes it when they do that and subsequently swaggers around for awhile afterwards touting himself as 'the true and undisputed champion of all Pack Leaders' in broken English. Sounds like a little overcompensating to me. Nonetheless, Angie is convinced this guy is Dr. Doolittle. Frankly, I don't know why he calls himself a 'whisperer,' because he always shouts. His claim, apparently, is that the dog is never wrong but the owners need training. I think his show should be called 'The Dog Bullier.'
Another beautiful day in So Cal. My buddy Jeff and his family came to visit us from Colorado last week and the entire time turned out to be rainy and cold. He'll probably never believe now that Southern California is almost never like that.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Grocery Shopping in Burbank...or, The Battle of Th...
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Grocery Shopping in Burbank...or, The Battle of Th...: "Yesterday was our designated grocery shopping day. To the outsider this may sound fairly innocuous. Not so. We go to about a half dozen d..."
Grocery Shopping in Burbank...or, The Battle of The Armenian Women.
Yesterday was our designated grocery shopping day. To the outsider this may sound fairly innocuous. Not so. We go to about a half dozen different stores for various items. This is complicated enough by itself, but when you add the fact that we usually have a short debate over every purchase, it becomes a day-long ordeal. By the end of the day Angie is at her wit's end and cursing the pre-nup I made her sign.
First we travel over to the actual grocery store, the one that features actual groceries. It has several names; Von's, Pavillions, or Paladium, which is what I call it because I can't remember the first two. I have come to know Paladium like the back of my hand. I know where all the 'naughty' aisles are and where all the 'boring' aisles are. For example, the frozen pizza aisle, which is roughly the length of the autobon, is a 'naughty' aisle. Often times I'll dash off in a frenzied trot as soon as we enter the store and a half hour later Angie has to call me on my cell to find me. It has all the earmarks of a black-ops procedure because at this point it becomes about getting stuff into the cart without Angie seeing it. Fairly easy if I'm clandestine enough. She tends to leave the cart unattended for periods of time while she gropes produce. At this juncture my mission is to get the frozen pizza or handful of frozen burritos or pint of chocolate chip cookie dough into the cart and make a quick retreat without being spotted. I've discovered that she is unwilling to make a scene at the check out counter if the item is already in the cart. If she discovers the item beforehand she can simply toss it aside and plead ignorance. The whole operation demands stealth and strategy on my part.
Next, we drive over to the 'Armenian Market.' Which is code for 'Combat.' The Armenian Market is a hodge-podge of unpronounceable foodstuffs and jams and jellies containing pomegranate and olives. It is also a terrifying experience in that I usually have to grapple middle-aged Armenian women with mustaches. They're a tough and saavy lot, these women. The trick is, I've found over the months, not to let them get you on the ground. Best to use my reach and speed of hand. Just flicker light jabs at them and then wait for an opening when I can really let fly a haymaker. Once they've got you on the ground, they're tenacious. They bite and throw short hooks to the kidneys. And they use their weight advantage to keep you pinned. Plus there's that constant jabbering in their mother tongue, which I'm sure is trash talk, but I can't understand it so it's fairly wasted on me. Now and then another hefty, European, bearded woman will pause in her shopping to deliver a quick, pointed-boot kick to the ribs if I'm already down. They stick together, those Armenians. But, alas, The Armenian Market has 'cheap chicken,' according to Angie, so we have to go. You can't show any fear as you enter The Armenian Market, otherwise they'll swarm you like early morning hungry pigs in the Ozarks. So usually as soon as we enter I bellow at the top of my lungs, "Who wants a piece of me!?" Like timber wolves surprised in their den, they scatter and assess the situation before attacking. This gives Angie, usually, just enough time to get some 'cheap chicken' and make a getaway. Sometimes I take a broom handle with me and start banging it on the wall creating a distraction while she bolts for the chicken. It's all pretty unnerving. I sort of see myself as Charlton Heston in The Omega Man during these trips. Taking on the Armenian women full-on is futile. One has to outsmart them.
After that we drive over to Trader Joe's for the fun stuff. Trader Joe's has stuff never before seen inside the known solar system. It is the Wonka Factory of grocery stores. Plus I've noticed people tend to dress up to go to Trader Joe's. So Angie and I make a quick dash home and change into our hippest clothing before going. It would simply not do to shop in Trader Joe's unless you're properly attired. I also discovered early on that I have to pretend to read the ingedient labels in Trader Joe's. It's part of the experience. I used to just go in and get stuff and throw it in the cart. But as time wore on, I started hearing the whispers, seeing the disapproving stares. Not reading the ingredient labels on the food there is considered unbelievably crass. So now I pick up a jar of peanut butter, pretend to pour over the back label for a few minutes, deep in concentration, occasionally clucking and tisking, and then finally, with a deep sigh, decide to purchase it. Apparently the people that shop at Trader Joe's have a history of accidentally purchasing food laced with cyanide.
After Trader Joe's we go back home and change back into our normal clothes and then drive over to Target, which, according to Angie, has the best deals on paper towels and deoderant. The Target store, here in Burbank, is the best place to spot a celebrity, oddly enough. So I always take my autograph book with me. While Angie scours the shelves in search of an opportunity to save somewhere between 3 and 9 cents, I run up and down the aisles in search of a B-list celebrity. I've been rewarded handsomely a few times and I now have autographs from Michael J. Pollard and Bonnie Franklin, which, of course, I treasure.
When we get home, I have to first treat the cuts and abrasions I've received at the hands of the Armenian women and then help Angie put away the groceries. It is often at this point she discovers the goodies I've managed to slip into the cart throughout the day. Yesterday, in a completely unselfish moment, I managed to get some doggie treats in the cart made entirely of retired mailman parts, ground up. Our dogs, Franny and Zooey are, generally speaking, pacifists, but will viciously attack anything resembling a mailman. I can only guess they've been unfairly treated by the U.S. Postal Service at some point. They hold a grudge.
So, having started our grocery shopping at nine in the morning, we finish, exhausted and exalted, at six in the evening. Both of us, tired yet relatively unscathed, fell onto the couch with a new appreciation of life, of our god-given health, of our good fortune to have survived another day. Next monday it starts all over again; the fear, the anticipation, the planning, the night sweats.
Until then, I'll try and put it out of my mind. I'll try and live each moment as it comes. I'll try and be grateful for every second I have left. I'll try and appreciate the here and now and not obsess over the coming mondays, the looming possibilities of bodily harm, the supressed anxiety of physical combat with cunning and strong Armenian women.
See you tomorrow.
First we travel over to the actual grocery store, the one that features actual groceries. It has several names; Von's, Pavillions, or Paladium, which is what I call it because I can't remember the first two. I have come to know Paladium like the back of my hand. I know where all the 'naughty' aisles are and where all the 'boring' aisles are. For example, the frozen pizza aisle, which is roughly the length of the autobon, is a 'naughty' aisle. Often times I'll dash off in a frenzied trot as soon as we enter the store and a half hour later Angie has to call me on my cell to find me. It has all the earmarks of a black-ops procedure because at this point it becomes about getting stuff into the cart without Angie seeing it. Fairly easy if I'm clandestine enough. She tends to leave the cart unattended for periods of time while she gropes produce. At this juncture my mission is to get the frozen pizza or handful of frozen burritos or pint of chocolate chip cookie dough into the cart and make a quick retreat without being spotted. I've discovered that she is unwilling to make a scene at the check out counter if the item is already in the cart. If she discovers the item beforehand she can simply toss it aside and plead ignorance. The whole operation demands stealth and strategy on my part.
Next, we drive over to the 'Armenian Market.' Which is code for 'Combat.' The Armenian Market is a hodge-podge of unpronounceable foodstuffs and jams and jellies containing pomegranate and olives. It is also a terrifying experience in that I usually have to grapple middle-aged Armenian women with mustaches. They're a tough and saavy lot, these women. The trick is, I've found over the months, not to let them get you on the ground. Best to use my reach and speed of hand. Just flicker light jabs at them and then wait for an opening when I can really let fly a haymaker. Once they've got you on the ground, they're tenacious. They bite and throw short hooks to the kidneys. And they use their weight advantage to keep you pinned. Plus there's that constant jabbering in their mother tongue, which I'm sure is trash talk, but I can't understand it so it's fairly wasted on me. Now and then another hefty, European, bearded woman will pause in her shopping to deliver a quick, pointed-boot kick to the ribs if I'm already down. They stick together, those Armenians. But, alas, The Armenian Market has 'cheap chicken,' according to Angie, so we have to go. You can't show any fear as you enter The Armenian Market, otherwise they'll swarm you like early morning hungry pigs in the Ozarks. So usually as soon as we enter I bellow at the top of my lungs, "Who wants a piece of me!?" Like timber wolves surprised in their den, they scatter and assess the situation before attacking. This gives Angie, usually, just enough time to get some 'cheap chicken' and make a getaway. Sometimes I take a broom handle with me and start banging it on the wall creating a distraction while she bolts for the chicken. It's all pretty unnerving. I sort of see myself as Charlton Heston in The Omega Man during these trips. Taking on the Armenian women full-on is futile. One has to outsmart them.
After that we drive over to Trader Joe's for the fun stuff. Trader Joe's has stuff never before seen inside the known solar system. It is the Wonka Factory of grocery stores. Plus I've noticed people tend to dress up to go to Trader Joe's. So Angie and I make a quick dash home and change into our hippest clothing before going. It would simply not do to shop in Trader Joe's unless you're properly attired. I also discovered early on that I have to pretend to read the ingedient labels in Trader Joe's. It's part of the experience. I used to just go in and get stuff and throw it in the cart. But as time wore on, I started hearing the whispers, seeing the disapproving stares. Not reading the ingredient labels on the food there is considered unbelievably crass. So now I pick up a jar of peanut butter, pretend to pour over the back label for a few minutes, deep in concentration, occasionally clucking and tisking, and then finally, with a deep sigh, decide to purchase it. Apparently the people that shop at Trader Joe's have a history of accidentally purchasing food laced with cyanide.
After Trader Joe's we go back home and change back into our normal clothes and then drive over to Target, which, according to Angie, has the best deals on paper towels and deoderant. The Target store, here in Burbank, is the best place to spot a celebrity, oddly enough. So I always take my autograph book with me. While Angie scours the shelves in search of an opportunity to save somewhere between 3 and 9 cents, I run up and down the aisles in search of a B-list celebrity. I've been rewarded handsomely a few times and I now have autographs from Michael J. Pollard and Bonnie Franklin, which, of course, I treasure.
When we get home, I have to first treat the cuts and abrasions I've received at the hands of the Armenian women and then help Angie put away the groceries. It is often at this point she discovers the goodies I've managed to slip into the cart throughout the day. Yesterday, in a completely unselfish moment, I managed to get some doggie treats in the cart made entirely of retired mailman parts, ground up. Our dogs, Franny and Zooey are, generally speaking, pacifists, but will viciously attack anything resembling a mailman. I can only guess they've been unfairly treated by the U.S. Postal Service at some point. They hold a grudge.
So, having started our grocery shopping at nine in the morning, we finish, exhausted and exalted, at six in the evening. Both of us, tired yet relatively unscathed, fell onto the couch with a new appreciation of life, of our god-given health, of our good fortune to have survived another day. Next monday it starts all over again; the fear, the anticipation, the planning, the night sweats.
Until then, I'll try and put it out of my mind. I'll try and live each moment as it comes. I'll try and be grateful for every second I have left. I'll try and appreciate the here and now and not obsess over the coming mondays, the looming possibilities of bodily harm, the supressed anxiety of physical combat with cunning and strong Armenian women.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Groucho Marx and Memories of Dead Friends.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Groucho Marx and Memories of Dead Friends.: "Because I was in serious need of distraction last night I watched The Marx Brothers in Animal Crackers on TCM. I hadn't seen it in thirty y..."
Groucho Marx and Memories of Dead Friends.
Because I was in serious need of distraction last night I watched The Marx Brothers in Animal Crackers on TCM. I hadn't seen it in thirty years, maybe longer. It is the film that contains Groucho's famous line, "I shot an elephant in my pajamas. What he was doing in my panjamas, I'll never know."
The old film (1930) was made right after the advent of sound and it certainly looks it. One can see Groucho looking off to the crew or director for approval at times. The camera is essentially stationary and they simply do a play in front of it. Clearly, no one has any idea what to do with this new medium called motion pictures. And yet, there's Groucho, right in the middle of it all, being ridiculously funny. Eighty one years after it was made there I am, sitting on my couch giggling uncontrollably while my wife looked at me as though I were daft. Everything about the movie is just horribly dated, even Harpo (although he has his moments of absurdity). But Groucho still holds up. He's still funny. He's still Groucho.
There's a wonderful book out there, out of print now I think, called 'The Groucho Letters.' It is exactly that. Letters from and to Groucho Marx. It is a really fun, surprisingly thought-provoking book. Groucho Marx, oddly, kept a running dialogue with the likes of Einstein, John Kennedy, Winston Churchill and Jack Benny. The letters, some absurd, others shockingly serious and intelligent, are a pleasure to read. Groucho was self-educated but unbelievably bright. And one can never predict which subject he will choose to take seriously. I recommend the book highly. It's easy to understand why the likes of Dick Cavett and Woody Allen have always worshipped at the Groucho altar.
There are hundreds of Groucho stories out there amongst old timers like myself. When I was doing Praying Small over in NoHo last year, there was a show right next to mine, a new musical, based on The Marx Brothers and I would stand by the stage door chatting with a couple of the actors from that show sharing Groucho stories. My favorite has always been one from his television show in the fifties called 'You Bet Your Life.' It was a simple premise, designed to let Groucho adlib and talk about whatever was on his mind. The guest would come out, usually an everyman in an everyday job, and Groucho would try and get him to say 'the secret word' during conversation at which point a duck would drop from the ceiling and he would win a few hundred bucks. Not the duck, the guest. This is the one I saw many years ago on a 'blooper reel.' The man came out and sat and the conversation went like this:
Groucho: So. Do you have any children?
Man: Why, yes, Groucho, I do.
Groucho: Good, good. How many do you have?
Man: We have 13 children.
Groucho: Really? Hm. Why so many?
Man: Well, Groucho, I love my wife.
Groucho: Uh huh. Well, I love my cigar but I take it out now and then.
Pure Groucho and still funny. Naturally, it was edited out seeing how it was 1955 or something.
So, my buddy Jeff Wood and his delightful family came to stay with us last week while they made a couple of trips to Disneyland. It was a great joy to hang out with Jeff again after some twenty years or so. Like most old friends it was as though we'd been together only the day before. Our friendship was instantly rekindled and I realized why I had chosen him as a friend to begin with. Now if I could just get him to drop everything and move out here and get back into directing. Probably not gonna happen. Nonetheless, a good time was had by all and I think, I hope anyway, his little girls had a great time. Disneyland is something every little girl should experience at least once.
On Thursday night we played a concentrated yet fun game of Trival Pursuit. Afterwards, as another old friend, John Bader, was leaving to go home, someone brought up the fact that it would be perfect if our late friend, Robert Fiedler, could have been here. Robert died about a year and half ago from an overdose. But the four of us were together often back in our NY days and all three of us, John, Jeff and myself, were somehow acutely aware that he wasn't with us. Robert, in and out of a terrifying lifestyle of drugs and booze, was nonetheless part of who we were, what we stood for, where we were going, how we lived. His absence, strangely, was felt that night. His name was mentioned and we all stood there, by my front door, momentarily silent and giving him an instant of tribute in an entirely unpremeditated way. No one really had anything to say about it. Death and unfairness has intruded upon all of our lives all too often over the past two decades and, like the older men we are now, we didn't drag the pain out, simply acknowledged it and moved on. Robert, in all his predictable insanity, was still a chunk of that time for us. His memory is a bit of an unhealed scab that none of us like to itch. There but for the grace of God...and so on and so forth.
Big audition tomorrow, more shooting on the new film on Thursday, rewrites on the new play, a leisurely yet pleasantly examined day planned. The dogs need a walk, I have to take my diabetes medicine, Angie is making her list of things to do. Beautiful, exquisite, sensible, magical mundanity. Life is good.
See you tomorrow.
The old film (1930) was made right after the advent of sound and it certainly looks it. One can see Groucho looking off to the crew or director for approval at times. The camera is essentially stationary and they simply do a play in front of it. Clearly, no one has any idea what to do with this new medium called motion pictures. And yet, there's Groucho, right in the middle of it all, being ridiculously funny. Eighty one years after it was made there I am, sitting on my couch giggling uncontrollably while my wife looked at me as though I were daft. Everything about the movie is just horribly dated, even Harpo (although he has his moments of absurdity). But Groucho still holds up. He's still funny. He's still Groucho.
There's a wonderful book out there, out of print now I think, called 'The Groucho Letters.' It is exactly that. Letters from and to Groucho Marx. It is a really fun, surprisingly thought-provoking book. Groucho Marx, oddly, kept a running dialogue with the likes of Einstein, John Kennedy, Winston Churchill and Jack Benny. The letters, some absurd, others shockingly serious and intelligent, are a pleasure to read. Groucho was self-educated but unbelievably bright. And one can never predict which subject he will choose to take seriously. I recommend the book highly. It's easy to understand why the likes of Dick Cavett and Woody Allen have always worshipped at the Groucho altar.
There are hundreds of Groucho stories out there amongst old timers like myself. When I was doing Praying Small over in NoHo last year, there was a show right next to mine, a new musical, based on The Marx Brothers and I would stand by the stage door chatting with a couple of the actors from that show sharing Groucho stories. My favorite has always been one from his television show in the fifties called 'You Bet Your Life.' It was a simple premise, designed to let Groucho adlib and talk about whatever was on his mind. The guest would come out, usually an everyman in an everyday job, and Groucho would try and get him to say 'the secret word' during conversation at which point a duck would drop from the ceiling and he would win a few hundred bucks. Not the duck, the guest. This is the one I saw many years ago on a 'blooper reel.' The man came out and sat and the conversation went like this:
Groucho: So. Do you have any children?
Man: Why, yes, Groucho, I do.
Groucho: Good, good. How many do you have?
Man: We have 13 children.
Groucho: Really? Hm. Why so many?
Man: Well, Groucho, I love my wife.
Groucho: Uh huh. Well, I love my cigar but I take it out now and then.
Pure Groucho and still funny. Naturally, it was edited out seeing how it was 1955 or something.
So, my buddy Jeff Wood and his delightful family came to stay with us last week while they made a couple of trips to Disneyland. It was a great joy to hang out with Jeff again after some twenty years or so. Like most old friends it was as though we'd been together only the day before. Our friendship was instantly rekindled and I realized why I had chosen him as a friend to begin with. Now if I could just get him to drop everything and move out here and get back into directing. Probably not gonna happen. Nonetheless, a good time was had by all and I think, I hope anyway, his little girls had a great time. Disneyland is something every little girl should experience at least once.
On Thursday night we played a concentrated yet fun game of Trival Pursuit. Afterwards, as another old friend, John Bader, was leaving to go home, someone brought up the fact that it would be perfect if our late friend, Robert Fiedler, could have been here. Robert died about a year and half ago from an overdose. But the four of us were together often back in our NY days and all three of us, John, Jeff and myself, were somehow acutely aware that he wasn't with us. Robert, in and out of a terrifying lifestyle of drugs and booze, was nonetheless part of who we were, what we stood for, where we were going, how we lived. His absence, strangely, was felt that night. His name was mentioned and we all stood there, by my front door, momentarily silent and giving him an instant of tribute in an entirely unpremeditated way. No one really had anything to say about it. Death and unfairness has intruded upon all of our lives all too often over the past two decades and, like the older men we are now, we didn't drag the pain out, simply acknowledged it and moved on. Robert, in all his predictable insanity, was still a chunk of that time for us. His memory is a bit of an unhealed scab that none of us like to itch. There but for the grace of God...and so on and so forth.
Big audition tomorrow, more shooting on the new film on Thursday, rewrites on the new play, a leisurely yet pleasantly examined day planned. The dogs need a walk, I have to take my diabetes medicine, Angie is making her list of things to do. Beautiful, exquisite, sensible, magical mundanity. Life is good.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Labcoats and Workshops.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Labcoats and Workshops.: "I finished my first day of shooting on this new film yesterday. It was a relatively smooth shoot, well organized, pre-planned to the smalle..."
Labcoats and Workshops.
I finished my first day of shooting on this new film yesterday. It was a relatively smooth shoot, well organized, pre-planned to the smallest detail, just like I like shoots to go. But I was reminded again how important that first shot is before we move on to coverage and single shots and close-ups. If the actor doesn't make a choice in that first shot, he can't go back and add something later, because, obviously they all have to match. I'm still very much a newbie when it comes to this stuff, so it can be frustrating. Although yesterday the entire day of shooting had me in bed so there wasn't a lot of room for play anyway. Nonetheless, it was a valuable lesson. Again.
I have written, in this blog in fact, that I considered film work to be by far the easier of the two types of acting - stage and film. That's a sweeping and unecessarily bombastic statement and I made it for the sake of argument. Nonetheless, I still believe it to hold a kernel of truth. A friend of mine, a guy that works continuously in film and tv out here, took me to task for that statement when I wrote it. He's right, of course, but I wrote it not to denigrate film acting, but to amplify the difficulty of stage acting, the difficulty of sustained, concentrated work. No do overs, no second takes, no 'oops, I made a mistake.'
I've finished, at least the first draft, of a play I've been tinkering with for about six months now, tentatively titled THE PROMISE. I rather like it so far. Not to say I'll feel the same in about ten minutes. But I think it's got some possibilities. Ideally, I'd like to mount it as a staged reading sometime in April or May. As I did with Bachelor's Graveyard, another play of mine, just throw it out there and see what happens. Not a workshop or a 'talkback,' I hate those. What's more, I don't believe in them. I've never understood why playwrights feel the need to 'workshop' something they've written. When was the last time you heard of a novel being 'workshopped?' Writing by committe holds no allure for me. And I have no interest whatsoever of changing a single word of a play simply because an audience member suggests I do so, an audience member with absolutely no vested interest in the play to begin with. Workshopping a play is one of the silliest things about theatre I've ever run across and I'm a bit appalled at playwrights who allow it. Again, I'm reminded of that wonderful quote from George S. Kauffman, "Every human being has four needs in life: the need for shelter, the need for food, the need to procreate and the need to rewrite someone else's play."
Now reading a play out loud sitting around a table with a core group of trusted friends, that's another thing. I've done that. It hardly qualifies as 'workshopping,' however.
I have another big audition this Tuesday. An out of town gig that I'd kinda like to do. We'll see.
I had a long conversation recently with one of my agents about my hair...or to be more precise, my lack of hair. I've grown it long for ADDING MACHINE. Long on the sides, that is. It tends to magnify the fact that I'm balding to begin with. He would like me to 'rinse' it (dye it) and have some photos taken with it like that. He (and for that matter, nearly every actor I've talked to out here in Los Angeles) thinks it would behoove me to do so because casting directors apparently have no imagination whatsoever and can't conceive of an actor changing his or her appearance for a role. When I first heard of this particular line of thought I simply didn't believe it. And frankly, I tried hard not to believe it for months and months. Now, I'm not so sure. I have personally run across this sort of thing several times now, much to my genuine surprise, and I think there may be something to it. It's not only silly, it's demeaning. Yet, I have to make a decision about it this week because clearly there is some truth to it.
Two actors are in a room auditioning for the part of a doctor. The best actor doesn't get the role because the other actor is wearing a white lab coat. Casting directors, at least most of the ones I've met, seem to be unable to imagine the better of the two actors wearing a lab coat. Now, I know this sounds preposterous, even to the layman, but it's true. It's a decided truism in Los Angeles. I can only imagine the conversation following the audition, "Well, Bob is the much better actor. He's really good. But I just don't see him playing a doctor. But Gunther, although really not very good, was wearing that doctor's coat. He really looked like a doctor. Let's go with him."
This is the part of being an actor I despise. It's no wonder actors out here obsess over their head shots.
Anyway, that's all kvetching. I was talking to a friend of mine the other day about it. A fairly famous actor, one you'd recognize immediately, and he said to me, "You know, they're either going to 'get' you or not. The ones that don't aren't going to play a big part in your career one way or another anyway. Eventually, simply by the law of averages, you're going to run across a casting director that 'gets' you. And then everything will change." I hope he's right. He told me he was out here for nearly five years before someone 'got' him. Shortly after he was playing the lead in a very successful television series.
Ah, the life of an actor. The heights of absurdity. And yet, and yet, we keep going back for more. Geez.
See you tomorrow.
I have written, in this blog in fact, that I considered film work to be by far the easier of the two types of acting - stage and film. That's a sweeping and unecessarily bombastic statement and I made it for the sake of argument. Nonetheless, I still believe it to hold a kernel of truth. A friend of mine, a guy that works continuously in film and tv out here, took me to task for that statement when I wrote it. He's right, of course, but I wrote it not to denigrate film acting, but to amplify the difficulty of stage acting, the difficulty of sustained, concentrated work. No do overs, no second takes, no 'oops, I made a mistake.'
I've finished, at least the first draft, of a play I've been tinkering with for about six months now, tentatively titled THE PROMISE. I rather like it so far. Not to say I'll feel the same in about ten minutes. But I think it's got some possibilities. Ideally, I'd like to mount it as a staged reading sometime in April or May. As I did with Bachelor's Graveyard, another play of mine, just throw it out there and see what happens. Not a workshop or a 'talkback,' I hate those. What's more, I don't believe in them. I've never understood why playwrights feel the need to 'workshop' something they've written. When was the last time you heard of a novel being 'workshopped?' Writing by committe holds no allure for me. And I have no interest whatsoever of changing a single word of a play simply because an audience member suggests I do so, an audience member with absolutely no vested interest in the play to begin with. Workshopping a play is one of the silliest things about theatre I've ever run across and I'm a bit appalled at playwrights who allow it. Again, I'm reminded of that wonderful quote from George S. Kauffman, "Every human being has four needs in life: the need for shelter, the need for food, the need to procreate and the need to rewrite someone else's play."
Now reading a play out loud sitting around a table with a core group of trusted friends, that's another thing. I've done that. It hardly qualifies as 'workshopping,' however.
I have another big audition this Tuesday. An out of town gig that I'd kinda like to do. We'll see.
I had a long conversation recently with one of my agents about my hair...or to be more precise, my lack of hair. I've grown it long for ADDING MACHINE. Long on the sides, that is. It tends to magnify the fact that I'm balding to begin with. He would like me to 'rinse' it (dye it) and have some photos taken with it like that. He (and for that matter, nearly every actor I've talked to out here in Los Angeles) thinks it would behoove me to do so because casting directors apparently have no imagination whatsoever and can't conceive of an actor changing his or her appearance for a role. When I first heard of this particular line of thought I simply didn't believe it. And frankly, I tried hard not to believe it for months and months. Now, I'm not so sure. I have personally run across this sort of thing several times now, much to my genuine surprise, and I think there may be something to it. It's not only silly, it's demeaning. Yet, I have to make a decision about it this week because clearly there is some truth to it.
Two actors are in a room auditioning for the part of a doctor. The best actor doesn't get the role because the other actor is wearing a white lab coat. Casting directors, at least most of the ones I've met, seem to be unable to imagine the better of the two actors wearing a lab coat. Now, I know this sounds preposterous, even to the layman, but it's true. It's a decided truism in Los Angeles. I can only imagine the conversation following the audition, "Well, Bob is the much better actor. He's really good. But I just don't see him playing a doctor. But Gunther, although really not very good, was wearing that doctor's coat. He really looked like a doctor. Let's go with him."
This is the part of being an actor I despise. It's no wonder actors out here obsess over their head shots.
Anyway, that's all kvetching. I was talking to a friend of mine the other day about it. A fairly famous actor, one you'd recognize immediately, and he said to me, "You know, they're either going to 'get' you or not. The ones that don't aren't going to play a big part in your career one way or another anyway. Eventually, simply by the law of averages, you're going to run across a casting director that 'gets' you. And then everything will change." I hope he's right. He told me he was out here for nearly five years before someone 'got' him. Shortly after he was playing the lead in a very successful television series.
Ah, the life of an actor. The heights of absurdity. And yet, and yet, we keep going back for more. Geez.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Burton, Taylor and Virginia Woolf.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Burton, Taylor and Virginia Woolf.: "I take particular joy in introducing my wife to old films she's never gotten around to watching. On the Waterfront, Come Back, Little Sheba..."
Burton, Taylor and Virginia Woolf.
I take particular joy in introducing my wife to old films she's never gotten around to watching. On the Waterfront, Come Back, Little Sheba, and last night, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf in homage to the recent passing of Elizabeth Taylor. She loved it.
Taylor won an Oscar for the role, as well as a number of other awards, and there's no getting around that she's especially good in this film, arguably her finest screen performance. But it is Burton that dazzles me. This guy had some chops. I mean, I've always known that. Most don't remember or realize that in the late fifties and early sixties he was generally considered the guy that would succeed Olivier as THE English actor of his generation. Olivier thought so. Gielgud thought so. His contemporaries (O'Toole, Guiness, Redgrave, Finney, Courtney, Harris, Bates, Hopkins, Scofield) thought so. And then two remarkable stage performances, nearly back to back, Camelot and Hamlet on the NY stage, and he was set to claim the mantle from the aging Olivier. Alas, it was not to be.
Two things happened to Burton around this time. Booze and Elizabeth Taylor. But neither can be seriously blamed for Burton's drift away from the stage. For one thing Burton had always been a hard drinker and, according to his diaries, it wasn't until the late sixties that drinking really started to intrude upon his work. And by all accounts Taylor always encouraged him to return to the stage. But Burton, like Anthony Hopkins, chose film as his medium. He didn't settle for it, as is often thought, he chose it. He wanted to be rich. He wanted to be a movie stah. He chose film. And by the time Virginia Woolf rolled around, he was, indeed, a full-fledged movie star. And, in my opinion anyway, he gives one of the five or ten finest performances ever captured on film in it.
His diaires, published in the eighties after his death, are fascinating. If you're an actor and haven't read them, I highly recommend them. He was entirely cognizant of his choices. Peter O'Toole, another actor that chose the screen over the stage, was probably his best 'actor' friend and Burton never stopped comparing himself to O'Toole. They were the British equivalent to Brando and Clift a decade earlier in America. They competed on a very high level. Not overtly so, perhaps, but they did. O'Toole always admired Burton's ability to be 'absolutely still' and, in his diaries, Burton admired O'Toole's 'vocal prowess.'
In fact, there is an oft-repeated story of the two, legendary drinkers both, having a long snort in the early sixties and deciding to do separate versions of Hamlet. One would do it in London and one would do it in NY. They actually flipped a coin (according to Burton they did this in the fabled Lion's Pub in New York - O'Toole, oddly, claims it never happened). Burton won the toss and chose New York. Then they flipped again for director. O'Toole is said to have won the second toss and chose Olivier to direct, Burton settled for Gielgud. Subsequently Laurence Olivier directed Peter O'Toole in the inaugural production of The National Theater in London and Burton was directed by John Gielgud and opened on Broadway. The Burton Hamlet was a smash, famous even today among Shakespeare-philes. O'Toole's Hamlet is equally famous for all the opposite reasons. It was apparently terrible. Olivier chose to do the full, four-hour text and stage a labourious and ultimately nearly unwatchable version. Gielgud cut the text to the bare bones, did it on a blank stage in rehearsal clothing and Burton's Hamlet still holds the record today as the longest running Hamlet on Broadway.
But I digress. All of this brings us to Edward Albee's remarkable piece of writing, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. It was a surprise stage hit and Taylor and Burton actually saw it there as members of the audience. Taylor very much wanted the film to be made and back then, Liz Taylor had a considerable amount of clout in the Hollywood community. What Liz wanted, she usually got. She not only got the project green-lighted, she also demanded it be directed by a young nobody with no film credits named Mike Nichols. I have had the great privilege to sit and talk with Mike Nichols about that film. Some years back I picked his brain for several hours about that film and a few others he directed. He has mostly fond memories of it. For one thing, he told me, he was very clearly under the protective umbrella of Elizabeth Taylor so the studio didn't mess with him too much. They were too afraid of Dame Liz. He also claims Burton was beyond good. He showed up on day one letter-perfect, the entire script memorized and ready to go. He said Burton told him on the first day of shooting he had 'given up the drink' for the duration of the shoot. Burton, even then, was acutely aware of his own alcoholism. He also said the 'bergen and water' speech Burton gives halfway through the movie, sitting on the tree swing with a very young George Segal, is perhaps the best piece of film acting he's ever seen. He said Burton, being a trained stage actor, nailed it all on the first take and simply walked off set as though nothing had happened immediately following it, leaving Nichols and dozens of crew members standing there in awe. He also said that at one point a few 'suits' from Warner Brothers were standing around on set, generally getting in everyone's way, occasionally offering unsolicited advice, suddenly found themselves in the path of Liz Taylor's legendary temper. She told them she would not say one more word in front of a camera unless they immediately vacated the set to never return. She also, according to Nichols, told them she would personally see to it they never 'got near a movie studio again' if they sent one more 'memo' to Mike Nichols suggesting ways to direct the film. It apparently worked because Nichols said he never saw them again and never recieved another 'memo' from the studio.
Taylor, generally regarded as not so much a great actress as a great movie star, had the amazing ability to notch up her game when working opposite an actor of greater natural ability. She did it with Clift in A Place in the Sun, she did it with Newman in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, she did it with Brando in Reflections in a Golden Eye and she, most famously, does it with Burton in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. She matches his work every step of the way. And that ain't no small thing. There are moments in this film in which Richard Burton is so good it's sort of paralyzing to watch him (if you're an actor and really 'get' what he's doing). And there, right along side him, is Liz Taylor, blowing the roof off. Taylor, despite a whole plethora of laughable performances later in her career, could stand toe to toe with the best in the business back in those days.
Buton and Taylor, booze fueled and overexposed, eventually self-destructed in an all-too-public way as nearly everyone now knows. They divorced, remarried, divorced again and eventually collapsed from their own self-indulgence. Burton never again gave the kind of performance he gives in Virginia Woolf. It was Taylor's swan song, too, I think. She was and always will remain "Elizabeth Taylor" but I really think that was her last great effort as an bonafide actress. Burton returned to the stage in the late seventies in Equus and recieved one of my favorite reviews for that play from a very famous and legendarily caustic NY critic: "Richard Burton may be the most promising middle-aged actor on the planet." That always made me chuckle.
It's hard to comprehend they are both now gone. Burton died way too young from drink and incomprehensibly hard living. Taylor, the ultimate survivor, finally succumbed a few days ago. I read an interview with her a few years ago, can't remember the magazine, but one of the quotes made me smile. She said, when asked about her many marriages, 'There was Richard. And then there were all the others."
I just love that.
See you tomorrow.
Taylor won an Oscar for the role, as well as a number of other awards, and there's no getting around that she's especially good in this film, arguably her finest screen performance. But it is Burton that dazzles me. This guy had some chops. I mean, I've always known that. Most don't remember or realize that in the late fifties and early sixties he was generally considered the guy that would succeed Olivier as THE English actor of his generation. Olivier thought so. Gielgud thought so. His contemporaries (O'Toole, Guiness, Redgrave, Finney, Courtney, Harris, Bates, Hopkins, Scofield) thought so. And then two remarkable stage performances, nearly back to back, Camelot and Hamlet on the NY stage, and he was set to claim the mantle from the aging Olivier. Alas, it was not to be.
Two things happened to Burton around this time. Booze and Elizabeth Taylor. But neither can be seriously blamed for Burton's drift away from the stage. For one thing Burton had always been a hard drinker and, according to his diaries, it wasn't until the late sixties that drinking really started to intrude upon his work. And by all accounts Taylor always encouraged him to return to the stage. But Burton, like Anthony Hopkins, chose film as his medium. He didn't settle for it, as is often thought, he chose it. He wanted to be rich. He wanted to be a movie stah. He chose film. And by the time Virginia Woolf rolled around, he was, indeed, a full-fledged movie star. And, in my opinion anyway, he gives one of the five or ten finest performances ever captured on film in it.
His diaires, published in the eighties after his death, are fascinating. If you're an actor and haven't read them, I highly recommend them. He was entirely cognizant of his choices. Peter O'Toole, another actor that chose the screen over the stage, was probably his best 'actor' friend and Burton never stopped comparing himself to O'Toole. They were the British equivalent to Brando and Clift a decade earlier in America. They competed on a very high level. Not overtly so, perhaps, but they did. O'Toole always admired Burton's ability to be 'absolutely still' and, in his diaries, Burton admired O'Toole's 'vocal prowess.'
In fact, there is an oft-repeated story of the two, legendary drinkers both, having a long snort in the early sixties and deciding to do separate versions of Hamlet. One would do it in London and one would do it in NY. They actually flipped a coin (according to Burton they did this in the fabled Lion's Pub in New York - O'Toole, oddly, claims it never happened). Burton won the toss and chose New York. Then they flipped again for director. O'Toole is said to have won the second toss and chose Olivier to direct, Burton settled for Gielgud. Subsequently Laurence Olivier directed Peter O'Toole in the inaugural production of The National Theater in London and Burton was directed by John Gielgud and opened on Broadway. The Burton Hamlet was a smash, famous even today among Shakespeare-philes. O'Toole's Hamlet is equally famous for all the opposite reasons. It was apparently terrible. Olivier chose to do the full, four-hour text and stage a labourious and ultimately nearly unwatchable version. Gielgud cut the text to the bare bones, did it on a blank stage in rehearsal clothing and Burton's Hamlet still holds the record today as the longest running Hamlet on Broadway.
But I digress. All of this brings us to Edward Albee's remarkable piece of writing, Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. It was a surprise stage hit and Taylor and Burton actually saw it there as members of the audience. Taylor very much wanted the film to be made and back then, Liz Taylor had a considerable amount of clout in the Hollywood community. What Liz wanted, she usually got. She not only got the project green-lighted, she also demanded it be directed by a young nobody with no film credits named Mike Nichols. I have had the great privilege to sit and talk with Mike Nichols about that film. Some years back I picked his brain for several hours about that film and a few others he directed. He has mostly fond memories of it. For one thing, he told me, he was very clearly under the protective umbrella of Elizabeth Taylor so the studio didn't mess with him too much. They were too afraid of Dame Liz. He also claims Burton was beyond good. He showed up on day one letter-perfect, the entire script memorized and ready to go. He said Burton told him on the first day of shooting he had 'given up the drink' for the duration of the shoot. Burton, even then, was acutely aware of his own alcoholism. He also said the 'bergen and water' speech Burton gives halfway through the movie, sitting on the tree swing with a very young George Segal, is perhaps the best piece of film acting he's ever seen. He said Burton, being a trained stage actor, nailed it all on the first take and simply walked off set as though nothing had happened immediately following it, leaving Nichols and dozens of crew members standing there in awe. He also said that at one point a few 'suits' from Warner Brothers were standing around on set, generally getting in everyone's way, occasionally offering unsolicited advice, suddenly found themselves in the path of Liz Taylor's legendary temper. She told them she would not say one more word in front of a camera unless they immediately vacated the set to never return. She also, according to Nichols, told them she would personally see to it they never 'got near a movie studio again' if they sent one more 'memo' to Mike Nichols suggesting ways to direct the film. It apparently worked because Nichols said he never saw them again and never recieved another 'memo' from the studio.
Taylor, generally regarded as not so much a great actress as a great movie star, had the amazing ability to notch up her game when working opposite an actor of greater natural ability. She did it with Clift in A Place in the Sun, she did it with Newman in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, she did it with Brando in Reflections in a Golden Eye and she, most famously, does it with Burton in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. She matches his work every step of the way. And that ain't no small thing. There are moments in this film in which Richard Burton is so good it's sort of paralyzing to watch him (if you're an actor and really 'get' what he's doing). And there, right along side him, is Liz Taylor, blowing the roof off. Taylor, despite a whole plethora of laughable performances later in her career, could stand toe to toe with the best in the business back in those days.
Buton and Taylor, booze fueled and overexposed, eventually self-destructed in an all-too-public way as nearly everyone now knows. They divorced, remarried, divorced again and eventually collapsed from their own self-indulgence. Burton never again gave the kind of performance he gives in Virginia Woolf. It was Taylor's swan song, too, I think. She was and always will remain "Elizabeth Taylor" but I really think that was her last great effort as an bonafide actress. Burton returned to the stage in the late seventies in Equus and recieved one of my favorite reviews for that play from a very famous and legendarily caustic NY critic: "Richard Burton may be the most promising middle-aged actor on the planet." That always made me chuckle.
It's hard to comprehend they are both now gone. Burton died way too young from drink and incomprehensibly hard living. Taylor, the ultimate survivor, finally succumbed a few days ago. I read an interview with her a few years ago, can't remember the magazine, but one of the quotes made me smile. She said, when asked about her many marriages, 'There was Richard. And then there were all the others."
I just love that.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Baseball.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Baseball.: "I watched a film I hadn't seen in a long time last night...The Natural, with Robert Redford. I've become, over the last few years, a bit of..."
Baseball.
I watched a film I hadn't seen in a long time last night...The Natural, with Robert Redford. I've become, over the last few years, a bit of a snob about watching movies; I simply won't watch them on regular television. Commercials kill a film and I can't stand to see the wreckage anymore. So I had saved The Natural from TCM, one of my favorite channels, and took a look at it late last night.
I remember when the movie first came out. I liked it. I liked Redford and I especially liked Wilford Brimley in it. What a wonderful character actor Brimley was. The epitome of minimalism.
Over the years, The Natural has taken on new meaning for me. And last night, seeing it again for the first time in a couple of decades, I was truly moved by it. Redford is perfectly cast, he's rarely been better, and the story, especially the baseball sequences, is terribly moving.
Baseball has, with the possible exception of boxing, been the sport that Hollywood now and then gets exactly right. There are a few out there about the sport that the industry has done right: The Natural, of course, Bang the Drum Slowly, Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, a couple of others.
And unlike a lot of films about the sport, Redford really looks like he knows how to play the game. For those of us that have actually played a little baseball in our lives, it's the little things that add up. For example, Redford is seen throwing the ball a number of times in slo-mo. The guy throws it right...eyes right, arm extends far enough back, full overhead arc, release is right, follow through right, fingers down, right hip pull over in the exact right vortex following the release; he's got it down. Occasionally one sees an actor play baseball on screen that is just laughable...Tony Perkins in Fear Strikes Out, John Goodman in The Babe, Gary Cooper in The Lou Gehrig Story (or whatever that one was called), some others. Four others I've noticed really nailed it, too. Costner looked like a real baseball player in his trilogy of baseball films, Charlie Sheen could really throw a ball...and DeNiro and Moriarty looked picture perfect in Bang the Drum...but most of the time, it's easy to spot the non-player.
Anyone, in any walk of life, that has put aside the true passion in their lives only to return to it later in life, can identify with this film, I think. Hence my own fondness for it. I think Field of Dreams is the only Baseball movie that I've enjoyed more over repeated viewings. I can still quote, word for word, James Earl Jones beautiful speech about baseball from that movie. "...and through it all - Baseball. Baseball."
Years ago I wrote a one-act called 'Our Generation' in which I played a number of different characters. In it, I took a shot at baseball myself and wrote a long monologue in the piece about it. Mostly it was about the perfect symmetry of the sport. There is a pureness about Baseball, an unsullied American pureness, that allows it to stand alone among other sports. And the simple fact that it is forever linked with Summer doesn't hurt, either.
The Natural, like Field of Dreams, is filled with really beautiful, haunting images. It's mythical film making, very Spielberg-esque. The final shot of the stadium lights being shattered by the towering home run is a visual for the ages. And even though I've seen it a few times, I am always moved by it. It is the great statement on comebacks. "America is the land of second acts," says an old quote I personally hold dear, and The Natural and that last shot in particular, is a joyous celebration of that truism.
I miss playing the game. After high school, I mostly played softball, especially in New York and highly competitive games in Central Park, but I'd like to find a league out here in LA to get involved with. Of course, it would have to be the 'old guy's' league. I played with a theatre company in Chicago for awhile, but it was mostly an excuse for people to drink beer, which is fine and dandy, but I get very intense when it comes to softball, so it wasn't really satisfying for me. Watching the film late last night made me decide to do some research and find a league here in LA before the summer is upon us.
Okay...got an audition in a couple of hours. Gotta sing a little ditty for it. Frankly, I'm kinda over singing little ditties, but whaddayagonna do?
See you tomorrow.
I remember when the movie first came out. I liked it. I liked Redford and I especially liked Wilford Brimley in it. What a wonderful character actor Brimley was. The epitome of minimalism.
Over the years, The Natural has taken on new meaning for me. And last night, seeing it again for the first time in a couple of decades, I was truly moved by it. Redford is perfectly cast, he's rarely been better, and the story, especially the baseball sequences, is terribly moving.
Baseball has, with the possible exception of boxing, been the sport that Hollywood now and then gets exactly right. There are a few out there about the sport that the industry has done right: The Natural, of course, Bang the Drum Slowly, Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, a couple of others.
And unlike a lot of films about the sport, Redford really looks like he knows how to play the game. For those of us that have actually played a little baseball in our lives, it's the little things that add up. For example, Redford is seen throwing the ball a number of times in slo-mo. The guy throws it right...eyes right, arm extends far enough back, full overhead arc, release is right, follow through right, fingers down, right hip pull over in the exact right vortex following the release; he's got it down. Occasionally one sees an actor play baseball on screen that is just laughable...Tony Perkins in Fear Strikes Out, John Goodman in The Babe, Gary Cooper in The Lou Gehrig Story (or whatever that one was called), some others. Four others I've noticed really nailed it, too. Costner looked like a real baseball player in his trilogy of baseball films, Charlie Sheen could really throw a ball...and DeNiro and Moriarty looked picture perfect in Bang the Drum...but most of the time, it's easy to spot the non-player.
Anyone, in any walk of life, that has put aside the true passion in their lives only to return to it later in life, can identify with this film, I think. Hence my own fondness for it. I think Field of Dreams is the only Baseball movie that I've enjoyed more over repeated viewings. I can still quote, word for word, James Earl Jones beautiful speech about baseball from that movie. "...and through it all - Baseball. Baseball."
Years ago I wrote a one-act called 'Our Generation' in which I played a number of different characters. In it, I took a shot at baseball myself and wrote a long monologue in the piece about it. Mostly it was about the perfect symmetry of the sport. There is a pureness about Baseball, an unsullied American pureness, that allows it to stand alone among other sports. And the simple fact that it is forever linked with Summer doesn't hurt, either.
The Natural, like Field of Dreams, is filled with really beautiful, haunting images. It's mythical film making, very Spielberg-esque. The final shot of the stadium lights being shattered by the towering home run is a visual for the ages. And even though I've seen it a few times, I am always moved by it. It is the great statement on comebacks. "America is the land of second acts," says an old quote I personally hold dear, and The Natural and that last shot in particular, is a joyous celebration of that truism.
I miss playing the game. After high school, I mostly played softball, especially in New York and highly competitive games in Central Park, but I'd like to find a league out here in LA to get involved with. Of course, it would have to be the 'old guy's' league. I played with a theatre company in Chicago for awhile, but it was mostly an excuse for people to drink beer, which is fine and dandy, but I get very intense when it comes to softball, so it wasn't really satisfying for me. Watching the film late last night made me decide to do some research and find a league here in LA before the summer is upon us.
Okay...got an audition in a couple of hours. Gotta sing a little ditty for it. Frankly, I'm kinda over singing little ditties, but whaddayagonna do?
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Closing of the Beast.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Closing of the Beast.: "Well, we closed this beast of a show last night amidst great fanfare and a stunning sitting ovation. Actually, it was another full house an..."
The Closing of the Beast.
Well, we closed this beast of a show last night amidst great fanfare and a stunning sitting ovation. Actually, it was another full house and a very appreciative audience. As I've said before, this show ain't your father's oldsmobile, it's not for everyone's taste; it's a big, full, rich, thinking man's musical, really a chamber opera, and those that 'get it' are generally overwhelmed by it. And it is, upon reflection, the single most difficult role I've done in 30 years on the professional stage.
Our last show was a corker, too. My dear friends Tara Lynn Orr and Colin Walker were in the audience last night, both veteran actors, and they loved it. I can always tell right away. As I walk up to someone that has just seen it, there are usually one of two expressions, either simple confusion or a look very much akin to awe. As actors themselves, Tara and Colin were well aware of what they'd just seen. Knowing that I didn't have to do the show again today at two in the afternoon, I just leaned back and blew it out last night, vocally speaking.
I shall miss this show. I don't think I'll miss DOING this show, but I shall miss hearing this show every night. My opinion of it even five months or so after first hearing it, is unwavering; it is a piece of genius. Easily the most demanding vocal score I personally have ever had to tackle.
Now, I'm not a musical theatre guy down deep, so my opinion is not necessarily expert, but nonetheless I believe that.
It's raining like a big dog here in Los Angeles today. My buddy Jeff and his family are coming in tomorrow for a week. Fortunately, I think the weather is supposed to be mild and sunny for the week following this current storm.
It's been an emotionally tight week here at the Morts household this week. I've been on high alert about this upcoming gig (which I could hear about today, but it looks as though I didn't land it) and Angie has been dealing with a whole other mess. This has been the kind of week when marriages are tested a bit. It has been the kind of week when the words 'unconditional support and love' no longer become a catch phrase but an actual plan of action. And my wife and I weathered the emotional storm together and came out dry and determined, unquestionably devoted, in the end. In short, we had each other's backs.
So, for the first time in a long, long time I will not be waiting in the dark, anticipating lights out, heart palpitating slightly, nerves a-jangle, preparing to charge once more unto the breach. Adding Machine - The Musical is over. And god bless the next Mr. Zero. You have my empathy.
We have a ton of stuff to do today in preparation for the week. Mundane stuff mostly, cleaning, grocery shopping, logistics, etc. But we're both looking forward to it. And tomorrow another audition for me. A fairly big one for another large and highly respected company out here on the west coast. It's for another musical, which I'm not crazy about, but it's a good contract and there are some good people doing it. More about that as it pans out.
And finally, a very fond gesture of appreciation to the stalwart and staggeringly talented people with whom I've just shared the last five months of Adding Machine: Ron Sossi, Alan Patrick Kenny, Kelly Lester, Christine Horn, Rob Herring, Travis Leland, Nick Tubbs, Mandy Wilson, Alan Abelew, Greta McAnany, Chris Myers, Scott Director, Jennifer Palumbo, Katherine Hunt, Chris Schultz and Beth Hogan. My eternal gratitude to them all. They are all at the peak of their considerable professional powers in this wild and wacky world of bigtime theatre and I simply could not be prouder to have been associated with them. You, all of you, are the stuff dreams are made of. Godspeed. I'll see you all on the boards again very soon.
See you tomorrow.
Our last show was a corker, too. My dear friends Tara Lynn Orr and Colin Walker were in the audience last night, both veteran actors, and they loved it. I can always tell right away. As I walk up to someone that has just seen it, there are usually one of two expressions, either simple confusion or a look very much akin to awe. As actors themselves, Tara and Colin were well aware of what they'd just seen. Knowing that I didn't have to do the show again today at two in the afternoon, I just leaned back and blew it out last night, vocally speaking.
I shall miss this show. I don't think I'll miss DOING this show, but I shall miss hearing this show every night. My opinion of it even five months or so after first hearing it, is unwavering; it is a piece of genius. Easily the most demanding vocal score I personally have ever had to tackle.
Now, I'm not a musical theatre guy down deep, so my opinion is not necessarily expert, but nonetheless I believe that.
It's raining like a big dog here in Los Angeles today. My buddy Jeff and his family are coming in tomorrow for a week. Fortunately, I think the weather is supposed to be mild and sunny for the week following this current storm.
It's been an emotionally tight week here at the Morts household this week. I've been on high alert about this upcoming gig (which I could hear about today, but it looks as though I didn't land it) and Angie has been dealing with a whole other mess. This has been the kind of week when marriages are tested a bit. It has been the kind of week when the words 'unconditional support and love' no longer become a catch phrase but an actual plan of action. And my wife and I weathered the emotional storm together and came out dry and determined, unquestionably devoted, in the end. In short, we had each other's backs.
So, for the first time in a long, long time I will not be waiting in the dark, anticipating lights out, heart palpitating slightly, nerves a-jangle, preparing to charge once more unto the breach. Adding Machine - The Musical is over. And god bless the next Mr. Zero. You have my empathy.
We have a ton of stuff to do today in preparation for the week. Mundane stuff mostly, cleaning, grocery shopping, logistics, etc. But we're both looking forward to it. And tomorrow another audition for me. A fairly big one for another large and highly respected company out here on the west coast. It's for another musical, which I'm not crazy about, but it's a good contract and there are some good people doing it. More about that as it pans out.
And finally, a very fond gesture of appreciation to the stalwart and staggeringly talented people with whom I've just shared the last five months of Adding Machine: Ron Sossi, Alan Patrick Kenny, Kelly Lester, Christine Horn, Rob Herring, Travis Leland, Nick Tubbs, Mandy Wilson, Alan Abelew, Greta McAnany, Chris Myers, Scott Director, Jennifer Palumbo, Katherine Hunt, Chris Schultz and Beth Hogan. My eternal gratitude to them all. They are all at the peak of their considerable professional powers in this wild and wacky world of bigtime theatre and I simply could not be prouder to have been associated with them. You, all of you, are the stuff dreams are made of. Godspeed. I'll see you all on the boards again very soon.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: A Visit from the Past.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: A Visit from the Past.: "So my buddy, Jeff Wood, and his wife and two little girls, are coming to stay with us here in not-so-sunny Southern Cal for a week. They'll..."
A Visit from the Past.
So my buddy, Jeff Wood, and his wife and two little girls, are coming to stay with us here in not-so-sunny Southern Cal for a week. They'll be here on Monday. Their primary destination is 'Disneyland' but they'll be hanging out here and doing other things, too.
I met Jeff in 1985 in NYC. Another old friend of mine, John Bader, was completing his Equity membership year at a theatre in, of all places, Iowa, with me. Jeff was one of John's best friends. They'd gone to school together at Drake University in Des Moines. John and I became very close during our year of combat at The Old Creamery Theatre in the wilds of Iowa. We lived together in a big, old house there a block from the theatre. If I'd heard John say it once, I'd heard it a thousand times, "You have to meet my friend, Jeff Wood. You guys will really hit it off." So I moved to NYC on May 5, 1985. The night after I got there, John and Jeff and I met up for drinks. As it turned out, John was right. Jeff and I have been friends ever since.
Back in those days, Jeff was a very serious theatre director. He's since moved away from the theatre and is now a novelist. A very good one. But before that he was quite possibly the best theatre director I've ever known. Now, I say, 'very serious' theatre director because when it came to the actual work of mounting a play, he was. Jeff never really marketed himself, though. I don't know why. Just not his bailiwick, I guess. So his career in the theatre never really soared as it should have. A terrible shame as far as I'm concerned because since those aimless days of my youth I've worked with, I'm guessing here, about 100 or so professional directors. None have measured up to Jeff's work. The theatre, as one might suspect, is just full of charlatans and pretenders, no where more evident than in the field of directing. Over a long career I've worked with maybe, MAYBE, half a dozen worth their salt. Jeff was one.
I think, in retrospect, it was because Jeff didn't seem to have an ego when it came to directing. I'm sure he did, I just never saw it. He ended up directing four or five of my pieces in those early NYC days. One in particular, a play called 'Golden Eggs,' was just extraordinary work. Although I never heard him actually say it, I think one of the reasons Jeff was so good was because he didn't seem the least bit concerned with his personal 'vision' as so many directors are. His first and only concern, at least as far as I could tell, was making sure the story was told. It was always about the telling of the story in the clearest, simplest, most understandable way. And he's certainly the closest thing to a 'collaborator,' a term often tossed around in this business with nothing to show for it, that I've ever met. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about where an idea came from. If it was good, he used it. He instinctively understood that at the end of the day the program didn't say 'Directed by Jeff Wood with helpful suggestions from Sam and Bob." No, it simply said, 'Directed by Jeff Wood.' So he never seemed to be threatened by ideas and motives from actors, as outlandish as some of them sometimes were.
But Jeff was always sort of old school about marketing himself. I think he felt it was somehow a little unseemly to toss his resume around and beg for jobs. Unfortunately, in this business, at least early on, that's the game and that's how it's played. I think he would have benefitted greatly from an agent in those early days; someone to go to bat for him.
In any event, the theatre's loss was the writing world's gain. Not sure when he made the decision, but at some point he simply stopped directing and started writing.
He'd always written, short stories mostly back then, and I remember one particular short story with particular endearment. It was called 'Suicide Kings.' I had just moved into a new one-bedroom apartment by myself in Astoria, Queens. And to commemorate the occasion I called up a bunch of friends and had an all night stud poker game, something we used to do fairly regularly back then.
A few months passed and one day Jeff gave me the short story (about twenty pages) he'd written about that night, loosely based of course. It remains to this day my favorite piece of short prose writing. Filled with nuance, character study, supressed drama and sadness, it's a beautiful piece. It was then that I remember thinking he'd probably moved on to writing and that he would eventually leave the theatre behind.
We lost touch for a long time while I was constantly on the road doing acting gigs around the country and then moving to Chicago. I hadn't heard from him for a long time and had no idea where he was, in fact. Finally I heard, through John I think, that he'd moved to the mountains of Colorado to write full time. He'd gotten married and adopted two little girls.
And now, through the miracle of the internet, we've reopened our friendship and converse daily. Furthermore, much to my delight, he's decided to take a road-trip to Southern California to introduce his daughters to The Mouse.
So we've got a week of activities planned - Disneyland being ground zero, of course - but a couple of nights have been set aside to sit out back by the horses, around our fire pit, sipping beer and iced tea, grilling steaks and telling sad stories of kings past.
There's something satisfying in a solitary way of hanging out with people that knew you when you were young. I have the same feeling when I spend time with my two closest buds out here, John Bader and Jimmy Barbour. I think it has something to do with seeing each other through the years at our very best and very worst. The lines of conduct have been drawn and consequently there's no reason to talk about them. In essence, it's because we KNOW why we're friends. There's no need to invent scenarios in which we MIGHT be friends. We already know. So everything after becomes comfortable. The hard part is over, the intellectual dance of pushing and pulling and testing the friendship. So everything else is gravy.
Should be a fun week and I'm looking forward to it with glee. If for no other reason than Jeff and I make each other laugh. And that's a massive thing, a huge thing, an underrated thing, a deal-breaking thing, as far as I'm concerned. A shared sense of humor is the first test for possible friendship in my book of sorrows and rules. And that hurdle was jumped, with plenty of room to spare, in May of 1985. Since then it's all been easy.
See you tomorrow.
I met Jeff in 1985 in NYC. Another old friend of mine, John Bader, was completing his Equity membership year at a theatre in, of all places, Iowa, with me. Jeff was one of John's best friends. They'd gone to school together at Drake University in Des Moines. John and I became very close during our year of combat at The Old Creamery Theatre in the wilds of Iowa. We lived together in a big, old house there a block from the theatre. If I'd heard John say it once, I'd heard it a thousand times, "You have to meet my friend, Jeff Wood. You guys will really hit it off." So I moved to NYC on May 5, 1985. The night after I got there, John and Jeff and I met up for drinks. As it turned out, John was right. Jeff and I have been friends ever since.
Back in those days, Jeff was a very serious theatre director. He's since moved away from the theatre and is now a novelist. A very good one. But before that he was quite possibly the best theatre director I've ever known. Now, I say, 'very serious' theatre director because when it came to the actual work of mounting a play, he was. Jeff never really marketed himself, though. I don't know why. Just not his bailiwick, I guess. So his career in the theatre never really soared as it should have. A terrible shame as far as I'm concerned because since those aimless days of my youth I've worked with, I'm guessing here, about 100 or so professional directors. None have measured up to Jeff's work. The theatre, as one might suspect, is just full of charlatans and pretenders, no where more evident than in the field of directing. Over a long career I've worked with maybe, MAYBE, half a dozen worth their salt. Jeff was one.
I think, in retrospect, it was because Jeff didn't seem to have an ego when it came to directing. I'm sure he did, I just never saw it. He ended up directing four or five of my pieces in those early NYC days. One in particular, a play called 'Golden Eggs,' was just extraordinary work. Although I never heard him actually say it, I think one of the reasons Jeff was so good was because he didn't seem the least bit concerned with his personal 'vision' as so many directors are. His first and only concern, at least as far as I could tell, was making sure the story was told. It was always about the telling of the story in the clearest, simplest, most understandable way. And he's certainly the closest thing to a 'collaborator,' a term often tossed around in this business with nothing to show for it, that I've ever met. He didn't seem the least bit concerned about where an idea came from. If it was good, he used it. He instinctively understood that at the end of the day the program didn't say 'Directed by Jeff Wood with helpful suggestions from Sam and Bob." No, it simply said, 'Directed by Jeff Wood.' So he never seemed to be threatened by ideas and motives from actors, as outlandish as some of them sometimes were.
But Jeff was always sort of old school about marketing himself. I think he felt it was somehow a little unseemly to toss his resume around and beg for jobs. Unfortunately, in this business, at least early on, that's the game and that's how it's played. I think he would have benefitted greatly from an agent in those early days; someone to go to bat for him.
In any event, the theatre's loss was the writing world's gain. Not sure when he made the decision, but at some point he simply stopped directing and started writing.
He'd always written, short stories mostly back then, and I remember one particular short story with particular endearment. It was called 'Suicide Kings.' I had just moved into a new one-bedroom apartment by myself in Astoria, Queens. And to commemorate the occasion I called up a bunch of friends and had an all night stud poker game, something we used to do fairly regularly back then.
A few months passed and one day Jeff gave me the short story (about twenty pages) he'd written about that night, loosely based of course. It remains to this day my favorite piece of short prose writing. Filled with nuance, character study, supressed drama and sadness, it's a beautiful piece. It was then that I remember thinking he'd probably moved on to writing and that he would eventually leave the theatre behind.
We lost touch for a long time while I was constantly on the road doing acting gigs around the country and then moving to Chicago. I hadn't heard from him for a long time and had no idea where he was, in fact. Finally I heard, through John I think, that he'd moved to the mountains of Colorado to write full time. He'd gotten married and adopted two little girls.
And now, through the miracle of the internet, we've reopened our friendship and converse daily. Furthermore, much to my delight, he's decided to take a road-trip to Southern California to introduce his daughters to The Mouse.
So we've got a week of activities planned - Disneyland being ground zero, of course - but a couple of nights have been set aside to sit out back by the horses, around our fire pit, sipping beer and iced tea, grilling steaks and telling sad stories of kings past.
There's something satisfying in a solitary way of hanging out with people that knew you when you were young. I have the same feeling when I spend time with my two closest buds out here, John Bader and Jimmy Barbour. I think it has something to do with seeing each other through the years at our very best and very worst. The lines of conduct have been drawn and consequently there's no reason to talk about them. In essence, it's because we KNOW why we're friends. There's no need to invent scenarios in which we MIGHT be friends. We already know. So everything after becomes comfortable. The hard part is over, the intellectual dance of pushing and pulling and testing the friendship. So everything else is gravy.
Should be a fun week and I'm looking forward to it with glee. If for no other reason than Jeff and I make each other laugh. And that's a massive thing, a huge thing, an underrated thing, a deal-breaking thing, as far as I'm concerned. A shared sense of humor is the first test for possible friendship in my book of sorrows and rules. And that hurdle was jumped, with plenty of room to spare, in May of 1985. Since then it's all been easy.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Auditions.
I ended up booking the small budget film I read for the other day. Daytime shooting commences on March 26. Should be fun. It's one of the two lead roles in the film and the script leaves a lot of room to play.
The final callback for a very big project is later today, too. More on that if or when it pans out. To say more about it now would be a bit premature. Either way, for good or bad, I'll know tomorrow.
And, of course, the final weekend for Adding Machine - The Musical. A long five months have been committed to this one. It's been quite a ride.
Because of my recent diagnosis of Diabetes ('the silent killer') Angie and I have been ultra sensitive about our diet and exercise. Last night neither of us felt like going out to do any serious shopping so my wife scoured the kitchen and came up with a few odds and ends to cook for dinner. At first glance the things she pulled out of the fridge looked a bit pedestrian, but she ended up with a feast for a king. Honestly, I don't know how she does it. She told me what she had in mind and I listened without excitement. An hour later, I stared in awe at what she had put together. And it was all perfectly healthy and nutritious. Two words that hardly ever entered my mind a few short months ago. Now, whenever we shop, I find myself looking at ingredients on cans and whatnot to see the health benefits or drawbacks. Huh. Who'd'a thought?
I'm up inordinantly early to work on this callback. Memorizing some of it, familiarizing myself with other parts of it, making pre-read choices, generally trying to make myself as comfortable as possible with all of it.
If it happens, next week (and the week after, for that matter) is going to be very, very busy for me. Doing the one thing I hate the most about this business - memorizing frickin' lines.
This auditioning business is a funny thing. Any actor can tell you that after awhile it becomes rote. Once it's over, you put the script aside and move on. What's next. And then, once in a blue moon, something comes along you really want. Sometimes it's because there's lots of money involved. Sometimes (like Adding Machine) it's because the material itself is just so damned compelling. And sometimes it's because there's someone involved with the project you really want to work with.
In the case of this thing today, it's all three. I rarely get too emotionally involved with a project before I've been offered the role. Again, as any actor can tell you, it's simply too tough to pull yourself back from it if you don't book it.
It's a lesson I learned a hundred years ago in college. One of the graduate students was directing a play called 'The Shadow Box,' a Pulitzer-prize winning play from the late seventies. I was up for the role of Mark. I remember all this so clearly because I still recall how very much I wanted the role. I threw everything I had into the audition, got the callback, came back in for the final read and eventually lost the role to one of my best friends. I was devestated. I think I topped off a fifth of scotch that night. I later saw the play, which turned out to be quite good, and my friend was excellent, really fine work. And I had to admit to myself, better suited for the role than I was. But it was, ultimately, a lesson I never forgot - do your best and then move on. Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you.
Another friend of mine, quite a fine actor, actually physically tears up the script after each and every audition. It's a concrete way to remind himself to move on, this one's over, forget it, concentrate on the next one. Rejection is part of the journey. It's not fun, but one has to accept it or go quietly crazy.
Angie, who has been in this business some twenty-odd years here in LA as a casting associate, has a philisophical bent on the whole thing. She often says, "Not meant to be, something better is waiting." I like that. And I agree. Sometimes it's just a bit difficult to be so zen-like immediately after losing a role you wanted so badly. Nonetheless, the only other option is letting it get to you and going slightly loopy.
And I'm always a bit shocked to find this happens at every level...I read an interview with Dustin Hoffman awhile back. He was talking about a role, a huge role, in a film in the eighties that he wanted very much. Ended up going to Ben Kingsley. He said he still thinks about it. So this is not exclusive to workhorse actors like myself. It's across the board.
In any event, as I sit here at my laptop, the script sitting threateningly beside me as I glance warily at it from time to time, I remind myself, it's just another read. The truth is some of the time it has nothing to do with 'how good' you are. It's all about, 'are you what they're looking for?' And that, of course, cannot be remedied. It just is.
See you tomorrow.
The final callback for a very big project is later today, too. More on that if or when it pans out. To say more about it now would be a bit premature. Either way, for good or bad, I'll know tomorrow.
And, of course, the final weekend for Adding Machine - The Musical. A long five months have been committed to this one. It's been quite a ride.
Because of my recent diagnosis of Diabetes ('the silent killer') Angie and I have been ultra sensitive about our diet and exercise. Last night neither of us felt like going out to do any serious shopping so my wife scoured the kitchen and came up with a few odds and ends to cook for dinner. At first glance the things she pulled out of the fridge looked a bit pedestrian, but she ended up with a feast for a king. Honestly, I don't know how she does it. She told me what she had in mind and I listened without excitement. An hour later, I stared in awe at what she had put together. And it was all perfectly healthy and nutritious. Two words that hardly ever entered my mind a few short months ago. Now, whenever we shop, I find myself looking at ingredients on cans and whatnot to see the health benefits or drawbacks. Huh. Who'd'a thought?
I'm up inordinantly early to work on this callback. Memorizing some of it, familiarizing myself with other parts of it, making pre-read choices, generally trying to make myself as comfortable as possible with all of it.
If it happens, next week (and the week after, for that matter) is going to be very, very busy for me. Doing the one thing I hate the most about this business - memorizing frickin' lines.
This auditioning business is a funny thing. Any actor can tell you that after awhile it becomes rote. Once it's over, you put the script aside and move on. What's next. And then, once in a blue moon, something comes along you really want. Sometimes it's because there's lots of money involved. Sometimes (like Adding Machine) it's because the material itself is just so damned compelling. And sometimes it's because there's someone involved with the project you really want to work with.
In the case of this thing today, it's all three. I rarely get too emotionally involved with a project before I've been offered the role. Again, as any actor can tell you, it's simply too tough to pull yourself back from it if you don't book it.
It's a lesson I learned a hundred years ago in college. One of the graduate students was directing a play called 'The Shadow Box,' a Pulitzer-prize winning play from the late seventies. I was up for the role of Mark. I remember all this so clearly because I still recall how very much I wanted the role. I threw everything I had into the audition, got the callback, came back in for the final read and eventually lost the role to one of my best friends. I was devestated. I think I topped off a fifth of scotch that night. I later saw the play, which turned out to be quite good, and my friend was excellent, really fine work. And I had to admit to myself, better suited for the role than I was. But it was, ultimately, a lesson I never forgot - do your best and then move on. Sometimes you get the bear, sometimes the bear gets you.
Another friend of mine, quite a fine actor, actually physically tears up the script after each and every audition. It's a concrete way to remind himself to move on, this one's over, forget it, concentrate on the next one. Rejection is part of the journey. It's not fun, but one has to accept it or go quietly crazy.
Angie, who has been in this business some twenty-odd years here in LA as a casting associate, has a philisophical bent on the whole thing. She often says, "Not meant to be, something better is waiting." I like that. And I agree. Sometimes it's just a bit difficult to be so zen-like immediately after losing a role you wanted so badly. Nonetheless, the only other option is letting it get to you and going slightly loopy.
And I'm always a bit shocked to find this happens at every level...I read an interview with Dustin Hoffman awhile back. He was talking about a role, a huge role, in a film in the eighties that he wanted very much. Ended up going to Ben Kingsley. He said he still thinks about it. So this is not exclusive to workhorse actors like myself. It's across the board.
In any event, as I sit here at my laptop, the script sitting threateningly beside me as I glance warily at it from time to time, I remind myself, it's just another read. The truth is some of the time it has nothing to do with 'how good' you are. It's all about, 'are you what they're looking for?' And that, of course, cannot be remedied. It just is.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Tell Me About Your Dreams, Laddie.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Tell Me About Your Dreams, Laddie.: "During my early years in New York, I worked as a bartender in an Irish Pub on the Upper East Side. I think it was 67th and 3rd Avenue. I h..."
Tell Me About Your Dreams, Laddie.
During my early years in New York, I worked as a bartender in an Irish Pub on the Upper East Side. I think it was 67th and 3rd Avenue. I had only been working there a couple of months when St. Paddy's day came around. The head bartender was an older Irish guy, a real Irish guy - first generation - with a face like a catcher's mitt and an impossibly upbeat personality. We hoisted more than a few 'poynts' together after our shift. Later I had to do an Irish accent on stage and it was his that I used as my model. His name was Brennan and I believe he's still there, tending bar at the same pub all these years later, well into his seventies by now. At least I'd heard he was a couple years ago.
Brendan taught me the finer points of bartending. He had a remarkable rapport with his customers, particularly those right off the boat from Dublin. He loved to get into the thick of things regarding his customers private lives. He really did see himself as a sort of father confessor behind the bar. I can still hear him saying as he set a shot of Jameson's in front of some baleful guy at the bar, "Tell me, Laddie, what's got ya' so horse-faced early in the day?"
People poured out their problems to Brendan. And he took it all in without judgement. 'Nobody ever brings anything small into a bar,' as Mary Chase says in the play, 'Harvey.' Brendan, although I'm sure he had never read or seen that play, took that truism very much to heart.
So it's St. Patrick's day and I come in for my usual afternoon shift. This was a bit of an upscale bar/eatery on the Upper East and the bartenders wore black pants, white button down shirt, a black tie and a long white apron...very much in the old school bartender tradition. We all kept an unsharpened pencil, the kind with a blunt end, behind our ear like Brennan did, for no real reason.
As I walked in that particular day, Brendan took one look at me and said, "Change your tie, Cliffy, and put one on that brought I in...they're in the back." Huh? I went into the back room and there were several clip-on, black ties laid out. I took mine off and put one on. I went back out to start my 'side work' and asked him why? "Just trust me, Laddie."
It was a long bar, triangle shaped, with three bartenders at any given time...one at the point, two on either side. The other bartender came in a few minutes later. He, like myself, was a young guy. Brendan told him the same thing, "Go in the back, Laddie, and put one of the ties on that I brought in." I don't remember the other guy's name but he was a surly sort, didn't really like bartending, and always seemed to be hungover. He looked at Brendan and said, "I've got a tie, thank you." Brendan smiled and said, "And it's a lovely tie. But you'll want to put mine on." The surly guy ignored him and kept on cutting lemons and cleaning up behind the bar readying himself for opening, which was 10:00am, sharp.
As I said, it was St. Paddy's day in New York and the Irish in that city take that day very seriously. When we unlocked the door, they swarmed in. Three or four deep at the bar within an hour. We were all in the weeds, pouring shots and tap beer at top speed. After a while I heard a commotion at the other end of the bar (Brendan always had 'point' because he was the fastest). I looked down and saw that a customer had the other young bartender by his tie and was punching him repeatedly in the face. He couldn't get away because his tie was a regular wrap-around tie. He was helpless. By the time Brendan and I got to him, he was a goner. Eyes swelling, bloody lip, dazed. Brendan was chuckling as we pulled the drunk customer off him and lowered him to the floor behind the bar. "Told him to put one of my ties on," he said under his breath.
And that was my lesson for the day: always wear a clip-on tie when you're bartending on St. Paddy's day.
I didn't stay long with that job because I got an acting gig shortly thereafter. But of all my 'service industry' jobs in New York back in those day, it was by far my favorite. The tips were surprisingly good for an Irish Pub and, more importantly, it was always fun. Mostly because of Brendan and his refusal to take anything too seriously. Plus he actively encouraged drinking on the job, felt it was the bartender's duty to drink with his customers, and in those days for me, anyway, that was a huge incentive to go to work.
And, like I said, Brendan took a liking to me and we often drank together after we clocked out for the day. He had an amazing ability to always move the conversation away from himself and focus on me. "Tell me your dreams, Laddie," I can still hear him saying. However, one night in a moment of unexpected candor, he did say he had always wanted to be an opera singer. He was tone deaf and to my knowledge had never been to the opera, but nonetheless, it was the one thing he always wanted to do. "Ah, but enough about me, Laddie, tell me your dreams."
If Angie and I ever get back to the city, I'll stop in for a club soda and see if he's still there. If he is, I'll have Angie meet him. If he remembers me, and I think he will, I'll say, "Brendan, I'd like you to meet my wife." I suspect he'll smile knowingly and say, "I heard all about you twenty one years ago." He always did have a flare for the poetic.
See you tomorrow.
Brendan taught me the finer points of bartending. He had a remarkable rapport with his customers, particularly those right off the boat from Dublin. He loved to get into the thick of things regarding his customers private lives. He really did see himself as a sort of father confessor behind the bar. I can still hear him saying as he set a shot of Jameson's in front of some baleful guy at the bar, "Tell me, Laddie, what's got ya' so horse-faced early in the day?"
People poured out their problems to Brendan. And he took it all in without judgement. 'Nobody ever brings anything small into a bar,' as Mary Chase says in the play, 'Harvey.' Brendan, although I'm sure he had never read or seen that play, took that truism very much to heart.
So it's St. Patrick's day and I come in for my usual afternoon shift. This was a bit of an upscale bar/eatery on the Upper East and the bartenders wore black pants, white button down shirt, a black tie and a long white apron...very much in the old school bartender tradition. We all kept an unsharpened pencil, the kind with a blunt end, behind our ear like Brennan did, for no real reason.
As I walked in that particular day, Brendan took one look at me and said, "Change your tie, Cliffy, and put one on that brought I in...they're in the back." Huh? I went into the back room and there were several clip-on, black ties laid out. I took mine off and put one on. I went back out to start my 'side work' and asked him why? "Just trust me, Laddie."
It was a long bar, triangle shaped, with three bartenders at any given time...one at the point, two on either side. The other bartender came in a few minutes later. He, like myself, was a young guy. Brendan told him the same thing, "Go in the back, Laddie, and put one of the ties on that I brought in." I don't remember the other guy's name but he was a surly sort, didn't really like bartending, and always seemed to be hungover. He looked at Brendan and said, "I've got a tie, thank you." Brendan smiled and said, "And it's a lovely tie. But you'll want to put mine on." The surly guy ignored him and kept on cutting lemons and cleaning up behind the bar readying himself for opening, which was 10:00am, sharp.
As I said, it was St. Paddy's day in New York and the Irish in that city take that day very seriously. When we unlocked the door, they swarmed in. Three or four deep at the bar within an hour. We were all in the weeds, pouring shots and tap beer at top speed. After a while I heard a commotion at the other end of the bar (Brendan always had 'point' because he was the fastest). I looked down and saw that a customer had the other young bartender by his tie and was punching him repeatedly in the face. He couldn't get away because his tie was a regular wrap-around tie. He was helpless. By the time Brendan and I got to him, he was a goner. Eyes swelling, bloody lip, dazed. Brendan was chuckling as we pulled the drunk customer off him and lowered him to the floor behind the bar. "Told him to put one of my ties on," he said under his breath.
And that was my lesson for the day: always wear a clip-on tie when you're bartending on St. Paddy's day.
I didn't stay long with that job because I got an acting gig shortly thereafter. But of all my 'service industry' jobs in New York back in those day, it was by far my favorite. The tips were surprisingly good for an Irish Pub and, more importantly, it was always fun. Mostly because of Brendan and his refusal to take anything too seriously. Plus he actively encouraged drinking on the job, felt it was the bartender's duty to drink with his customers, and in those days for me, anyway, that was a huge incentive to go to work.
And, like I said, Brendan took a liking to me and we often drank together after we clocked out for the day. He had an amazing ability to always move the conversation away from himself and focus on me. "Tell me your dreams, Laddie," I can still hear him saying. However, one night in a moment of unexpected candor, he did say he had always wanted to be an opera singer. He was tone deaf and to my knowledge had never been to the opera, but nonetheless, it was the one thing he always wanted to do. "Ah, but enough about me, Laddie, tell me your dreams."
If Angie and I ever get back to the city, I'll stop in for a club soda and see if he's still there. If he is, I'll have Angie meet him. If he remembers me, and I think he will, I'll say, "Brendan, I'd like you to meet my wife." I suspect he'll smile knowingly and say, "I heard all about you twenty one years ago." He always did have a flare for the poetic.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Another Day, Another Dollar, Another Blog.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Another Day, Another Dollar, Another Blog.: "So a couple days ago we were just starting to take the dogs out for their morning walk when a model-T Ford chugged by the house. We were st..."
Another Day, Another Dollar, Another Blog.
So a couple days ago we were just starting to take the dogs out for their morning walk when a model-T Ford chugged by the house. We were standing right out front deciding on a course for the morning...either the dog park around the corner, the long and winding, dusty trail at the Equestrian Center or the residential trek through suburbia. And here comes this model-T Ford. Jay Leno was driving it. Apparently he has thousands of cars, he's a car freak, and this is not a terribly rare sight. He lives near here in Burbank. But it made me smile. A gentle reminder that I'm not in Kansas anymore, so to speak.
Now, seeing Jay Leno drive by in an old car is not in and of itself all that earth shattering. But it gave me pause because I just think it's cool that a guy we see on our TV screen everynight (actually, we watch Letterman, but you get my drift) drives by our house all the time in one of his freakish cars.
As usual he waved and smiled and kept going. Mr. Leno, at least from the safety of his front seat, seems a very nice guy.
Last night I had an audition for a small budget film. The read was at 8:00pm...an odd time for an audition but whaddayagonnado. The character was a very milk toast kinda guy, ala Jack Nicholson in 'About Schmidt.' I read the scene over a few times before I went in and had pretty much decided there wasn't a lot there for me to play with, acting-wise. So I just did it plain and open and simple. No frills auditioning. When I finished and the director turned the camera off, she said, "GREAT! I just KNEW you'd bring something completely different to the role!" Huh? Uh, yeah, well, thanks.
Today I'm memorizing a chunk of dialogue for a big read on Friday. I usually don't memorize dialogue for auditon purposes, but this is a callback situation and a big one at that. So, I'm breaking my rule.
The read last night reminded me of a story a buddy of mine out here told me once. He'd been cast in a film Clint Eastwood was doing and they had all taken their marks and were about to get the 'action' call. He turned out to Clint, standing slightly back and away from the camera and quickly asked, "Anything in particular you want for this?" Eastwood replied, "Well, let's start with nothing and see what happens." I've always liked that - 'Let's start with nothing...'
I didn't win the mega millions lottery. Then again, no one else did either. So now it's up to something like eight gillion dollars. I'll buy two more tickets for the next drawing on Friday. I don't mind doing this. As usual I'm a little late to this party. I never played the lottery before coming out here. Not once. Ever. And yet I always fantasized about winning it, strangely enough. I don't mind buying two dollars worth of tickets (are they called 'tickets?') because I get so much enjoyment from daydreaming about winning it. My daydreams have taken on the scope of a daytime drama...incredibly complex, lifelike, action-laden daydreams. I've practically written a full-length play in my head about the twists and turns that would come from winning it. While we're on our morning constitutional with the dogs, Angie often asks, "Where are you right now? What are you thinking?" I always say, "Nothing." But the truth is I'm deep into my lottery daydream. Sort of pathetic, really. Nonetheless it gives me great pleasure.
I remember an interview I saw some years back with Bill Gates. He was asked, "What do you say to people who tell you 'money can't buy you happiness?'" He said, without pause, "They've never had money."
There you have it.
See you tomorrow.
Now, seeing Jay Leno drive by in an old car is not in and of itself all that earth shattering. But it gave me pause because I just think it's cool that a guy we see on our TV screen everynight (actually, we watch Letterman, but you get my drift) drives by our house all the time in one of his freakish cars.
As usual he waved and smiled and kept going. Mr. Leno, at least from the safety of his front seat, seems a very nice guy.
Last night I had an audition for a small budget film. The read was at 8:00pm...an odd time for an audition but whaddayagonnado. The character was a very milk toast kinda guy, ala Jack Nicholson in 'About Schmidt.' I read the scene over a few times before I went in and had pretty much decided there wasn't a lot there for me to play with, acting-wise. So I just did it plain and open and simple. No frills auditioning. When I finished and the director turned the camera off, she said, "GREAT! I just KNEW you'd bring something completely different to the role!" Huh? Uh, yeah, well, thanks.
Today I'm memorizing a chunk of dialogue for a big read on Friday. I usually don't memorize dialogue for auditon purposes, but this is a callback situation and a big one at that. So, I'm breaking my rule.
The read last night reminded me of a story a buddy of mine out here told me once. He'd been cast in a film Clint Eastwood was doing and they had all taken their marks and were about to get the 'action' call. He turned out to Clint, standing slightly back and away from the camera and quickly asked, "Anything in particular you want for this?" Eastwood replied, "Well, let's start with nothing and see what happens." I've always liked that - 'Let's start with nothing...'
I didn't win the mega millions lottery. Then again, no one else did either. So now it's up to something like eight gillion dollars. I'll buy two more tickets for the next drawing on Friday. I don't mind doing this. As usual I'm a little late to this party. I never played the lottery before coming out here. Not once. Ever. And yet I always fantasized about winning it, strangely enough. I don't mind buying two dollars worth of tickets (are they called 'tickets?') because I get so much enjoyment from daydreaming about winning it. My daydreams have taken on the scope of a daytime drama...incredibly complex, lifelike, action-laden daydreams. I've practically written a full-length play in my head about the twists and turns that would come from winning it. While we're on our morning constitutional with the dogs, Angie often asks, "Where are you right now? What are you thinking?" I always say, "Nothing." But the truth is I'm deep into my lottery daydream. Sort of pathetic, really. Nonetheless it gives me great pleasure.
I remember an interview I saw some years back with Bill Gates. He was asked, "What do you say to people who tell you 'money can't buy you happiness?'" He said, without pause, "They've never had money."
There you have it.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: From Here to Eternity
Last Tango in Los Angeles: From Here to Eternity: "Angie and I watched the wonderful, old film from 1953, 'From Here to Eternity' last night and seeing it again only confirmed my suspicions t..."
From Here to Eternity
Angie and I watched the wonderful, old film from 1953, 'From Here to Eternity' last night and seeing it again only confirmed my suspicions that I've become an old codger. It's a great script. Some archaic, old-school, studio acting in it, but also some clear traces of what was coming. Monty Clift is brilliant, as usual. It's almost as though he's working from an entirely different place. But saying that, everyone is quite good, considering it was 1953. Having read the trilogy of novels by James Jones (this film was based on the first one), that follows a group of soldiers from Pearl Harbour to the end of the war and after, I know that it is a remarkably accurate treatment. Although the novels are much more graphic, as one might expect. They opened the door for Mailer's 'Naked and the Dead' some five years later, the great book on WWII from that generation of writers.
Lancaster is picture perfect as Warden, the top sarge of the bunch. Borgnine dead on as Fatso, the evil guard sarge. Donna Reed and Deborah Kerr both good in very typical leading lady roles of the era. The one weak spot, ironically, is Sinatra, who won an Academy Award for his portrayal that marked, arguably, the greatest 'comeback' in Hollywood history.
Sinatra has never been a favorite actor of mine. He got by on sheer personality, which, frankly, wasn't a very interesting personality. As an actor, he's incapable of throwing a line away. He wanted so badly, escpecially later in his career, to project the 'devil may care' attitude that Dean Martin did so well. In fact, I think it fairly safe to say, Sinatra wanted to be Martin in terms of his acting career. Martin was by far the more gifted natural actor. Take a look at Martin in a film called 'The Young Lions.' It's a dramatic role, not his usual leering, smirking stuff. And he's really, really good in it.
Don't get me wrong, Sinatra is quite possibly, the biggest phenomenon that popular music ever produced. Even more so than The Beatles for students of music history that know anything about his 'bobby sox' years. He was the first 'super star.' But he never took acting seriously, certainly not as seriously as he took his singing. In the business he was known as 'One Take Charlie' because he often refused to do re-takes. One shot, that was all. He claimed it messed with his illusion of the first time. And that is apparent throughout his film career.
There are others famous for this approach, Bogart comes to mind. But Bogart really did have a personality fascinating to watch. Sinatra's personality all by itself just wasn't.
But after all is said and done, it is Clift that shines. He, like Brando, was quite simply decades ahead of his time. In fact, according to Brando's autobiography, he considered Clift to be the finest actor of his time. He says when he saw 'From Here to Eternity' he left the theatre in despair because he didn't think he could do what Clift had just done. He is quoted (and this is quite telling for any actor, I think) as asking, "How does he stay so still and do so much with it?" Montgomery Clift had perhaps the most visible 'inner life' of any screen actor I've ever seen.
In any event, the film is dated in many ways, of course. Sappy underscoring throughout, lots of 'stage' shots of three or four people in a group, slightly turned out. Cut away shots to waves breaking or planes flying. Sometimes stilted dialogue. But when one considers this was all part of that era of making movies, it is quite remarkable. And smack dab in the middle of this picturesque movie-making style is Montgomery Clift being as real as the guy next door. It really is quite remarkable.
So, as the film is finishing up, there I am sitting on the couch thinking, "I can't make it through a half hour of 'Inception' and yet this movie from 1953 has me on the edge of my seat." Old Codger. No use trying to get around it. Just blatant Old Codger-ism.
Speaking of films, I have an audition later today for a full-length, small budget thing. A mousy little guy (one of the two leads in the film) that lacks the courage to change his life after his family dies in an accident. It's a nice role and something I could shoot during the day while in rehearsal at night for my next stage project. Not a scad of money, but a nice script and a very young, ambitious director. I like working with really young talent sometimes. Tends to pump some new ideas into my opinionated veins. Physically I'm really not right for the role, but for some reason this guy wants to see me read it. We'll see.
For only the second time in my life I purchased four 'mega millions' lottery tickets yesterday. It's up to something like 180 mil. Which means an after taxes, one-time check of about 107 million or so. That would certainly be the bees knees. For one thing, I'd finally be able to get those cool rims for our Saturn. The ones that make it look like they're turning in the opposite direction the car is going. If I could get those silvery rims for the Saturn station wagon, I would no doubt be the envy of all on the road. They'd all think, "How does that guy go forward when the wheels are going backward?" And that, Gentle Reader, is just about as good a metaphor for my life as any I can think of.
See you tomorrow.
Lancaster is picture perfect as Warden, the top sarge of the bunch. Borgnine dead on as Fatso, the evil guard sarge. Donna Reed and Deborah Kerr both good in very typical leading lady roles of the era. The one weak spot, ironically, is Sinatra, who won an Academy Award for his portrayal that marked, arguably, the greatest 'comeback' in Hollywood history.
Sinatra has never been a favorite actor of mine. He got by on sheer personality, which, frankly, wasn't a very interesting personality. As an actor, he's incapable of throwing a line away. He wanted so badly, escpecially later in his career, to project the 'devil may care' attitude that Dean Martin did so well. In fact, I think it fairly safe to say, Sinatra wanted to be Martin in terms of his acting career. Martin was by far the more gifted natural actor. Take a look at Martin in a film called 'The Young Lions.' It's a dramatic role, not his usual leering, smirking stuff. And he's really, really good in it.
Don't get me wrong, Sinatra is quite possibly, the biggest phenomenon that popular music ever produced. Even more so than The Beatles for students of music history that know anything about his 'bobby sox' years. He was the first 'super star.' But he never took acting seriously, certainly not as seriously as he took his singing. In the business he was known as 'One Take Charlie' because he often refused to do re-takes. One shot, that was all. He claimed it messed with his illusion of the first time. And that is apparent throughout his film career.
There are others famous for this approach, Bogart comes to mind. But Bogart really did have a personality fascinating to watch. Sinatra's personality all by itself just wasn't.
But after all is said and done, it is Clift that shines. He, like Brando, was quite simply decades ahead of his time. In fact, according to Brando's autobiography, he considered Clift to be the finest actor of his time. He says when he saw 'From Here to Eternity' he left the theatre in despair because he didn't think he could do what Clift had just done. He is quoted (and this is quite telling for any actor, I think) as asking, "How does he stay so still and do so much with it?" Montgomery Clift had perhaps the most visible 'inner life' of any screen actor I've ever seen.
In any event, the film is dated in many ways, of course. Sappy underscoring throughout, lots of 'stage' shots of three or four people in a group, slightly turned out. Cut away shots to waves breaking or planes flying. Sometimes stilted dialogue. But when one considers this was all part of that era of making movies, it is quite remarkable. And smack dab in the middle of this picturesque movie-making style is Montgomery Clift being as real as the guy next door. It really is quite remarkable.
So, as the film is finishing up, there I am sitting on the couch thinking, "I can't make it through a half hour of 'Inception' and yet this movie from 1953 has me on the edge of my seat." Old Codger. No use trying to get around it. Just blatant Old Codger-ism.
Speaking of films, I have an audition later today for a full-length, small budget thing. A mousy little guy (one of the two leads in the film) that lacks the courage to change his life after his family dies in an accident. It's a nice role and something I could shoot during the day while in rehearsal at night for my next stage project. Not a scad of money, but a nice script and a very young, ambitious director. I like working with really young talent sometimes. Tends to pump some new ideas into my opinionated veins. Physically I'm really not right for the role, but for some reason this guy wants to see me read it. We'll see.
For only the second time in my life I purchased four 'mega millions' lottery tickets yesterday. It's up to something like 180 mil. Which means an after taxes, one-time check of about 107 million or so. That would certainly be the bees knees. For one thing, I'd finally be able to get those cool rims for our Saturn. The ones that make it look like they're turning in the opposite direction the car is going. If I could get those silvery rims for the Saturn station wagon, I would no doubt be the envy of all on the road. They'd all think, "How does that guy go forward when the wheels are going backward?" And that, Gentle Reader, is just about as good a metaphor for my life as any I can think of.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: RED, Inception and Adding Machine.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: RED, Inception and Adding Machine.: "Haven't blogged for a bit because, once again, I just got too darned busy. And that's always a good thing. Irons are in the fire. One or ..."
RED, Inception and Adding Machine.
Haven't blogged for a bit because, once again, I just got too darned busy. And that's always a good thing. Irons are in the fire. One or more may actually heat up.
We've got two more performances, add-ons, of Adding Machine this upcoming Friday and Saturday nights. And then this long, difficult, pot-hole- ridden experience comes to an end. It's a very arduous show for me. In the middle of the run some health issues surfaced and I've never quite recovered. Even now, after five months or so of working on this piece, I get very, very anxious every night as I'm about to launch a song called 'Zero's Confession.' It's a ten minute song that ends in a nervous breakdown. It's a tough ten minutes for me. Never really mastered it. I did my best with it. Wasn't quite enough, I think. Wish I'd done it better. Oh, well. Move on.
Angie and I have an old and very dear friend coming to stay with us next week. I've known Jeff Wood since my NY days. He's coming out for four or five days with his wife and two little girls. Disneyland being the key destination.
I'm looking forward to it. Jeff is a former theatre director (one of the best I've ever known, in fact) turned novelist. We shared our youth back in the eighties in New York City. Best of times, worst of times...
I can't really blog about the irons in the fire. Suffice to say a couple of them are pretty big deals. I'm hopeful. This week, one way or another, I'll have answers.
Angie and I Netflixed 'RED' the other night with Bruce Willis, John Malkovich, Morgan Freeman and Helen Mirren. It was, as I suspected, sort of fun watching the old pros ham it up, but good god, what a lousy script. I'm appalled sometimes at the words in this town that get the 'green light.' My imagination runs wild. Did some suit at a studio actually read that and leap to his feet thinking, "My God, we've GOT to make this movie!?" It's mind-boggling. Yes, it ended up being watchable, but mostly because of the pros involved. But even they were taxed to their limit. Malkovich, bless his heart, one of the finest actors alive on the planet earth, was milking his stuff to the point of saturation. All of them were, really, with the exception of Willis, who is an underrated actor anyway, but in this piece had the presence of mind to just say the words and get on with it.
Natually, it was just filled with gunfights and explosions and car chases and badly plotted intrigue, so maybe that was what the guy in the suit got excited about. In any event, I'm just stymied. Or maybe the original screenplay was stellar, just terrific stuff and by the time the money guys got done with it it was just another shoot-em-up with some names attached. Who knows.
I'm so very often disappointed with Hollywood films these days. It's truly, and I suppose this has been the case since the dawn of film, a lowest common denominator market. I'm not saying anything the least bit new here or anything that hasn't been said by a ton of other people before me. Nonetheless, it's frustrating.
And yet, at the same time, I'm not a big fan of ultra slow, low budget, artsy-fartsy independent films, either. There is the odd exception, of course. I think 'Winter's Bone' was extraordinary. I was mesmerized from start to finish. And that's a pretty slow film, really.
This is why, much to our friends puzzlement, Angie and I go back and watch old episodes of 'The West Wing' all the time. We honestly get more viewing pleasure from watching an hour of that show, an hour we've no doubt seen a few times before, than Netflixing the newest hot thing in the theatres...REDS being a case in point.
And last night we attempted to watch 'Inception.' Maybe it was my frame of mind (I'd just finished a matinee of Adding Machine and was pretty much toast) but I was bored within ten minutes and had no desire whatsoever to stick around for the obligatory exposition scene which experience has taught me usually comes about an hour into a movie of this sort..."OHHHH...so the needle is filled with TRUTH GAS that makes the red-headed girl see visions of an apocalyptic future...NOW it makes sense!" I just don't have the patience anymore.
Anyway, a badly needed day of no stress following a long group of back to back shows. This thing, this Adding Machine, is such a bombardment on my psyche that around noon on show days, I start getting stressed out. I know that in only eight and half hours I'll be standing center stage, chained to a pedastal, roaring my brains out, counting measures, trying to hit high F's.
Of course there are always people that don't like your work. This role had a number of directions I could have gone with it. I made a decision to attack it every night and grapple and flail at the role. A 'Sound and Fury Signifying Nothing' approach. Acting choices that I made and then stuck with. I don't regret them. But I know others think I was wrong. That's okay. It's a very subjective thing. If I had to do it again, I'd make the same choices.
Someone might say, "Well, you don't sing it very well." In fact, someone did say that. They're right. I don't. Never set out to. I'm not now nor have I ever been the least bit interested in singing a song pretty. Bores me. A song, every single song ever written, is a monologue to me, a plot point, a chance to forward the theme, an opportunity to elevate the spoken word to poetic drama. If they wanted a guy that could sing a pretty song there are thousands out there. Josh Groban, I'm not.
I've taken some heat over the roaring, growling and stupidly spiteful performance I ended up with. And that's cool. It really is. They were all thoughtful choices and I stand by them. There is not an accidental moment in the show for me. It was all a carefully plotted roadmap. I know what I do well as an actor and what I don't. It's a valuable thing to know for an actor.
Still, as usual, I'm a Monday morning quarterback after each and every performance. I play moments over and over. 'Could have done that better.' 'That moment didn't work.' 'I was too big there.' 'Should have pulled way back for that moment.' On and on.
I guess in the final analysis this one wasn't really fun for me. 'Fun' in the sense that I never really just let go and see what happens next out there. For one thing I'm simply not, nor will I ever be, a good enough musician to allow that. So every night I found myself trudging out to do battle, rather than eagerly taking my place in the darkness before the lights come up, anticipating a couple hours of sometimes magical exploration. It has been like the difference between going to work as an air traffic controller and going to work as a dance instructor.
Fortutunately, I have been surrounded by astonishing talent. Whatever moments in which I personally didn't ring the bell, they did. Rob Herring, Christine Horn, Kelly Lester and of course, our amazing ensemble of future stars...they are all, quite simply, the best this business has to offer. They just doesn't get any better. Rob, Christine and Kelly touch me to my core every single night. Incandescent work.
So...two more performances. Twice more unto the breach. And then the process starts all over with another project and somebody else's words can keep me up at night.
See you tomorrow.
We've got two more performances, add-ons, of Adding Machine this upcoming Friday and Saturday nights. And then this long, difficult, pot-hole- ridden experience comes to an end. It's a very arduous show for me. In the middle of the run some health issues surfaced and I've never quite recovered. Even now, after five months or so of working on this piece, I get very, very anxious every night as I'm about to launch a song called 'Zero's Confession.' It's a ten minute song that ends in a nervous breakdown. It's a tough ten minutes for me. Never really mastered it. I did my best with it. Wasn't quite enough, I think. Wish I'd done it better. Oh, well. Move on.
Angie and I have an old and very dear friend coming to stay with us next week. I've known Jeff Wood since my NY days. He's coming out for four or five days with his wife and two little girls. Disneyland being the key destination.
I'm looking forward to it. Jeff is a former theatre director (one of the best I've ever known, in fact) turned novelist. We shared our youth back in the eighties in New York City. Best of times, worst of times...
I can't really blog about the irons in the fire. Suffice to say a couple of them are pretty big deals. I'm hopeful. This week, one way or another, I'll have answers.
Angie and I Netflixed 'RED' the other night with Bruce Willis, John Malkovich, Morgan Freeman and Helen Mirren. It was, as I suspected, sort of fun watching the old pros ham it up, but good god, what a lousy script. I'm appalled sometimes at the words in this town that get the 'green light.' My imagination runs wild. Did some suit at a studio actually read that and leap to his feet thinking, "My God, we've GOT to make this movie!?" It's mind-boggling. Yes, it ended up being watchable, but mostly because of the pros involved. But even they were taxed to their limit. Malkovich, bless his heart, one of the finest actors alive on the planet earth, was milking his stuff to the point of saturation. All of them were, really, with the exception of Willis, who is an underrated actor anyway, but in this piece had the presence of mind to just say the words and get on with it.
Natually, it was just filled with gunfights and explosions and car chases and badly plotted intrigue, so maybe that was what the guy in the suit got excited about. In any event, I'm just stymied. Or maybe the original screenplay was stellar, just terrific stuff and by the time the money guys got done with it it was just another shoot-em-up with some names attached. Who knows.
I'm so very often disappointed with Hollywood films these days. It's truly, and I suppose this has been the case since the dawn of film, a lowest common denominator market. I'm not saying anything the least bit new here or anything that hasn't been said by a ton of other people before me. Nonetheless, it's frustrating.
And yet, at the same time, I'm not a big fan of ultra slow, low budget, artsy-fartsy independent films, either. There is the odd exception, of course. I think 'Winter's Bone' was extraordinary. I was mesmerized from start to finish. And that's a pretty slow film, really.
This is why, much to our friends puzzlement, Angie and I go back and watch old episodes of 'The West Wing' all the time. We honestly get more viewing pleasure from watching an hour of that show, an hour we've no doubt seen a few times before, than Netflixing the newest hot thing in the theatres...REDS being a case in point.
And last night we attempted to watch 'Inception.' Maybe it was my frame of mind (I'd just finished a matinee of Adding Machine and was pretty much toast) but I was bored within ten minutes and had no desire whatsoever to stick around for the obligatory exposition scene which experience has taught me usually comes about an hour into a movie of this sort..."OHHHH...so the needle is filled with TRUTH GAS that makes the red-headed girl see visions of an apocalyptic future...NOW it makes sense!" I just don't have the patience anymore.
Anyway, a badly needed day of no stress following a long group of back to back shows. This thing, this Adding Machine, is such a bombardment on my psyche that around noon on show days, I start getting stressed out. I know that in only eight and half hours I'll be standing center stage, chained to a pedastal, roaring my brains out, counting measures, trying to hit high F's.
Of course there are always people that don't like your work. This role had a number of directions I could have gone with it. I made a decision to attack it every night and grapple and flail at the role. A 'Sound and Fury Signifying Nothing' approach. Acting choices that I made and then stuck with. I don't regret them. But I know others think I was wrong. That's okay. It's a very subjective thing. If I had to do it again, I'd make the same choices.
Someone might say, "Well, you don't sing it very well." In fact, someone did say that. They're right. I don't. Never set out to. I'm not now nor have I ever been the least bit interested in singing a song pretty. Bores me. A song, every single song ever written, is a monologue to me, a plot point, a chance to forward the theme, an opportunity to elevate the spoken word to poetic drama. If they wanted a guy that could sing a pretty song there are thousands out there. Josh Groban, I'm not.
I've taken some heat over the roaring, growling and stupidly spiteful performance I ended up with. And that's cool. It really is. They were all thoughtful choices and I stand by them. There is not an accidental moment in the show for me. It was all a carefully plotted roadmap. I know what I do well as an actor and what I don't. It's a valuable thing to know for an actor.
Still, as usual, I'm a Monday morning quarterback after each and every performance. I play moments over and over. 'Could have done that better.' 'That moment didn't work.' 'I was too big there.' 'Should have pulled way back for that moment.' On and on.
I guess in the final analysis this one wasn't really fun for me. 'Fun' in the sense that I never really just let go and see what happens next out there. For one thing I'm simply not, nor will I ever be, a good enough musician to allow that. So every night I found myself trudging out to do battle, rather than eagerly taking my place in the darkness before the lights come up, anticipating a couple hours of sometimes magical exploration. It has been like the difference between going to work as an air traffic controller and going to work as a dance instructor.
Fortutunately, I have been surrounded by astonishing talent. Whatever moments in which I personally didn't ring the bell, they did. Rob Herring, Christine Horn, Kelly Lester and of course, our amazing ensemble of future stars...they are all, quite simply, the best this business has to offer. They just doesn't get any better. Rob, Christine and Kelly touch me to my core every single night. Incandescent work.
So...two more performances. Twice more unto the breach. And then the process starts all over with another project and somebody else's words can keep me up at night.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Screenplay.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Screenplay.: "There's a part of me, a larger part than I'd care to admit, that was born about about 75 years too late. I'm speakng professionally, here. ..."
The Screenplay.
There's a part of me, a larger part than I'd care to admit, that was born about about 75 years too late. I'm speakng professionally, here. And I'll tell you why. I'm deep into my first original screenplay. Which for me, really, is rather surprising. For quite some time now I've thought screenplays were not my medium. Mostly because the writing of screenplays bored me. And I'm not good with bored.
For years I've been the 'horse and carriage' in an industry that only monitors the Indy 500. That is to say, I've always felt writing a play was far more interesting than writing a screenplay. Some years back I had a long conversation with a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright who has now devoted nearly all his time to writing for the screen. He said something to me that depressed me no end. He said, "For a brief, very brief, time it was possible to make a living, a good living, only writing plays. Neil Simon, George Kauffman, Edward Albee, Harold Pinter, a few others, maybe, are nearly the only ones who've done it. It's not possible today." This from a guy (I won't drop names) who has won every major award the stage can possibly give to someone who writes for that venue. He went on to say (we were having a long lunch in Chicago) it is, of course, the most satisfying forum in which to write, but it is insane to think one will ever make a few bucks from it. Prestige, yes. Money, no.
In the 1930's film was not taken seriously by 'real' actors and directors and writers. At first, it was nothing more than a lark. And then, as time progressed, it became a way to make some serious cash, but was still considered sort of cheap. In the late thirties a few films came along to challenge that, most notably 'Citizen Kane.' But still, the majority of stage people, that is to say, London and New York artists, didn't give it much credence. And anyway, most serious efforts from Hollywood were still adapted stage plays at that point. And sadly, most looked like it.
But that was nearly eight decades ago and things have changed a mite.
One of the myriad differences between writing for the stage and screen is that the screenwriter has very little influence over what finally appears on the screen. In the theatre, the playwright is king, the source of all that is good, the worshipped; he is the one recieving the genuflects. On the screen, it is the director. And being an acknowledged control freak, this doesn't bode well for me.
And in addition, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, in LA is writing, has written, or is about to write the next great screenplay. Ninety year old Armenian women have screenplays ready to go at the drop of a hat. It's a shame. And one only has to do a little research to find that the screenplay written sometimes has little to no resemblance to what actually appears in the final product, after all the 'director's additions,' actor improvs and dreaded editing room chopping and slicing.
There is much truth to the old line, "Did you hear about the starlet that was so dumb she slept with the screenwriter?"
Having said all that, I've nearly completed my first original screenplay.
The effort has its genesis from two things. One, the idea can't be done on the stage and two, this very same playwright, the one with more awards than Edith Head and Walt Disney combined, told me to swallow my pride and write something that more than a thousand people would see. As we sat there having lunch and drinking coffee late into the day, he said, "You're singing in the shower, Clif. And it's beautiful singing but nobody gives a fuck." From under the table in my fetal position I replied shamefully, "Okay."
So I toddled off to the library. The public library is, all by itself, the greatest untapped education on the planet. I picked up dozens of screenplays, dozens of 'how to' books, 'Screenwriting for Dummies,' that sort of thing. I drank them in. I devoured them. And I still know about the same as when I started. I should've known better, I guess. Writing for the screen, it turns out, is the same as anything else; everyone has an opinion and 99 percent of those opinions are bullhockey.
So, after all the research, I just did what I thought was best.
I'll finish it soon, or I should say, I'll get to a point that I'm tired of writing it. The aforementioned George Kauffman has a wonderful quote on playwriting and it applies to writing for the screen, too. "A play is never finished, only abandoned." True dat.
When I first sat down and started shaping the piece, the new screenplay, that is, I was concerned about the film lingo, the WAY to say something between dialogue, i.e. all the pans and long shots and medium shots and over the shoulder shots and close ups and dolly shots, etc. But I had a telling chat a while back with a fairly successful screenwriter out here and he told me, "It used to be important to use all the right words and phrases, but now it's not really that big of a deal. The important thing is to accurately describe the action that occurs in the prose BETWEEN the written dialogue." In other words, see exactly what the camera would see and describe it in precise detail. "Most screenplays are read by idiots," he said, "And you have to make them see EVERYTHING."
Makes sense. Besides, as I looked at a lot of on-the-paper movies, things like 'Casablanca' and 'Magnolia,' I kept forgetting what the various initials and buzz words meant and had to keep going back to my other library book with the screenplay 'glossary' in it.
So I'm writing a screenplay. I've become the enemy. I've given in to peer pressure. I'm discarding my eighty year old writing ethics and venturing into something new. I've decided, like the actors, directors, writers and producers from the 1930s that maybe, just maybe, this whole 'moving picture' thing is here to stay. Might as well jump on board.
See you tomorrow.
For years I've been the 'horse and carriage' in an industry that only monitors the Indy 500. That is to say, I've always felt writing a play was far more interesting than writing a screenplay. Some years back I had a long conversation with a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright who has now devoted nearly all his time to writing for the screen. He said something to me that depressed me no end. He said, "For a brief, very brief, time it was possible to make a living, a good living, only writing plays. Neil Simon, George Kauffman, Edward Albee, Harold Pinter, a few others, maybe, are nearly the only ones who've done it. It's not possible today." This from a guy (I won't drop names) who has won every major award the stage can possibly give to someone who writes for that venue. He went on to say (we were having a long lunch in Chicago) it is, of course, the most satisfying forum in which to write, but it is insane to think one will ever make a few bucks from it. Prestige, yes. Money, no.
In the 1930's film was not taken seriously by 'real' actors and directors and writers. At first, it was nothing more than a lark. And then, as time progressed, it became a way to make some serious cash, but was still considered sort of cheap. In the late thirties a few films came along to challenge that, most notably 'Citizen Kane.' But still, the majority of stage people, that is to say, London and New York artists, didn't give it much credence. And anyway, most serious efforts from Hollywood were still adapted stage plays at that point. And sadly, most looked like it.
But that was nearly eight decades ago and things have changed a mite.
One of the myriad differences between writing for the stage and screen is that the screenwriter has very little influence over what finally appears on the screen. In the theatre, the playwright is king, the source of all that is good, the worshipped; he is the one recieving the genuflects. On the screen, it is the director. And being an acknowledged control freak, this doesn't bode well for me.
And in addition, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, in LA is writing, has written, or is about to write the next great screenplay. Ninety year old Armenian women have screenplays ready to go at the drop of a hat. It's a shame. And one only has to do a little research to find that the screenplay written sometimes has little to no resemblance to what actually appears in the final product, after all the 'director's additions,' actor improvs and dreaded editing room chopping and slicing.
There is much truth to the old line, "Did you hear about the starlet that was so dumb she slept with the screenwriter?"
Having said all that, I've nearly completed my first original screenplay.
The effort has its genesis from two things. One, the idea can't be done on the stage and two, this very same playwright, the one with more awards than Edith Head and Walt Disney combined, told me to swallow my pride and write something that more than a thousand people would see. As we sat there having lunch and drinking coffee late into the day, he said, "You're singing in the shower, Clif. And it's beautiful singing but nobody gives a fuck." From under the table in my fetal position I replied shamefully, "Okay."
So I toddled off to the library. The public library is, all by itself, the greatest untapped education on the planet. I picked up dozens of screenplays, dozens of 'how to' books, 'Screenwriting for Dummies,' that sort of thing. I drank them in. I devoured them. And I still know about the same as when I started. I should've known better, I guess. Writing for the screen, it turns out, is the same as anything else; everyone has an opinion and 99 percent of those opinions are bullhockey.
So, after all the research, I just did what I thought was best.
I'll finish it soon, or I should say, I'll get to a point that I'm tired of writing it. The aforementioned George Kauffman has a wonderful quote on playwriting and it applies to writing for the screen, too. "A play is never finished, only abandoned." True dat.
When I first sat down and started shaping the piece, the new screenplay, that is, I was concerned about the film lingo, the WAY to say something between dialogue, i.e. all the pans and long shots and medium shots and over the shoulder shots and close ups and dolly shots, etc. But I had a telling chat a while back with a fairly successful screenwriter out here and he told me, "It used to be important to use all the right words and phrases, but now it's not really that big of a deal. The important thing is to accurately describe the action that occurs in the prose BETWEEN the written dialogue." In other words, see exactly what the camera would see and describe it in precise detail. "Most screenplays are read by idiots," he said, "And you have to make them see EVERYTHING."
Makes sense. Besides, as I looked at a lot of on-the-paper movies, things like 'Casablanca' and 'Magnolia,' I kept forgetting what the various initials and buzz words meant and had to keep going back to my other library book with the screenplay 'glossary' in it.
So I'm writing a screenplay. I've become the enemy. I've given in to peer pressure. I'm discarding my eighty year old writing ethics and venturing into something new. I've decided, like the actors, directors, writers and producers from the 1930s that maybe, just maybe, this whole 'moving picture' thing is here to stay. Might as well jump on board.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: This and That.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: This and That.: "Just a few random thoughts this morning to get the old fingers loosened up and some oil in the gears of the mind. I spend an unhealthy amou..."
This and That.
Just a few random thoughts this morning to get the old fingers loosened up and some oil in the gears of the mind.
I spend an unhealthy amount of time day dreaming about winning the lottery, especially since I never actually play the lottery. Last night, before leaving for the show I heard on the news that the 'Mega' something was up to 66 million dollars after taxes. That is to say, one gets a check for 66 million dollars. Naturally, the first thing that came to mind was waiting patiently in the teller line at the bank, strolling up when it was my turn, handing over the 66 million dollar check and saying, "I'd like this in mostly twenties, please, with a few fives and ones. Oh, and some change for the laundry."
My second thought was about cars. I don't want to be ostentatious but at the same time I'd like a really good car. Two cars, in fact. After some research I've decided Ange and I would, of course, get two new cars. For her a 750i BMW 4-door. It's a cool car. And for me either a Toyota Scout or a Mercedes SUV, the boxy kind that costs approximately a gillion dollars.
Next, a new house. Here is where my wife and I vary in our thoughts. I want something high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool. She wants something close to The Equestrian Center with a barn so we can have the horses in the backyard. I don't care about horses. I'd just as soon buy the horses their own house so we could live high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool.
Interesting show last night. Another full house. It was a good show. One of our best, if I had to say. And yet, it was an abnormally quiet audience. In fact, we had to start the applause ourselves during the curtain call. If not, I suspect we'd still be standing on stage in total silence this morning. My old buddy, Joe Hulser, came to see it last night and was suitably impressed, I think. He called it 'a beast' of a play. It most certainly is. We started working on this thing in October, five months ago. I've been doing this play almost as long as I've been married. I still love the material and think it's some of the most original and powerful stuff I've ever seen or done, but it's time to move on. We have two more weeks of it following this weekend and, well, it's just time. All of the key players, myself included, have other projects waiting. Last night, after the show, Joe and I stood in the parking lot chatting a bit. He asked me what the general reaction to the piece has been. I said, "Either they're overwhelmed and sort of shocked by what they've just seen or they can't wait to put some physical distance between the theatre and themselves." Case in point: last night during the call I looked out and saw one man sitting in the front row, barely clapping, clearly bewildered by what he'd just seen. Immediately behind him was a young woman wildly enthusiastic, shaking her head in gleeful disbelief as she applauded vigourously. There you have it.
Joe, who I've known for some thirty years - in fact, he directed me in a Sam Shepard play in undergraduate school - is a very astute guy when it comes to theatre. He completely 'got' what an incredibly difficult piece it is. I'm not sure how much he actually 'enjoyed' it, but he certainly appreciated the work. That's about all one can ask for, I suppose.
I'm delighted to report I'm continuing, unhampered, with my strict diet. Health is the word of the day. I've completely eliminated all bread and potatoes. For people like me, diabetics, that is, all bread and potatoes are sugar. My body immediately turns it into sugar, I mean. Too bad. I really love bread and potatoes.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. Listening to Springsteen this morning as he gently implores someone, "If I should fall behind, wait for me." Yes.
See you tomorrow.
I spend an unhealthy amount of time day dreaming about winning the lottery, especially since I never actually play the lottery. Last night, before leaving for the show I heard on the news that the 'Mega' something was up to 66 million dollars after taxes. That is to say, one gets a check for 66 million dollars. Naturally, the first thing that came to mind was waiting patiently in the teller line at the bank, strolling up when it was my turn, handing over the 66 million dollar check and saying, "I'd like this in mostly twenties, please, with a few fives and ones. Oh, and some change for the laundry."
My second thought was about cars. I don't want to be ostentatious but at the same time I'd like a really good car. Two cars, in fact. After some research I've decided Ange and I would, of course, get two new cars. For her a 750i BMW 4-door. It's a cool car. And for me either a Toyota Scout or a Mercedes SUV, the boxy kind that costs approximately a gillion dollars.
Next, a new house. Here is where my wife and I vary in our thoughts. I want something high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool. She wants something close to The Equestrian Center with a barn so we can have the horses in the backyard. I don't care about horses. I'd just as soon buy the horses their own house so we could live high in the Hollywood Hills with a great view and a swimming pool.
Interesting show last night. Another full house. It was a good show. One of our best, if I had to say. And yet, it was an abnormally quiet audience. In fact, we had to start the applause ourselves during the curtain call. If not, I suspect we'd still be standing on stage in total silence this morning. My old buddy, Joe Hulser, came to see it last night and was suitably impressed, I think. He called it 'a beast' of a play. It most certainly is. We started working on this thing in October, five months ago. I've been doing this play almost as long as I've been married. I still love the material and think it's some of the most original and powerful stuff I've ever seen or done, but it's time to move on. We have two more weeks of it following this weekend and, well, it's just time. All of the key players, myself included, have other projects waiting. Last night, after the show, Joe and I stood in the parking lot chatting a bit. He asked me what the general reaction to the piece has been. I said, "Either they're overwhelmed and sort of shocked by what they've just seen or they can't wait to put some physical distance between the theatre and themselves." Case in point: last night during the call I looked out and saw one man sitting in the front row, barely clapping, clearly bewildered by what he'd just seen. Immediately behind him was a young woman wildly enthusiastic, shaking her head in gleeful disbelief as she applauded vigourously. There you have it.
Joe, who I've known for some thirty years - in fact, he directed me in a Sam Shepard play in undergraduate school - is a very astute guy when it comes to theatre. He completely 'got' what an incredibly difficult piece it is. I'm not sure how much he actually 'enjoyed' it, but he certainly appreciated the work. That's about all one can ask for, I suppose.
I'm delighted to report I'm continuing, unhampered, with my strict diet. Health is the word of the day. I've completely eliminated all bread and potatoes. For people like me, diabetics, that is, all bread and potatoes are sugar. My body immediately turns it into sugar, I mean. Too bad. I really love bread and potatoes.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. Listening to Springsteen this morning as he gently implores someone, "If I should fall behind, wait for me." Yes.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Social Network
Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Social Network: "I finally got around to seeing 'The Social Network' a few nights ago, which is weird because, as a writer myself, I happen to think Aaron So..."
The Social Network
I finally got around to seeing 'The Social Network' a few nights ago, which is weird because, as a writer myself, I happen to think Aaron Sorkin is just about the best dialogue guy around. Maybe the best, in fact. I sincerely believe 'The West Wing' to be the finest television show in the history of network television.
'The Social Network' is a mean-spirited movie with a singularly unnatractive protagonist in the person of Mark Zuckerberg, the founder of Facebook. Jesse Eisenberg plays Zuckerberg and is really quite good. (So far, this review is sounding a bit like some of the reviews I used to get in college: "Bob Jones was good. Mary Smith was also good. Lots of the actors were good.") Eisenberg had a formidable task in front of him, getting very little help from Sorkin's script, in that he had to try and find at least a little humanity in the Machiavellian Zuckerberg as written.
Although he manages to find all that is there. The entire idea that Zuckerberg created Facebook to get back at a girl that unceremoniously dumped him while on a date is implausible at best, but Sorkin being Sorkin almost makes it work.
Director David Fincher makes the film look and sound like an Oliver Stone picture at times. That's not necessarily a compliment, although to be sure Stone has made a few very good films. The film is generally devoid of any kind of manipulative emotion. Personally, I don't mind a good dash of manipulative emotion in film. One of the reasons I happen to be a Spielberg fan.
I had a buddy of mine over the other night for dinner, John Bader. John is one of the few people who's opinion I nearly always respect when it comes to film, television and stage. When I asked him about 'The Social Network,' John said, quite succinctly, "I didn't care for it" and left it at that. I thought it a curiously snippy answer coming from John who can be terribly effusive about his opinions at times.
Once I saw the film I realized why. John, like a lot of us old codgers, has become in his middle years an incurable optimist. 'The Social Network' is one of the least optimistic movies I've seen for quite awhile.
I won't bother you, Gentle Reader, with the old 'inverted triangle' style of writing usually employed when scribbling criticism because nearly everyone has already seen the film and I don't really need to rehash the plot. Suffice to say it's about the creation of Facebook and the trials and tribulations therein.
This movie has all the ingredients of a really hotsy-totsy film: great writing, sharp direction, clear characterization, an unmistakable plot arc, a great score and a fascinating subject. And I couldn't have cared less.
Although Sorkin has written some really fine scripts in the film world (A Few Good Men, The American President) I think his real genius lies in a longer venue. The film lacks nuance. It lacks a sense of truly knowing who these people are. Film, most films I should say, rely on a clear cut definition of good and evil. We like to root for people, for things, for teams. Now, this is not always the case. Scorcese has made a career out of doing the exact opposite. But generally speaking, film relies on the same equation melodrama relies on: bad guys bothering good guys and then getting their come-uppance. It's a formula as old as drama itself.
Justin Timberlake is probably the best thing on the screen in terms of capturing a real person. I've known dozens of people like Timberlakes's Sean Parker in the film; bigshots with about a buck fifty in their pocket. His performance is dead on. And bless his heart, Parker came out of the whole thing with about 7 percent of Facebook in his pocket. By my calculations that would amount to something along the lines of 340 million dollars to date. Not too shabby for a guy who didn't invest a penny.
I'm a big fan of minimalist scoring and 'The Social Network' is a fine example of it. Trent Rezner and Atticus Ross have written a haunting, slight score for the film. It's one of the best things about it, actually.
Like all of Sorkin's work, this piece could easily be a play for the stage. The stage is where Sorkin found his chops and his best work is riddled with precise dialogue and perfectly situated 'beginning, middle and end' scenework. He is a master at the 'martini line,' that is to say the final line in a scene that serves as the exclamation point. Regardless of one's overall feeling for the film, Sorkin's writing is, as always, nearly beyond reproach. He's just so damn good at what he does.
Unfortunately, I just didn't much care this time. A long, winding, detailed story about how billionaires screwed people out of money is not my idea of a satisfying evening. Especially when the people depicted as the ones who actually got screwed are as greedy, uncaring and morally vapid as the ones doing the screwing.
In the final analysis it's a film about bad people doing bad things and getting away with it. My reaction to the film probably says a lot about where I am in my life right now, but I don't care. You could line every character up against a wall and shoot BBs at them and I still wouldn't care. I don't like these people. I didn't care what happened to these people. And, in the last and most telling judgement, these people bored me.
'The Social Network,' two apathetic thumbs down.
See you tomorrow.
'The Social Network' is a mean-spirited movie with a singularly unnatractive protagonist in the person of Mark Zuckerberg, the founder of Facebook. Jesse Eisenberg plays Zuckerberg and is really quite good. (So far, this review is sounding a bit like some of the reviews I used to get in college: "Bob Jones was good. Mary Smith was also good. Lots of the actors were good.") Eisenberg had a formidable task in front of him, getting very little help from Sorkin's script, in that he had to try and find at least a little humanity in the Machiavellian Zuckerberg as written.
Although he manages to find all that is there. The entire idea that Zuckerberg created Facebook to get back at a girl that unceremoniously dumped him while on a date is implausible at best, but Sorkin being Sorkin almost makes it work.
Director David Fincher makes the film look and sound like an Oliver Stone picture at times. That's not necessarily a compliment, although to be sure Stone has made a few very good films. The film is generally devoid of any kind of manipulative emotion. Personally, I don't mind a good dash of manipulative emotion in film. One of the reasons I happen to be a Spielberg fan.
I had a buddy of mine over the other night for dinner, John Bader. John is one of the few people who's opinion I nearly always respect when it comes to film, television and stage. When I asked him about 'The Social Network,' John said, quite succinctly, "I didn't care for it" and left it at that. I thought it a curiously snippy answer coming from John who can be terribly effusive about his opinions at times.
Once I saw the film I realized why. John, like a lot of us old codgers, has become in his middle years an incurable optimist. 'The Social Network' is one of the least optimistic movies I've seen for quite awhile.
I won't bother you, Gentle Reader, with the old 'inverted triangle' style of writing usually employed when scribbling criticism because nearly everyone has already seen the film and I don't really need to rehash the plot. Suffice to say it's about the creation of Facebook and the trials and tribulations therein.
This movie has all the ingredients of a really hotsy-totsy film: great writing, sharp direction, clear characterization, an unmistakable plot arc, a great score and a fascinating subject. And I couldn't have cared less.
Although Sorkin has written some really fine scripts in the film world (A Few Good Men, The American President) I think his real genius lies in a longer venue. The film lacks nuance. It lacks a sense of truly knowing who these people are. Film, most films I should say, rely on a clear cut definition of good and evil. We like to root for people, for things, for teams. Now, this is not always the case. Scorcese has made a career out of doing the exact opposite. But generally speaking, film relies on the same equation melodrama relies on: bad guys bothering good guys and then getting their come-uppance. It's a formula as old as drama itself.
Justin Timberlake is probably the best thing on the screen in terms of capturing a real person. I've known dozens of people like Timberlakes's Sean Parker in the film; bigshots with about a buck fifty in their pocket. His performance is dead on. And bless his heart, Parker came out of the whole thing with about 7 percent of Facebook in his pocket. By my calculations that would amount to something along the lines of 340 million dollars to date. Not too shabby for a guy who didn't invest a penny.
I'm a big fan of minimalist scoring and 'The Social Network' is a fine example of it. Trent Rezner and Atticus Ross have written a haunting, slight score for the film. It's one of the best things about it, actually.
Like all of Sorkin's work, this piece could easily be a play for the stage. The stage is where Sorkin found his chops and his best work is riddled with precise dialogue and perfectly situated 'beginning, middle and end' scenework. He is a master at the 'martini line,' that is to say the final line in a scene that serves as the exclamation point. Regardless of one's overall feeling for the film, Sorkin's writing is, as always, nearly beyond reproach. He's just so damn good at what he does.
Unfortunately, I just didn't much care this time. A long, winding, detailed story about how billionaires screwed people out of money is not my idea of a satisfying evening. Especially when the people depicted as the ones who actually got screwed are as greedy, uncaring and morally vapid as the ones doing the screwing.
In the final analysis it's a film about bad people doing bad things and getting away with it. My reaction to the film probably says a lot about where I am in my life right now, but I don't care. You could line every character up against a wall and shoot BBs at them and I still wouldn't care. I don't like these people. I didn't care what happened to these people. And, in the last and most telling judgement, these people bored me.
'The Social Network,' two apathetic thumbs down.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol: "I have to watch American Idol. I mean, I HAVE to watch it. Angie adores the show and will brook no argument. If it comes on, it's on our ..."
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol
Last Tango in Los Angeles: American Idol: "I have to watch American Idol. I mean, I HAVE to watch it. Angie adores the show and will brook no argument. If it comes on, it's on our ..."
American Idol
I have to watch American Idol. I mean, I HAVE to watch it. Angie adores the show and will brook no argument. If it comes on, it's on our television. Period.
I pretend to find it distracting. But the truth is, I sort of like it. I can see the television from my office, sitting at my desk, and spend a lot of time craning my neck and peeping at it while it's on.
In it's own way, it's impressive, I guess. But it is a constant reminder that I'm gettting older. None of these folks seem to 'sing' so much as they seem to be 'caterwauling.' Now, don't get me wrong, I don't even pretend to be trained singer. I'm really not. I can sometimes carry a tune if a revolver is pointed at my temple, but that's about it. But like most people, I know what I like. And I don't care for caterwauling. There's a cat in our barnyard-influenced neighborhood that supplies all the caterwauling I need. Incidentally, his name is Isaac and he's the most insolent cat I've ever met. He fears no dog. He chews dogs up and spits 'em out. He sleeps on our car's roof at night in the driveway. Isaac is a 'cat's cat.' He's a legend among other cats. He's the Fonzie of cats.
But I digress. The problem with these American Idol kids is their inability, it appears, to simply sing a damn song, no frills, no James Brown-esque screams, no smoke and mirrors. But that's not the way it's done today, apparently, and that's why I don't let these American Idol kids play in my yard. I'm the metaphoric old man that comes out on the porch and chases them off.
There's one kid, the one with the scarf hanging out his ass like a beaver tail, who steps on the stage and screams non-stop for the next two mintues, or however long it is they get to show their wares. This kid makes me fightin' mad.
And you know, it's appalling. Not the kids so much, but my reaction to them. I'm reminded of the response my Dad always had when he heard me playing my Springsteen albums back in the late seventies. My bedroom was on the second floor of my childhood home and he'd stand at the bottom of the stairs and scream up, "Turn that shit down!" And then he'd wander off, mumbling under his breath, "Can't understand a word that damned hippie is singin'." Once I was playing Aretha Franklin and he called her a 'yelping negress.' Good Lord.
I am uncomfortably close to having that same reaction during American Idol. One of them will start singing a song, something that sounds vaguely familiar, I'll stop what I'm doing and listen intently. "What IS that?" I think to myself. "I know I've heard that somewhere." Finally, unable to stand it one more second, I call out to Angie, "What the hell is that song?" Invariably, she'll say something like, "Happy Birthday." Or, "The National Anthem." And I sit at my desk and mumble, "Can't understand a damned word that hippie is singing."
I'd like them to simply calm the f**k down and sing the damn song. That should be one of the competitions. The night they all are forced to sit in a chair, not move, and sing the melody as written. One misstep, one moment of veering off into a slight caterwaul, and they get points deducted. Maybe even give them all the same song, say, "Theme from Ice Castles." Maybe something by The Carpenters. Maybe "Weekend in New England." Maybe "Muskrat Lovin'."
I think there's a moment, a clear, distinct line in the middle of our lives, that is the actual moment we enter middle age. And that is the moment we stop seeking out new music. We're totally content with the music we know. The moment we're not really interested in hearing the new 'Radiohead' song, or the new 'Coldplay' song or whatever. We'd just as soon put on Elvis Costello and listen to a song that meant something to us twenty years ago. Oh, maybe we'd like the song if we gave it a chance, but it's just too much effort. We no longer have the strength or fortitude to listen to ten songs in order to find one that moves us.
I remember some years back, quite some years back, in fact, when I stood at the door to the now defunct Camelot Music in New York and waited for them to open so I could purchase the latest 'Smiths' album. I would never dream of doing something so asinine today. I wouldn't stand outside and wait if a store were giving out free money today. Unless, of course, it was A LOT of money. No, those days of intellectual experimentation are long gone for me.
Honest to god, it's pathetic. I have a long drive ahead of me every night to get over to Sepulvada Avenue where I do the play in which I'm currently acting. Most of the time I listen to music on the way, CDs I have in the car. Here's what I have in my car right at this very moment: Springsteen (The Promise - brilliant), Sinatra's Greatest Hits, George Jones' Greatest Hits, Tom Waits' Heart Attack and Vine, The Soundtrack to "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" (lots of great jazz tunes on that one), and (I apologize right out front for this one) Andy Williams Christmas Album. I just haven't gotten around to taking that one out, yet.
The point is, nothing new. Nothing remotely new, in fact. And I'm perfectly happy with that. I'm comforted, actually. I NEED to hear my old music to remind me who I was, how I got here. I NEED to hear Sinatra swing, "I've got the world on a string, sittin' on a rainbow...' I NEED to hear Springsteen chant, "Barefoot girl sittin' on the hood of a Dodge, drinkin' warm beer in the soft, summer rain..." I NEED to hear George Jones cry in his whiskey, "He stopped loving her today, they placed a wreath upon his door..." I need to remember that I, too, once appreciated new things, new ideas, new stuff in my life. I need to remember I was not always so stuffy and isolated. I need to remember that I, too, was once young and idealistic.
I'm not sure exactly when I crossed that invisible line into middle age. But to be honest, I'd like to step back across it sometimes and not be so damned set in my ways. I'd like to go back to that moment, sitting at a kitchen table in David Brady's apartment with a few other friends drinking Little Kings, waiting breathlessly while David cued up the song 'Drive All Night' on Springsteen's The River. David saying, "You gotta fucking hear this! It'll fucking change your life, man!" And then raising my head and stare at the ceiling while Bruce let loose a primal scream so perfect and honest as to make my eyes water. Listen once again, for the first time, to the soul-scraping lyrics, "I'd drive all night just to buy you some shoes...baby, baby, baby..." Back to that moment when anything, anything at all, was possible.
See you tomorrow.
I pretend to find it distracting. But the truth is, I sort of like it. I can see the television from my office, sitting at my desk, and spend a lot of time craning my neck and peeping at it while it's on.
In it's own way, it's impressive, I guess. But it is a constant reminder that I'm gettting older. None of these folks seem to 'sing' so much as they seem to be 'caterwauling.' Now, don't get me wrong, I don't even pretend to be trained singer. I'm really not. I can sometimes carry a tune if a revolver is pointed at my temple, but that's about it. But like most people, I know what I like. And I don't care for caterwauling. There's a cat in our barnyard-influenced neighborhood that supplies all the caterwauling I need. Incidentally, his name is Isaac and he's the most insolent cat I've ever met. He fears no dog. He chews dogs up and spits 'em out. He sleeps on our car's roof at night in the driveway. Isaac is a 'cat's cat.' He's a legend among other cats. He's the Fonzie of cats.
But I digress. The problem with these American Idol kids is their inability, it appears, to simply sing a damn song, no frills, no James Brown-esque screams, no smoke and mirrors. But that's not the way it's done today, apparently, and that's why I don't let these American Idol kids play in my yard. I'm the metaphoric old man that comes out on the porch and chases them off.
There's one kid, the one with the scarf hanging out his ass like a beaver tail, who steps on the stage and screams non-stop for the next two mintues, or however long it is they get to show their wares. This kid makes me fightin' mad.
And you know, it's appalling. Not the kids so much, but my reaction to them. I'm reminded of the response my Dad always had when he heard me playing my Springsteen albums back in the late seventies. My bedroom was on the second floor of my childhood home and he'd stand at the bottom of the stairs and scream up, "Turn that shit down!" And then he'd wander off, mumbling under his breath, "Can't understand a word that damned hippie is singin'." Once I was playing Aretha Franklin and he called her a 'yelping negress.' Good Lord.
I am uncomfortably close to having that same reaction during American Idol. One of them will start singing a song, something that sounds vaguely familiar, I'll stop what I'm doing and listen intently. "What IS that?" I think to myself. "I know I've heard that somewhere." Finally, unable to stand it one more second, I call out to Angie, "What the hell is that song?" Invariably, she'll say something like, "Happy Birthday." Or, "The National Anthem." And I sit at my desk and mumble, "Can't understand a damned word that hippie is singing."
I'd like them to simply calm the f**k down and sing the damn song. That should be one of the competitions. The night they all are forced to sit in a chair, not move, and sing the melody as written. One misstep, one moment of veering off into a slight caterwaul, and they get points deducted. Maybe even give them all the same song, say, "Theme from Ice Castles." Maybe something by The Carpenters. Maybe "Weekend in New England." Maybe "Muskrat Lovin'."
I think there's a moment, a clear, distinct line in the middle of our lives, that is the actual moment we enter middle age. And that is the moment we stop seeking out new music. We're totally content with the music we know. The moment we're not really interested in hearing the new 'Radiohead' song, or the new 'Coldplay' song or whatever. We'd just as soon put on Elvis Costello and listen to a song that meant something to us twenty years ago. Oh, maybe we'd like the song if we gave it a chance, but it's just too much effort. We no longer have the strength or fortitude to listen to ten songs in order to find one that moves us.
I remember some years back, quite some years back, in fact, when I stood at the door to the now defunct Camelot Music in New York and waited for them to open so I could purchase the latest 'Smiths' album. I would never dream of doing something so asinine today. I wouldn't stand outside and wait if a store were giving out free money today. Unless, of course, it was A LOT of money. No, those days of intellectual experimentation are long gone for me.
Honest to god, it's pathetic. I have a long drive ahead of me every night to get over to Sepulvada Avenue where I do the play in which I'm currently acting. Most of the time I listen to music on the way, CDs I have in the car. Here's what I have in my car right at this very moment: Springsteen (The Promise - brilliant), Sinatra's Greatest Hits, George Jones' Greatest Hits, Tom Waits' Heart Attack and Vine, The Soundtrack to "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" (lots of great jazz tunes on that one), and (I apologize right out front for this one) Andy Williams Christmas Album. I just haven't gotten around to taking that one out, yet.
The point is, nothing new. Nothing remotely new, in fact. And I'm perfectly happy with that. I'm comforted, actually. I NEED to hear my old music to remind me who I was, how I got here. I NEED to hear Sinatra swing, "I've got the world on a string, sittin' on a rainbow...' I NEED to hear Springsteen chant, "Barefoot girl sittin' on the hood of a Dodge, drinkin' warm beer in the soft, summer rain..." I NEED to hear George Jones cry in his whiskey, "He stopped loving her today, they placed a wreath upon his door..." I need to remember that I, too, once appreciated new things, new ideas, new stuff in my life. I need to remember I was not always so stuffy and isolated. I need to remember that I, too, was once young and idealistic.
I'm not sure exactly when I crossed that invisible line into middle age. But to be honest, I'd like to step back across it sometimes and not be so damned set in my ways. I'd like to go back to that moment, sitting at a kitchen table in David Brady's apartment with a few other friends drinking Little Kings, waiting breathlessly while David cued up the song 'Drive All Night' on Springsteen's The River. David saying, "You gotta fucking hear this! It'll fucking change your life, man!" And then raising my head and stare at the ceiling while Bruce let loose a primal scream so perfect and honest as to make my eyes water. Listen once again, for the first time, to the soul-scraping lyrics, "I'd drive all night just to buy you some shoes...baby, baby, baby..." Back to that moment when anything, anything at all, was possible.
See you tomorrow.
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