Blogging about The White Horse Tavern yesterday got me to thinking about a number of old haunts in NYC back in the eighties and nineties when I lived there. Disney and Giuliani hadn't yet arrived on the scene in those days and parts of NY were still pretty much the old west. Midtown most certainly was still something from a Fellini movie in those days and from 110th street and up on the West Side, it was definitely off limits. Now, of course, neither of those things are true. Midtown is now an extension of Disney World and Harlem is Clinton Country.
For a couple of years I lived up in Washington Heights on the Upper West and one could always jump on the A train Express and bypass Harlem. Naturally, once I got off in the wrong place, walked out of the subway station at 125th and was immediately surrounded by about five or six cops. They walked me back down to the station and put me on the train. In 1987, 125th street was no place for a stupid, white kid from the midwest to be blithely sashaying about.
A buddy of mine from those days, Greg Orosz, emailed me yesterday about our many times at The White Horse Tavern. In fact, Greg had acted in one of my plays, 'Changing it to Brando', and would toddle over to the tavern with me after rehearsals. But mostly, as I recall, Greg and I would drink at a place around the corner from where we both worked, an old Irish pub with wood walls and tin ceilings called 'Mulligans' on 33rd Street. In fact, Greg and I once sat in that place for hours inventing a new drink. We spent an enormous amount of money that night. We'd decided to invent a new tequila-based drink and the eager bartender (charging us for every mistake - and there were many) mixed away as we tasted each new concoction. I seem to vaguely remember ending up with an amazing drink but by that time we were both far too deep into the evening to remember what it was.
It's funny (and more than a little sad) but when Angie and I finally get a break in our schedule out here in LA and take that trip to NYC, most of the places I'll show her from my 'old' days will be various bars. I spent a good deal of time in bars back then, for better or worse. She once asked me, 'Did you ever go to the Statue of Liberty or the top of the Empire State Building or something like that?' Well, no. I mean, I worked in the Empire State Building for years but it never really occured to me to actually go to the top of it. And taking the time to go the Statue of Liberty seemed sheer insanity for one who actually lived in NYC.
Speaking of Greg Orosz, one of the places we frequented was a rehearsal space near the Times Square Howard Johnson's (which I believe is still there). It's where we had rehearsals for the play. Problem was immediately next door was a gay strip joint of the hard core variety. Which was fine, but the problem was the two doors were identical, as were the stairs one had to traverse to enter the respective places. On more than one occasion we quite innocently found ourselves accidentally walking into the strip club before rehearsal only to turn around and descend the stairs again to find the right door.
Usually, after rehearsal in midtown, we'd head over to a place called 'Charlie's' for drinks. I always liked that place and it was a great place to spot celebrities working on Broadway. I ran into Elaine Stritch there one night nearly five years before we actually did a show together. She didn't remember, of course, but I did. Also sat next to Tim Hutton once at the bar and drank the night away. Later still, I did a play directed by the late Patrick O'Neal and sat there with him drinking about thirty bottles of red wine and listening to him hold court about the old days in the fifties in New York. Patrick had been the original T. Lawrence Shannon in the Tennessee Williams' play, 'Night of the Iguana.' He'd worked with Bette Davis in that play and had some jaw-dropping stories to tell about her. Ironically, Angie and I now live quite literally about fifty yards from the old Bette Davis ranch here in LA.
Later still, we rehearsed another play of mine, 'Golden Eggs', at the National Shakespeare Conservatory in the East Village. This is when I first discovered The Spring Street Lounge. As I mentioned in yesterday's blog, it was quite a find. The tourists hadn't yet discovered this joint thmeselves yet, so it was still a true blue NY place; sawdust floors, mismatched tables and chairs, writers, both playwrights and novelists, sitting around scribbling longhand on pads, either Sinatra or Springsteen blaring from the ancient juke box. This is where I met Lanford Wilson one afternoon writing away. Also Mailer and Jay McInerney were often in there. One night Sean Penn was in there doing shots with Martin Sheen. It was a cool place, to say the least, and I think it's gone now, alas. One had to know the bar was there because there was absolutely nothing on the outside to indicate there was a pub inside; only a big, bright red, metal door. No sign whatsoever. In fact, I wrote the entire script for 'Golden Eggs' in that place in a corner by the bathrooms, sitting there afternoon after afternoon, nursing a couple of beers for hours and scribbling away. One day, about a month before we began production on it, my late friend, Robert Fiedler met me there. I showed him the script (I hadn't even typed it yet, it was all still in longhand). He wandered over to a table by himself and sat and read it for about an hour. Afterwards he came back to the bar and sat beside me and said quickly, "If you change one word of this you're a fucking idiot." We never mentioned it for the rest of the night. And I never changed a word.
I'm glad I lived in NY when I did. As John Malkovich once said, "You can't afford to be a starving artist in New York anymore. It's better to starve somewhere else." He's right. New York is not a place to be poor. I think I was there in the last decade where it was possible to still be poor and also barely afford to live there. I think the days of moving to NY after college to 'try and make it' are long gone. 'Tis a pity, really. What an extraordinary city it was and is. And maybe it's just retrospective falsification, but it's still my favorite city in the world. Sometimes my students ask me what it was like to live in NY in those days. I tell them I had a love/hate relationship with the city...some days I'd wake up and rather be anywhere else in the world but there. Other days I'd get up in the morning and rather be nowhere else in the world. That was the singular allure of New York City for me.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Dylan Thomas and The White Horse Tavern.
Yesterday, Easter ("The High Holy Day for Believers," as a priest buddy of mine in NYC used to say in a tremulous voice), Angie and I traveled over to some friends in Torrance. I'd never been to Torrance, nor had I ever heard of it, but it was a fun day, nonetheless. In any event, as the various guests came and left, I found myself at one point in the kitchen with our friend, Mark Lipps (Mark is a honcho with FOX out here in LA)and another fellow, Tom, a novelist with some six books under his belt so far, talking about 'the old days' in NYC. We'd all lived there at one point or another, Mark and Tom before I got there in 1985. Mark was remembering some times he spent with the vestiges of the old Warhol gang from the 'Factory' and Tom was going back even further with memories of The Village when it was truly 'The Village.'
The great thing about New York is that at one point or another everyone has been in the same place and can pinpoint that place and everyone can see it clearly in his or her mind's eye. In this particular instance we began, quite unpremeditatedly, remembering the legendary White Horse Tavern down on 11th and Hudson.
The White Horse was the first place, outside of my hotel, that I visited upon moving to NYC. It was May 5th, 1985, and after I'd checked into my hotel (the then decrepit but now quite oppulent Paramount Hotel) I flagged a cab and asked to be taken to The White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. I had my reasons.
It's amazing how much more courage (or in this case, naivety) one has at the age of 24 than one has at, say, the age of 50. So I flagged a cab and off I went. Fortunately, this was back in the days when cabbies spoke English.
It was about 3:00 in the afternoon and when I entered the venerable, old pub, it was empty. Just me and the bartender. I swaggered to the bar (my mindset in those days was to always appear supremely confident even though I hadn't the vaguest idea where I was half the time) and asked the bartender where Dylan Thomas was sitting when he drank 18 straight bourbon shots and then fell face down on the bar and died of alcohol poisoning.
He glanced up from what he was doing and said casually, "English major, huh? First day in New York?" I hesitated, "Um, yes." He smiled. "Right over there." Naturally, I thought I was being quite original coming to The White Horse to see where the great Welsh writer had died. Apparently not.
Today I'm told there is a small plaque at that place at the bar commemorating the spot. Back then, there was no plaque. So I sat at the very spot where Thomas had keeled over and ordered a beer. I sat there for a bit and then asked where Belushi always drank. He pointed to a table across the bar and I walked over there and sat for awhile. Belushi and Akroid used to come to The White Horse, without fail, after doing SNL back in the mid-seventies. The place was just full of self-destructive history. As I sat there, I remembered that this is also where Burton would drink after doing his famous Hamlet in 1964. Norman Mailer had once passed out in this joint and Charles Bukowski had once called it 'the perfect bar.'
A few years later, while I was doing one of my plays ('Changing it to Brando') the cast and crew and I would retire to this place after the show to drink until 5am. A few years after that I would be sitting outside with a buddy (there was a small sidewalk area for drinking) when a homeless guy jumped the fence and grabbed my pint of beer and ran off. Another time I was in there and a guy came in and tried to sell me a watch. I told him to beat it. But he was persistant and I ended up buying the watch for two bucks just to get rid of him. A few weeks later I discovered he'd sold me a real Cartier Tank Watch for two dollars. I wore that $3,000 watch (I had it appraised) for years. And a few years after that The White Horse was the last place I visited before moving to Chicago.
It turned out to be the place to meet in my NYC days. In those days there were four of us who regularly would meet up after our respective plays in NY to spend the evening drinking. John, Jeff, Robert and myself. Robert has since died, John is now out here in LA with me and Jeff is in Colorado teaching computer stuff to people. But at the time we were constantly in the maelstrom of the NYC nightlife and most of the time our long nightly trek would begin at The Whitehorse. From there we would usually walk over to 'the bar on Jane Street' (none of us ever knew the name of it) or to The Spring Street Lounge, a favorite haunt of ours because there were only two artists on the juke box (Sinatra and Springsteen) and only two things to order (Budweiser and Jack Daniels). They don't make 'em like that bar anymore.
I remember getting a bottle thrown at my head one night at The White Horse because I drunkenly berated a yuppie for daring to drink a frozen drink while sitting at the Dylan Thomas spot. The subsequent battle raged into the street (Hudson) and I recall narrowly avoiding a trip to jail that night. It seemed important to me at the time to express my feelings about a Pina Colada being drank at the very spot where Dylan Thomas had fallen. It somehow just seemed terribly wrong. I remember one of the cops that night saying to me, "I'd slap the bastard, too, if I were you." A literate cop...who would've suspected?
Someday I'll take Angie to that spot in The White Horse Tavern and although I don't drink anymore, I'll have a refreshing club soda and give her the oral history of Dylan Thomas and 'Under Milk Wood' and 'Death and Entrances' and a slice of my youth when arrogance and ignorance permeated the days and nights and everything and nothing was possible. The cool thing about my wife is that she'll undoubtedly be as reverential about the whole thing as I was back in those halcyon days in the spring of 1985.
I'm told the small, brass plaque attached just underneath the lip of the bar in that hallowed spot reads simply, "Dylan Thomas sat and died here - November 9, 1953." Not coincidentally, I'd like to think, the day I moved to Los Angeles and watched my whole world change.
See you tomorrow.
The great thing about New York is that at one point or another everyone has been in the same place and can pinpoint that place and everyone can see it clearly in his or her mind's eye. In this particular instance we began, quite unpremeditatedly, remembering the legendary White Horse Tavern down on 11th and Hudson.
The White Horse was the first place, outside of my hotel, that I visited upon moving to NYC. It was May 5th, 1985, and after I'd checked into my hotel (the then decrepit but now quite oppulent Paramount Hotel) I flagged a cab and asked to be taken to The White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. I had my reasons.
It's amazing how much more courage (or in this case, naivety) one has at the age of 24 than one has at, say, the age of 50. So I flagged a cab and off I went. Fortunately, this was back in the days when cabbies spoke English.
It was about 3:00 in the afternoon and when I entered the venerable, old pub, it was empty. Just me and the bartender. I swaggered to the bar (my mindset in those days was to always appear supremely confident even though I hadn't the vaguest idea where I was half the time) and asked the bartender where Dylan Thomas was sitting when he drank 18 straight bourbon shots and then fell face down on the bar and died of alcohol poisoning.
He glanced up from what he was doing and said casually, "English major, huh? First day in New York?" I hesitated, "Um, yes." He smiled. "Right over there." Naturally, I thought I was being quite original coming to The White Horse to see where the great Welsh writer had died. Apparently not.
Today I'm told there is a small plaque at that place at the bar commemorating the spot. Back then, there was no plaque. So I sat at the very spot where Thomas had keeled over and ordered a beer. I sat there for a bit and then asked where Belushi always drank. He pointed to a table across the bar and I walked over there and sat for awhile. Belushi and Akroid used to come to The White Horse, without fail, after doing SNL back in the mid-seventies. The place was just full of self-destructive history. As I sat there, I remembered that this is also where Burton would drink after doing his famous Hamlet in 1964. Norman Mailer had once passed out in this joint and Charles Bukowski had once called it 'the perfect bar.'
A few years later, while I was doing one of my plays ('Changing it to Brando') the cast and crew and I would retire to this place after the show to drink until 5am. A few years after that I would be sitting outside with a buddy (there was a small sidewalk area for drinking) when a homeless guy jumped the fence and grabbed my pint of beer and ran off. Another time I was in there and a guy came in and tried to sell me a watch. I told him to beat it. But he was persistant and I ended up buying the watch for two bucks just to get rid of him. A few weeks later I discovered he'd sold me a real Cartier Tank Watch for two dollars. I wore that $3,000 watch (I had it appraised) for years. And a few years after that The White Horse was the last place I visited before moving to Chicago.
It turned out to be the place to meet in my NYC days. In those days there were four of us who regularly would meet up after our respective plays in NY to spend the evening drinking. John, Jeff, Robert and myself. Robert has since died, John is now out here in LA with me and Jeff is in Colorado teaching computer stuff to people. But at the time we were constantly in the maelstrom of the NYC nightlife and most of the time our long nightly trek would begin at The Whitehorse. From there we would usually walk over to 'the bar on Jane Street' (none of us ever knew the name of it) or to The Spring Street Lounge, a favorite haunt of ours because there were only two artists on the juke box (Sinatra and Springsteen) and only two things to order (Budweiser and Jack Daniels). They don't make 'em like that bar anymore.
I remember getting a bottle thrown at my head one night at The White Horse because I drunkenly berated a yuppie for daring to drink a frozen drink while sitting at the Dylan Thomas spot. The subsequent battle raged into the street (Hudson) and I recall narrowly avoiding a trip to jail that night. It seemed important to me at the time to express my feelings about a Pina Colada being drank at the very spot where Dylan Thomas had fallen. It somehow just seemed terribly wrong. I remember one of the cops that night saying to me, "I'd slap the bastard, too, if I were you." A literate cop...who would've suspected?
Someday I'll take Angie to that spot in The White Horse Tavern and although I don't drink anymore, I'll have a refreshing club soda and give her the oral history of Dylan Thomas and 'Under Milk Wood' and 'Death and Entrances' and a slice of my youth when arrogance and ignorance permeated the days and nights and everything and nothing was possible. The cool thing about my wife is that she'll undoubtedly be as reverential about the whole thing as I was back in those halcyon days in the spring of 1985.
I'm told the small, brass plaque attached just underneath the lip of the bar in that hallowed spot reads simply, "Dylan Thomas sat and died here - November 9, 1953." Not coincidentally, I'd like to think, the day I moved to Los Angeles and watched my whole world change.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Death and Taxes
Yesterday Angie was doing our taxes for a few hours. It was a lot like that scene in 'A Christmas Story' when Darren McGavin (the father) has to fix the basement furnace. A subdued yet continuous string of expletives coming from the office. I thought it wise to stay out of it.
As an actor, one can deduct nearly everything. Especially if one is on the road. It's something I learned a long, long time ago in NYC when my tax guy would prepare my taxes for me. In any event, Angie was in the midst of tax hell for quite awhile last night. Late in the evening we made a dash for a late night post office in Burbank and got them off in the nick of time.
Interestingly, on the way home we both had a bit of an epiphany about things financial in our lives. We realized how lucky we were. How we were so incredibly blessed to have a great home, plenty of food to eat, a nice car, two perfect dogs and a ridiculous amount of comfort around us. We were startled to have this information rush to us at the same time. Regardless what happens to us on a day to day basis, the little things, the annoying, small, life things...we are, for the most part, living a life of unabashed contentment. It's a good thing to realize now and again.
We had a little health scare a few days ago. Angie's stepfather, a very good man indeed, had a small stroke. Of course at first we didn't realize it was a small stroke and spent most of an entire day worrying and waiting for information. We think, although with these sorts of things one can never be sure, it's all fix-able. Or at least manageable. I have enormous respect for Angie's stepdad and was quite disturbed by the news.
I was thinking about it last night as we were wending our way through Burbank's myriad backstreets to get to the post office on time. Death and taxes. Two things, as unpleasant as they are, that eventually loom in everyone's life like a murder of crows on the telephone lines in the front of our homes. Unavoidable and, for most of us, unspeakable. I am always reminded of an interview I once read with the lifelong hypochondriacal Woody Allen, "If any of us knew how quickly we were rushing toward the void we would be too frightened to get out of bed everyday."
Angie and I had a brief, albeit serious, conversation the other night about what to do with our remains when or if one of us 'goes' first. We both favor cremation. It was a sobering exchange for both of us.
As one gets older it's important to at least consider the possibility of one's demise, I think. For myself I have lived, at times, a life of near total disregard for health and longevity. Angie, as always, is far more pragmatic about these things.
So with the recent 'death and taxes' reality in our lives, I keep thinking of the old phrase, 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' Or the only good line in the Scorcese movie, The Departed. 'How's your mother?' 'She's dying.' 'We all are. Act accordingly.'
See you tomorrow.
As an actor, one can deduct nearly everything. Especially if one is on the road. It's something I learned a long, long time ago in NYC when my tax guy would prepare my taxes for me. In any event, Angie was in the midst of tax hell for quite awhile last night. Late in the evening we made a dash for a late night post office in Burbank and got them off in the nick of time.
Interestingly, on the way home we both had a bit of an epiphany about things financial in our lives. We realized how lucky we were. How we were so incredibly blessed to have a great home, plenty of food to eat, a nice car, two perfect dogs and a ridiculous amount of comfort around us. We were startled to have this information rush to us at the same time. Regardless what happens to us on a day to day basis, the little things, the annoying, small, life things...we are, for the most part, living a life of unabashed contentment. It's a good thing to realize now and again.
We had a little health scare a few days ago. Angie's stepfather, a very good man indeed, had a small stroke. Of course at first we didn't realize it was a small stroke and spent most of an entire day worrying and waiting for information. We think, although with these sorts of things one can never be sure, it's all fix-able. Or at least manageable. I have enormous respect for Angie's stepdad and was quite disturbed by the news.
I was thinking about it last night as we were wending our way through Burbank's myriad backstreets to get to the post office on time. Death and taxes. Two things, as unpleasant as they are, that eventually loom in everyone's life like a murder of crows on the telephone lines in the front of our homes. Unavoidable and, for most of us, unspeakable. I am always reminded of an interview I once read with the lifelong hypochondriacal Woody Allen, "If any of us knew how quickly we were rushing toward the void we would be too frightened to get out of bed everyday."
Angie and I had a brief, albeit serious, conversation the other night about what to do with our remains when or if one of us 'goes' first. We both favor cremation. It was a sobering exchange for both of us.
As one gets older it's important to at least consider the possibility of one's demise, I think. For myself I have lived, at times, a life of near total disregard for health and longevity. Angie, as always, is far more pragmatic about these things.
So with the recent 'death and taxes' reality in our lives, I keep thinking of the old phrase, 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.' Or the only good line in the Scorcese movie, The Departed. 'How's your mother?' 'She's dying.' 'We all are. Act accordingly.'
See you tomorrow.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Softball in Burbank.
Years ago, when I was living in NY, my friends Jeff Wood and John Bader both worked for NBC and played on their league softball team. Eventually they brought me in to play on the team, too. Sort of like a wringer. The team was experiencing some offensive problems and I could swing a bat pretty good in those days. We played fairly consistently over the next few summers.
In Chicago I got involved in the 'theatre league.' I played with Steppenwolf's team and it was a fairly competitive group. One summer we went 9-1, in fact.
So I've decided I want to get a team together here in LA. A few days ago I sent out about sixty emails or so to a lot of actor-types here in LA to see if I could garner some interest. So far we've got about four or five that are interested in joining. Problem is, of course, actors are always wandering off to do gigs. So I figure if I can get about twenty or so that have committed, I might be able to field a team on a regular basis.
I'm not thinking of anything too dynamic, really. A co-ed team, very relaxed, slow-pitch, 12" softball throughout the summer. Naturally, I've had lots of emails back saying, essentially, "I'd love to, but I'm shooting a film from June into July and...yada yada yada." So it's difficult.
But I'm not giving up hope. Today I'll call the Burbank Recreation Department and see what we need to do. I won't commit fully until I'm sure we can field a team every week. But I confess, the idea of playing organized softball all summer fills me with joy.
Those long ago days in Central Park playing with the NBC team were some of my best memories of NYC. We played serious softball, it wasn't just an excuse to tap a keg of Pabst, although there's something to be said for that. No, this was intense stuff. Of course, after the game we always retired to the nearest Upper West Side beer joint and happily recounted our deeds on the field all night. This was back (I'm sure it still goes on) when all the major shows fielded a team. I was actually playing with the NBC ELECTION UNIT. I remember playing against The Letterman Show with Dave himself at first base. He was pretty good, as I recall, although he had a substitute runner if he got a hit.
In those days I was on the road a lot during the summer, doing theatre gigs here and there. I played with The Mill Mountain Theatre team in Roanoke one summer and also played a lot with a theatre in Kentucky for a couple of seasons. In fact, sometimes when I think of a certain professional theatre somewhere I have trouble remembering what play we were actually doing but rather how good our softball team was.
One summer I was doing a play in Rockford, IL, and I think that may have been the best theatre team I played with. We were doing a musical there that summer, the theatre was called New American Theatre, now defunct, and surprisingly, it was a remarkably good group of athletes. I don't think we lost a single game that summer, playing against The Rotary Club and The Chamber of Commerce and the like.
It got to be, after a few years, kind of silly. I'd actually take or reject a job, not so much for the job itself, but rather for the possibility of a good softball team. Generally speaking, New American being the exception, straight plays tended to field better softball teams than musicals. One summer in Virginia I was doing the play, A Few Good Men and 1776 back to back. Both plays are nearly all men. We had a crackerjack softball team that year.
But now I don't travel for theatre anymore (only film) and so I thought it might be a good idea to get a team going here in Burbank. It may not work out, but then again, it might.
And if all else fails I'll just see if I can join a team already in existence. The thing is, I've discovered it's a hell of a lot more fun to play with actors than anyone else. For one thing, actors have a sense of humor about softball and most others don't. That in itself is a great deal of fun and pretty much makes it all worthwhile.
I'll keep you posted.
See you tomorrow.
In Chicago I got involved in the 'theatre league.' I played with Steppenwolf's team and it was a fairly competitive group. One summer we went 9-1, in fact.
So I've decided I want to get a team together here in LA. A few days ago I sent out about sixty emails or so to a lot of actor-types here in LA to see if I could garner some interest. So far we've got about four or five that are interested in joining. Problem is, of course, actors are always wandering off to do gigs. So I figure if I can get about twenty or so that have committed, I might be able to field a team on a regular basis.
I'm not thinking of anything too dynamic, really. A co-ed team, very relaxed, slow-pitch, 12" softball throughout the summer. Naturally, I've had lots of emails back saying, essentially, "I'd love to, but I'm shooting a film from June into July and...yada yada yada." So it's difficult.
But I'm not giving up hope. Today I'll call the Burbank Recreation Department and see what we need to do. I won't commit fully until I'm sure we can field a team every week. But I confess, the idea of playing organized softball all summer fills me with joy.
Those long ago days in Central Park playing with the NBC team were some of my best memories of NYC. We played serious softball, it wasn't just an excuse to tap a keg of Pabst, although there's something to be said for that. No, this was intense stuff. Of course, after the game we always retired to the nearest Upper West Side beer joint and happily recounted our deeds on the field all night. This was back (I'm sure it still goes on) when all the major shows fielded a team. I was actually playing with the NBC ELECTION UNIT. I remember playing against The Letterman Show with Dave himself at first base. He was pretty good, as I recall, although he had a substitute runner if he got a hit.
In those days I was on the road a lot during the summer, doing theatre gigs here and there. I played with The Mill Mountain Theatre team in Roanoke one summer and also played a lot with a theatre in Kentucky for a couple of seasons. In fact, sometimes when I think of a certain professional theatre somewhere I have trouble remembering what play we were actually doing but rather how good our softball team was.
One summer I was doing a play in Rockford, IL, and I think that may have been the best theatre team I played with. We were doing a musical there that summer, the theatre was called New American Theatre, now defunct, and surprisingly, it was a remarkably good group of athletes. I don't think we lost a single game that summer, playing against The Rotary Club and The Chamber of Commerce and the like.
It got to be, after a few years, kind of silly. I'd actually take or reject a job, not so much for the job itself, but rather for the possibility of a good softball team. Generally speaking, New American being the exception, straight plays tended to field better softball teams than musicals. One summer in Virginia I was doing the play, A Few Good Men and 1776 back to back. Both plays are nearly all men. We had a crackerjack softball team that year.
But now I don't travel for theatre anymore (only film) and so I thought it might be a good idea to get a team going here in Burbank. It may not work out, but then again, it might.
And if all else fails I'll just see if I can join a team already in existence. The thing is, I've discovered it's a hell of a lot more fun to play with actors than anyone else. For one thing, actors have a sense of humor about softball and most others don't. That in itself is a great deal of fun and pretty much makes it all worthwhile.
I'll keep you posted.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Run Silent, Run Deep
I'm dealing with this little sinus problem these days so I was up late last night with a suicidal headache. Since it was about two in the morning and sleep didn't seem to be anywhere in sight, I decided to watch an old film I hadn't seen in ages...Run Silent, Run Deep. In fact, I'm not altogether sure I've ever seen the film in it's entirety.
It's from 1958 and directed by the pedestrian Robert Wise but it's a tremendously underrated picture. Clark Gable and Burt Lancaster at their Gable-ist and Lancaster-ist. Apparently the two men didn't get along at all during filming. Gable was past his leading man prime and Lancaster was smack in the middle of his.
In supporting roles one can spot a young Don Rickles and Jack Warden (Warden is at the center of one of my favorite stories I heard from my buddy and veteran actor, Ron McLarty. Apparently he auditioned for John Houseman's 'King Lear' in New York in the late forties. He had virtually no credits yet and had never done Shakespeare. After doing a monologue, badly, Houseman asked him, very properly, "Uh, Mr. Uh, Warden. What role did you have in mind?" According to Ron, Warden answered the great Houseman, "Well, shit, who's doing Lear?"). But it is Gable who is interesting to watch in this one. Gable, much like John Wayne, sort of learned to act right in front of us, starting out mannered and clunky in the thirties and eventually, through sheer trial and error, ending up being pretty damn good by the end of his career.
His work in 'Run Silent, Run Deep' is good stuff. He's subtle and explosive. Charming and slightly Ahab-esque at times. The script, as one might expect, is a bit transparent at times, but Gable and Lancaster rise above it for the most part. Lancaster was not only one of the two male leads, but also produced the movie through his fledgling company. He, too, wooden and predictable early in his career, eventually turned into a very fine film actor, indeed. If you haven't seen it, check out Lancaster in a rarely-heard-from film called 'Go Tell the Spartans' in the mid-seventies. It's a brilliant little film about Vietnam (one of the first anti-Vietnam movies) and Lancaster is extraordinary in it.
But again, it is the sagging, defeated, aging Gable who is the one to watch in 'Run Silent, Run Deep.' This was 1958 and he was to give one more great performance in Arthur Miller's 'The Misfits' before dying of a massive heart attack a few years later.
I've always loved submarine movies. 'Das Boot' being my favorite of all time. And this one is one of the grandpappies of that genre. There's a claustrophobic feel throughout. Submarines lend themselves nicely to drama because of the close, confined camera shots. This film is done in black and white, too, which lends to the cramped feeling in the film.
In any event, I enjoyed the film far more than I suspected I would, considering it was three in the morning and my head felt like it very well might explode at any given time. Plus there's something about watching an old movie in the middle of the night, laying on the couch, lights out like a mini-movie theatre, that is simply comforting.
See you tomorrow.
It's from 1958 and directed by the pedestrian Robert Wise but it's a tremendously underrated picture. Clark Gable and Burt Lancaster at their Gable-ist and Lancaster-ist. Apparently the two men didn't get along at all during filming. Gable was past his leading man prime and Lancaster was smack in the middle of his.
In supporting roles one can spot a young Don Rickles and Jack Warden (Warden is at the center of one of my favorite stories I heard from my buddy and veteran actor, Ron McLarty. Apparently he auditioned for John Houseman's 'King Lear' in New York in the late forties. He had virtually no credits yet and had never done Shakespeare. After doing a monologue, badly, Houseman asked him, very properly, "Uh, Mr. Uh, Warden. What role did you have in mind?" According to Ron, Warden answered the great Houseman, "Well, shit, who's doing Lear?"). But it is Gable who is interesting to watch in this one. Gable, much like John Wayne, sort of learned to act right in front of us, starting out mannered and clunky in the thirties and eventually, through sheer trial and error, ending up being pretty damn good by the end of his career.
His work in 'Run Silent, Run Deep' is good stuff. He's subtle and explosive. Charming and slightly Ahab-esque at times. The script, as one might expect, is a bit transparent at times, but Gable and Lancaster rise above it for the most part. Lancaster was not only one of the two male leads, but also produced the movie through his fledgling company. He, too, wooden and predictable early in his career, eventually turned into a very fine film actor, indeed. If you haven't seen it, check out Lancaster in a rarely-heard-from film called 'Go Tell the Spartans' in the mid-seventies. It's a brilliant little film about Vietnam (one of the first anti-Vietnam movies) and Lancaster is extraordinary in it.
But again, it is the sagging, defeated, aging Gable who is the one to watch in 'Run Silent, Run Deep.' This was 1958 and he was to give one more great performance in Arthur Miller's 'The Misfits' before dying of a massive heart attack a few years later.
I've always loved submarine movies. 'Das Boot' being my favorite of all time. And this one is one of the grandpappies of that genre. There's a claustrophobic feel throughout. Submarines lend themselves nicely to drama because of the close, confined camera shots. This film is done in black and white, too, which lends to the cramped feeling in the film.
In any event, I enjoyed the film far more than I suspected I would, considering it was three in the morning and my head felt like it very well might explode at any given time. Plus there's something about watching an old movie in the middle of the night, laying on the couch, lights out like a mini-movie theatre, that is simply comforting.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
American Idol or The Gong Show revisited.
Something very interesting is happening with American Idol. Angie is a dedicated watcher of the program and, consequently, I have sort of become interested myself. There is an unusually talented bunch on the show it seems to me. But that's not so terribly different from seasons past. No, the interesting thing this year is that each of the remaining contestants seem to be experts in wildly disparate genres of music.
Gospel is represented by one young man, jazz by another, grass roots country by another and, of all things, heavy metal by yet another. So what's happening here is that people aren't voting for the 'best' of the bunch of singers, but rather for the kind of music they enjoy. I really like this. It elevates this rather pedestrian talent show to something else altogether; a compare and contrast study of American music itself.
Last night the young man that sort of 'specializes' in jazz sang an old Nat King Cole tune called 'Nature Boy.' It was not even in the same league as the rest of the participants. For the first and perhaps the only time, this over-produced 'Gong Show' became something else entirely: a concert. And, quite to my surprise, I was really impressed with this guy's performance. It wasn't a bunch of caterwalling set to latter-day, bubble-gum tunes, but an actual, beautifully conceived performance. It was extraordinary. And I fully expect him to be voted off tonight.
This is the sad part of the show. Clearly the majority of voters are teenage girls. And I would be very surprised if they enjoyed that particular performance in the least. On the other hand (and the really cool thing about the show) is that this guy has been yanked from obscurity and placed front and center on America's stage to display his wares. And impressive wares they are.
Another of the singers on display is a young man (sixteen, for God sakes) with one of the purest country voices I've heard in years. It's a throwback to Hank Williams and George Jones and Johnny Cash and it's absoulutely riveting. Singing pure country is not easy. This is not 'cross-over' stuff, but rather the real deal. And I, quite surprisingly, found myself shaking my head in awe as he warbled out his song last night.
There's another young man (Angie likes him more than I do) who did a pure 'heavy metal' song last night. In fact the song was actually called 'Heavy Metal.' I'm not a fan of that style of music. I find it grating and, well, just dumb. But nonetheless this guy rocked it out. Even though I don't like the genre itself, there is no getting around that he does it exceptionally well.
And then there's the young guy that sings gospel. Last night he performed the great Simon and Garfunkel tune, Bridge Over Troubled Waters. This guy has the kind of voice that really shakes the rafters. He's not a great performer, per se, but that voice...heavens. The problem is, he's clearly rather religious judging by his comments during the show and like most religious dimwits, he's always trying to 'teach a lesson' through his music.
Oddly, the female performers this year are not up to the standards of the male performers. Generally, as I recall, the opposite has been the case in the past few seasons.
But again, this jazz guy, I think his name is Casey, he's the one to watch. Really a simply top flight artist. He plays the stand-up base with his work, and it is head and shoulders superior to everybody else on the show. Which is really saying something, because, as I said, this is an unusually talented bunch this year.
There are a couple of 'mentors' on the show this year that give advice during the rehearsal week about choice of song, etc. One of them is apparently the president of some huge record company and, naturally, he's always pushing for the performers to sing the lowest common denominator type songs. Something that will appeal to all the teenage girls, that is to say. Casey, the jazz guy, flat-out refused to do it. I liked that very much. The heavy metal guy also told him to take a hike. This guy, the 'mentor' (Jimmy something is his name), is a microcosm of everything that's wrong about American popular music today. He's clearly concerned with making money and selling records rather than actual talent.
Strangely, I find myself looking forward to seeing who leaves the show tonight. If for no other reason to see if my theory holds water. To see if America will vote out the one singer that shows true artistry. I hope I'm wrong but I suspect I won't be.
See you tomorrow.
Gospel is represented by one young man, jazz by another, grass roots country by another and, of all things, heavy metal by yet another. So what's happening here is that people aren't voting for the 'best' of the bunch of singers, but rather for the kind of music they enjoy. I really like this. It elevates this rather pedestrian talent show to something else altogether; a compare and contrast study of American music itself.
Last night the young man that sort of 'specializes' in jazz sang an old Nat King Cole tune called 'Nature Boy.' It was not even in the same league as the rest of the participants. For the first and perhaps the only time, this over-produced 'Gong Show' became something else entirely: a concert. And, quite to my surprise, I was really impressed with this guy's performance. It wasn't a bunch of caterwalling set to latter-day, bubble-gum tunes, but an actual, beautifully conceived performance. It was extraordinary. And I fully expect him to be voted off tonight.
This is the sad part of the show. Clearly the majority of voters are teenage girls. And I would be very surprised if they enjoyed that particular performance in the least. On the other hand (and the really cool thing about the show) is that this guy has been yanked from obscurity and placed front and center on America's stage to display his wares. And impressive wares they are.
Another of the singers on display is a young man (sixteen, for God sakes) with one of the purest country voices I've heard in years. It's a throwback to Hank Williams and George Jones and Johnny Cash and it's absoulutely riveting. Singing pure country is not easy. This is not 'cross-over' stuff, but rather the real deal. And I, quite surprisingly, found myself shaking my head in awe as he warbled out his song last night.
There's another young man (Angie likes him more than I do) who did a pure 'heavy metal' song last night. In fact the song was actually called 'Heavy Metal.' I'm not a fan of that style of music. I find it grating and, well, just dumb. But nonetheless this guy rocked it out. Even though I don't like the genre itself, there is no getting around that he does it exceptionally well.
And then there's the young guy that sings gospel. Last night he performed the great Simon and Garfunkel tune, Bridge Over Troubled Waters. This guy has the kind of voice that really shakes the rafters. He's not a great performer, per se, but that voice...heavens. The problem is, he's clearly rather religious judging by his comments during the show and like most religious dimwits, he's always trying to 'teach a lesson' through his music.
Oddly, the female performers this year are not up to the standards of the male performers. Generally, as I recall, the opposite has been the case in the past few seasons.
But again, this jazz guy, I think his name is Casey, he's the one to watch. Really a simply top flight artist. He plays the stand-up base with his work, and it is head and shoulders superior to everybody else on the show. Which is really saying something, because, as I said, this is an unusually talented bunch this year.
There are a couple of 'mentors' on the show this year that give advice during the rehearsal week about choice of song, etc. One of them is apparently the president of some huge record company and, naturally, he's always pushing for the performers to sing the lowest common denominator type songs. Something that will appeal to all the teenage girls, that is to say. Casey, the jazz guy, flat-out refused to do it. I liked that very much. The heavy metal guy also told him to take a hike. This guy, the 'mentor' (Jimmy something is his name), is a microcosm of everything that's wrong about American popular music today. He's clearly concerned with making money and selling records rather than actual talent.
Strangely, I find myself looking forward to seeing who leaves the show tonight. If for no other reason to see if my theory holds water. To see if America will vote out the one singer that shows true artistry. I hope I'm wrong but I suspect I won't be.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Acting Classes
Acting classes are a funny thing. I think it goes without saying that it's important to find the exact right fit, sort of like picking a glove that fits your hand perfectly. Now, generally speaking, it's nearly impossible to swing a dead cat out here in Hollywood without hitting an acting teacher. They're everywhere. It seems there are almost as many acting teachers as there are actors.
This is true, I've found, in New York as well (although, oddly, not quite so much in Chicago). The big difference I've found, however, is that acting classes in New York seem to be actual acting classes. Out here (there are exceptions of course) the 'acting class' is forever linked to 'networking.' That is to say, a lot of young actors don't take the class so much to learn about acting but to meet someone that might further their career. And I suppose there's nothing wrong with that, really. It just seems a bit misdirected to me.
I have, as a professional actor for nigh on thirty years, seen a butt-load of acting teachers in my life. A few are good at what they do, most are not. "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach" is the old adage. And I don't think it's a very accurate one on the whole. But with regards to acting professionally, it is uncomfortably true more often than not. I prefer Woody Allen's take on the phrase: 'Those who can't, teach. And those who can't teach, teach gym.'
I was very luck as a young actor in New York because I, quite accidentally, ran across the brilliant actor, Michael Moriarty, as a teacher. I worked with Michael, off and on, for about five years. Right up until he started Law and Order on NBC and no longer had the time to teach. They were the most important five years of my life in terms of my craft. I've already blogged about Michael and his classes here so I won't repeat myself. Suffice to say, Michael simply assumed his students knew how to act already...he just made them more interesting to watch. Much more interesting. And in the final analysis, that's really what it's all about.
I'm not sure anyone can 'teach' someone how to act. One can 'build' upon talent, but not give it away. One already has the instincts to be a good actor or not. It's not something one can 'find' by looking or being taught. But that's just my theory. Others might disagree.
For example, I remember one class with Michael when a young actor said to him, "I don't want to hear about all of that stuff about Naked Face and internalizing and all that. I want to know how to ACT." I recall Michael taking a long pause, sort of sighing a bit, and then launching into an hour or so of breathing techniques; when to breathe, how to breathe, staggered breathing, full breaths, semi-breaths, top of the phrase breathing, quick breaths, breathing in the pause...it was absolutely fascinating and the young actor was overwhelmed. He ended by saying some actors do all of this instinctively. And if that is not the case it becomes tantamount to advanced trig...it's that complicated. In essence, Michael was telling the young actor that it can't be taught, or if it could, it would be so serpentine as to be almost incomprehensible. He was saying, quite wisely, that acting is breathing, first and foremost.
After that, he sat at his piano (Michael is a world-class jazz pianist) and turned the young man's monologue into an aria. He improvised the music and told the actor where the emotional peaks and valleys were. He stretched some of the sentences into soaring musical phrases and shortened some into quick, syncopated jazz riffs. It was remarkable. I can honestly say I learned more about the actual nuts and bolts part of acting in that hour than I had in the previous ten years of my life.
Before I ran across Michael's class I had ample opportunity to 'try out' some other teachers. For awhile I studied with the fabled Sanford Meisner. Certainly thought of to be one of the great teachers of the twentieth century in America. And yes, there were some cool things to learn from old 'Sandy.' But mostly it was a compilation of party games that had little or nothing to do with the actual work of the actor. Although I must admit, most of the time it was fun.
Uta Hagen's book, Respect for Acting, seems to be the one that most academic acting teachers espouse. It's a common sensical approach and not a bad book at all. My problem with it is that it is just full of 'right' and 'wrong' ways to do things. I've found over a hundred or so professional plays that this line of thought is simply silly. There is no right or wrong, there is only what works and what doesn't work.
I once worked with a teacher in New York who confused acting with personal therapy. There seems to be a lot of that going on. After I finished a scene once, before commenting about the work, he asked, "Did you have a difficult childhood?" I said, "Yes, I did. But not nearly as difficult as this asinine class." And walked out.
There's a charlatan here in LA, over in NoHo, who pretends to be an acting teacher. His background is mostly chorus work in big musicals. He's in his fifties now and runs a theatre, so a lot of young actors think he knows what he's talking about. After every scene or monologue he starts by saying, "How did that feel?" Which is okay, but that's as far as it goes. After the young actor describes how it 'felt' he says okay, and that's that. Next actor. Good Lord. The sad part is this guy actually has quite a few students that pay good money to be asked that.
There was one guy in New York (this happens all too often, I'm afraid) who used his classes to get laid. He abhored all the men in the class and everything they did. The women were all lavished with praise. It was so transparent as to be really uncomfortable.
The gist here, I suppose, is BE CAREFUL. Pick and choose carefully. A really good acting teacher is worth his or her weight in gold. A bad one can fuck you up forever.
Here's the thing: once an actor has reached a certain level of competence, he is competing against a whole gaggle of good actors. Everyone in the room is good. There ARE no bad actors in the room. Everybody knows what they're doing. It's not college anymore, it's not 99 seat theatre, it's not the Irene Ryan Competition, it's the real deal. And at that point it becomes not about being 'better' but about being 'more interesting.' Michael Moriarty understood this. That's what I loved about his classes. He really wasn't interested in teaching people 'how' to act, but rather how to make them a 'more fascinating' actor.
And in the long run, that's what it's all about.
See you tomorrow.
This is true, I've found, in New York as well (although, oddly, not quite so much in Chicago). The big difference I've found, however, is that acting classes in New York seem to be actual acting classes. Out here (there are exceptions of course) the 'acting class' is forever linked to 'networking.' That is to say, a lot of young actors don't take the class so much to learn about acting but to meet someone that might further their career. And I suppose there's nothing wrong with that, really. It just seems a bit misdirected to me.
I have, as a professional actor for nigh on thirty years, seen a butt-load of acting teachers in my life. A few are good at what they do, most are not. "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach" is the old adage. And I don't think it's a very accurate one on the whole. But with regards to acting professionally, it is uncomfortably true more often than not. I prefer Woody Allen's take on the phrase: 'Those who can't, teach. And those who can't teach, teach gym.'
I was very luck as a young actor in New York because I, quite accidentally, ran across the brilliant actor, Michael Moriarty, as a teacher. I worked with Michael, off and on, for about five years. Right up until he started Law and Order on NBC and no longer had the time to teach. They were the most important five years of my life in terms of my craft. I've already blogged about Michael and his classes here so I won't repeat myself. Suffice to say, Michael simply assumed his students knew how to act already...he just made them more interesting to watch. Much more interesting. And in the final analysis, that's really what it's all about.
I'm not sure anyone can 'teach' someone how to act. One can 'build' upon talent, but not give it away. One already has the instincts to be a good actor or not. It's not something one can 'find' by looking or being taught. But that's just my theory. Others might disagree.
For example, I remember one class with Michael when a young actor said to him, "I don't want to hear about all of that stuff about Naked Face and internalizing and all that. I want to know how to ACT." I recall Michael taking a long pause, sort of sighing a bit, and then launching into an hour or so of breathing techniques; when to breathe, how to breathe, staggered breathing, full breaths, semi-breaths, top of the phrase breathing, quick breaths, breathing in the pause...it was absolutely fascinating and the young actor was overwhelmed. He ended by saying some actors do all of this instinctively. And if that is not the case it becomes tantamount to advanced trig...it's that complicated. In essence, Michael was telling the young actor that it can't be taught, or if it could, it would be so serpentine as to be almost incomprehensible. He was saying, quite wisely, that acting is breathing, first and foremost.
After that, he sat at his piano (Michael is a world-class jazz pianist) and turned the young man's monologue into an aria. He improvised the music and told the actor where the emotional peaks and valleys were. He stretched some of the sentences into soaring musical phrases and shortened some into quick, syncopated jazz riffs. It was remarkable. I can honestly say I learned more about the actual nuts and bolts part of acting in that hour than I had in the previous ten years of my life.
Before I ran across Michael's class I had ample opportunity to 'try out' some other teachers. For awhile I studied with the fabled Sanford Meisner. Certainly thought of to be one of the great teachers of the twentieth century in America. And yes, there were some cool things to learn from old 'Sandy.' But mostly it was a compilation of party games that had little or nothing to do with the actual work of the actor. Although I must admit, most of the time it was fun.
Uta Hagen's book, Respect for Acting, seems to be the one that most academic acting teachers espouse. It's a common sensical approach and not a bad book at all. My problem with it is that it is just full of 'right' and 'wrong' ways to do things. I've found over a hundred or so professional plays that this line of thought is simply silly. There is no right or wrong, there is only what works and what doesn't work.
I once worked with a teacher in New York who confused acting with personal therapy. There seems to be a lot of that going on. After I finished a scene once, before commenting about the work, he asked, "Did you have a difficult childhood?" I said, "Yes, I did. But not nearly as difficult as this asinine class." And walked out.
There's a charlatan here in LA, over in NoHo, who pretends to be an acting teacher. His background is mostly chorus work in big musicals. He's in his fifties now and runs a theatre, so a lot of young actors think he knows what he's talking about. After every scene or monologue he starts by saying, "How did that feel?" Which is okay, but that's as far as it goes. After the young actor describes how it 'felt' he says okay, and that's that. Next actor. Good Lord. The sad part is this guy actually has quite a few students that pay good money to be asked that.
There was one guy in New York (this happens all too often, I'm afraid) who used his classes to get laid. He abhored all the men in the class and everything they did. The women were all lavished with praise. It was so transparent as to be really uncomfortable.
The gist here, I suppose, is BE CAREFUL. Pick and choose carefully. A really good acting teacher is worth his or her weight in gold. A bad one can fuck you up forever.
Here's the thing: once an actor has reached a certain level of competence, he is competing against a whole gaggle of good actors. Everyone in the room is good. There ARE no bad actors in the room. Everybody knows what they're doing. It's not college anymore, it's not 99 seat theatre, it's not the Irene Ryan Competition, it's the real deal. And at that point it becomes not about being 'better' but about being 'more interesting.' Michael Moriarty understood this. That's what I loved about his classes. He really wasn't interested in teaching people 'how' to act, but rather how to make them a 'more fascinating' actor.
And in the long run, that's what it's all about.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Waiting for the Next Big Gig...
I've unexpectedly found myself with a new management team here in LA. Entirely about film and television submissions. And, let's face it, LA is a camera town, not a stage town, as exasperating as that is now and then. Although to be sure, there is certainly some fine stage work being done here and there. The Geffen is constantly doing good work on stage. And not, like a lot of theatre companies, just once in a while, but consistently. Currently they're producing Jane Anderson's new controversial script about the sex industry. I've read the script, in fact, and it's really good stuff. I look forward to seeing it come alive onstage.
The Geffen may be the most beautiful regional theatre complex I've ever seen. And I use the word 'regional' loosely these days because the time of New York producing the hottest new plays are decades behind us. I was at The Geffen a couple of weeks ago for a meeting with the resident casting director there and I was reminded all over again just how stunning that facility is.
In any event, through a series of surprising conincidences I'm become involved with this fairly high-end management company. So...we shall see what we shall see. I can't really say a lot more at this particular time for a number of reasons, but suffice to say I'm very excited by it all and much encouraged. LA is all about who reps you. Unlike New York and Chicago, in this town the cream doesn't always rise to the top. Sometimes it simply sits, coagulated and static, in the middle of the cup unless the right people are repping you. A bit sad but undeniably true.
I've decided to get back to my original screenplay today. I've put it on the backburner for a little while and I'm sort of inspired again. Although absolutely nothing like it, I was initially moved to write the piece after watching, for the second time, the film 'Sideways.' It's a very funny, very smart film starring the always interesting Paul Giamatti. If you haven't seen it, I heartily recommend it.
It's funny because I've turned down a lot of projects lately in order to be availabe for some other possible gigs. It's very much an LA mindset. It goes against my professional grain, not taking jobs I think I might like but to rather wait for one that might 'make a splash.' Nonetheless, it's the right thing to do. I was chatting with a close buddy the other day and he was suggesting I do exactly that. "Stop doing good work and wait for big work," was the exact quote. Sometimes it's maddening, to be honest.
And so it goes.
See you tomorrow.
The Geffen may be the most beautiful regional theatre complex I've ever seen. And I use the word 'regional' loosely these days because the time of New York producing the hottest new plays are decades behind us. I was at The Geffen a couple of weeks ago for a meeting with the resident casting director there and I was reminded all over again just how stunning that facility is.
In any event, through a series of surprising conincidences I'm become involved with this fairly high-end management company. So...we shall see what we shall see. I can't really say a lot more at this particular time for a number of reasons, but suffice to say I'm very excited by it all and much encouraged. LA is all about who reps you. Unlike New York and Chicago, in this town the cream doesn't always rise to the top. Sometimes it simply sits, coagulated and static, in the middle of the cup unless the right people are repping you. A bit sad but undeniably true.
I've decided to get back to my original screenplay today. I've put it on the backburner for a little while and I'm sort of inspired again. Although absolutely nothing like it, I was initially moved to write the piece after watching, for the second time, the film 'Sideways.' It's a very funny, very smart film starring the always interesting Paul Giamatti. If you haven't seen it, I heartily recommend it.
It's funny because I've turned down a lot of projects lately in order to be availabe for some other possible gigs. It's very much an LA mindset. It goes against my professional grain, not taking jobs I think I might like but to rather wait for one that might 'make a splash.' Nonetheless, it's the right thing to do. I was chatting with a close buddy the other day and he was suggesting I do exactly that. "Stop doing good work and wait for big work," was the exact quote. Sometimes it's maddening, to be honest.
And so it goes.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Playing the 'Bad Guy.'
So I'm watching a little more of this 'Kennedy's' thing on REELZ. Like I said before, it's not very well written but for the most part, the actors are rising above that. It's the old adage, 'Good actors can sometimes save a bad script, but a good script can never save bad actors.' It begins and ends with the actor. In Olivier's second book on acting he talks briefly about this. He says something akin to, you can take away the director, the script, even the stage, but you can't have theatre without actors. Unfortunately, there are those in this business that still consider actors a necessary evil, as astonishing as that may sound.
Anyway, I'm watching this thing and there's an older actor, don't even know his name, who is playing the role of the bitter, misguided, war-happy character of General Bennett in the series. It's a plumb little role, clearly written as the antagonist, and this poor guy is clueless. He's playing the whole thing like a petulent, fit-throwing, pouting twelve-year-old. He's completely missed the idea of always loving the character you play. Anthony Hopkins, when asked about his Emmy-winning turn as Adolf Hitler, said he needed to find a place inside himself where he thought he was right, where he was doing the right thing, where his motivations were heroic and benign. Therein, says Sir Anthony, lies the key to playing 'bad guys.'
There's nothing more satisfying than watching a really good actor grab hold of a villainous role and shake it like a dog with a bone. I'll mostly reference film villains here because that's the medium we can all identify with, generally speaking. But I once saw Stephen Lang play Colonel Jessop (the role Jack Nicholson later did in the film version) in the play, A Few Good Men in New York. What a magnificent performance of a villain that was. I still, all these years later, think of his work in that play now and again.
In terms of film, there are a few that come to mind, too, that illustrate my point. One is Gary Oldman in any number of films, but most spectacularly in a movie called The Professional. Oldman is well aware of his strength as a 'bad guy.' He is clearly cognizant of his ability to play bad guys as charming, smart, evil and explosive and this is never more apparent than in that film. If you're an actor and haven't seen it, I highly recommend it for that performance alone.
Olivier himself is at his best in an old movie called Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman, in which he plays a NAZI scientist on the run. His dead eyes and unblinking stare are enormously creepy. And yet there are moments he can turn on the charm as easy as flicking a light switch.
And of course, there is Hopkins as Hannibal Lector. It's a text book approach to playing villains, probably to be studied by other actors for generations to come.
There are others, too, certainly worth mentioning. Take a look at Robert Mitchum in the original Cape Fear. Or, arguably, Brando in The Godfather (although, Brando being Brando, that's almost an antagonist turned into a protagonist simply through his sheer force of personality). A rather obscure one, although one of my favorites, is Ben Kingsley in a rather muddled film called Sneakers with Robert Redford. Exemplary job of good, old-fashinoned bad guy work. Try Lee J. Cobb in On the Waterfront. Another example of a personality so large it nearly overshadows the content of the script. He's just a terrible person in that movie, and yet so convincing in his through-line as an actor, it's nearly impossible to hate him.
And speaking of old films, take a glance at Orson Welles in Citizen Kane. A bad guy, to be sure, but absolutely fascinating.
Shakespeare understood this fascination we have with villains all to well. Richard III is, of course, the case in point. An entire three-hour play surrounding a purely evil character. And yet, it works beautifully (although most Richard III productions excise all of the political dialogue in that play - it's unbelievably complicated what with all of the Yorkist and Lancastrian allusions). And Olivier on film and the extraordinary Ian McKellan in the 1990's production are prime examples of an actor moving past the content and into the realm of real behavior. As Stephen King says, '...the art of creating a person rather than a bag of bones.'
Bad guys are the axis of drama, the reason for it to exist. Without the bad guy, drama becomes existential, which can be satisfying but not especially dramatic. Dramatists and storytellers have, for eons now, understood the need to simply 'root' for someone. And as far back as Aristotle we have had villains to overcome. It is essential to the arc of drama itself. In simple terms, we don't want to be angry and offended at bad 'things.' We want to be angry and offended at bad 'people.'
There is someting very satisfying about seeing a bad guy get his 'come-uppance.' One of the examples that comes to mind in film is during the final ten minutes of the movie The Verdict with Paul Newman. It's a wonderful script by David Mamet. And a great courtroom drama (courtroom dramas, for obvious reasons, especially lend themselves to good guy - bad guy work). James Mason has a moment when his entire case collapses when Newman cross-examines a woman on the stand and gets her to admit she made copies of a crucial piece of evidence. Mason looks up, startled for the first and only time in the film, eyes widening and blurts out the single word, "Objection!" In that single glance, we see the tables turn, we see the bad guy 'get his.' We see justice and moral rights upheld. It's a stunning and delicious moment.
Ask any professional actor and he'll tell you how much fun it is to play the bad guy. Much more so than playing the good guy. I've had the opportunity to play more than a few in my time and I couldn't agree more. And, as Anthony Hopkins so eloquently described, it all has to do with believing in the character, loving the character you're playing. It's not only difficult, but uninteresting, to play a bad guy as though he thinks he IS a bad guy. The trick is to play him as 'the good guy.'
It's the reason this older charcter actor in the mini-series of The Kennedy's bothers me so much. He's been given a golden opportunity. And he's squandering it by actually playing the bad guy AS the bad guy. Maybe he's being directed that way, I don't know. Wouldn't surprise me. Most directors I've come across don't understand the balancing act in playing villains. They're too afraid 'the point' will be missed. But then again, I've rarely met any directors with a healthy sense of imagination. A few, but not too many. But that's a whole different blog on a whole different day.
See you tomorrow.
Anyway, I'm watching this thing and there's an older actor, don't even know his name, who is playing the role of the bitter, misguided, war-happy character of General Bennett in the series. It's a plumb little role, clearly written as the antagonist, and this poor guy is clueless. He's playing the whole thing like a petulent, fit-throwing, pouting twelve-year-old. He's completely missed the idea of always loving the character you play. Anthony Hopkins, when asked about his Emmy-winning turn as Adolf Hitler, said he needed to find a place inside himself where he thought he was right, where he was doing the right thing, where his motivations were heroic and benign. Therein, says Sir Anthony, lies the key to playing 'bad guys.'
There's nothing more satisfying than watching a really good actor grab hold of a villainous role and shake it like a dog with a bone. I'll mostly reference film villains here because that's the medium we can all identify with, generally speaking. But I once saw Stephen Lang play Colonel Jessop (the role Jack Nicholson later did in the film version) in the play, A Few Good Men in New York. What a magnificent performance of a villain that was. I still, all these years later, think of his work in that play now and again.
In terms of film, there are a few that come to mind, too, that illustrate my point. One is Gary Oldman in any number of films, but most spectacularly in a movie called The Professional. Oldman is well aware of his strength as a 'bad guy.' He is clearly cognizant of his ability to play bad guys as charming, smart, evil and explosive and this is never more apparent than in that film. If you're an actor and haven't seen it, I highly recommend it for that performance alone.
Olivier himself is at his best in an old movie called Marathon Man with Dustin Hoffman, in which he plays a NAZI scientist on the run. His dead eyes and unblinking stare are enormously creepy. And yet there are moments he can turn on the charm as easy as flicking a light switch.
And of course, there is Hopkins as Hannibal Lector. It's a text book approach to playing villains, probably to be studied by other actors for generations to come.
There are others, too, certainly worth mentioning. Take a look at Robert Mitchum in the original Cape Fear. Or, arguably, Brando in The Godfather (although, Brando being Brando, that's almost an antagonist turned into a protagonist simply through his sheer force of personality). A rather obscure one, although one of my favorites, is Ben Kingsley in a rather muddled film called Sneakers with Robert Redford. Exemplary job of good, old-fashinoned bad guy work. Try Lee J. Cobb in On the Waterfront. Another example of a personality so large it nearly overshadows the content of the script. He's just a terrible person in that movie, and yet so convincing in his through-line as an actor, it's nearly impossible to hate him.
And speaking of old films, take a glance at Orson Welles in Citizen Kane. A bad guy, to be sure, but absolutely fascinating.
Shakespeare understood this fascination we have with villains all to well. Richard III is, of course, the case in point. An entire three-hour play surrounding a purely evil character. And yet, it works beautifully (although most Richard III productions excise all of the political dialogue in that play - it's unbelievably complicated what with all of the Yorkist and Lancastrian allusions). And Olivier on film and the extraordinary Ian McKellan in the 1990's production are prime examples of an actor moving past the content and into the realm of real behavior. As Stephen King says, '...the art of creating a person rather than a bag of bones.'
Bad guys are the axis of drama, the reason for it to exist. Without the bad guy, drama becomes existential, which can be satisfying but not especially dramatic. Dramatists and storytellers have, for eons now, understood the need to simply 'root' for someone. And as far back as Aristotle we have had villains to overcome. It is essential to the arc of drama itself. In simple terms, we don't want to be angry and offended at bad 'things.' We want to be angry and offended at bad 'people.'
There is someting very satisfying about seeing a bad guy get his 'come-uppance.' One of the examples that comes to mind in film is during the final ten minutes of the movie The Verdict with Paul Newman. It's a wonderful script by David Mamet. And a great courtroom drama (courtroom dramas, for obvious reasons, especially lend themselves to good guy - bad guy work). James Mason has a moment when his entire case collapses when Newman cross-examines a woman on the stand and gets her to admit she made copies of a crucial piece of evidence. Mason looks up, startled for the first and only time in the film, eyes widening and blurts out the single word, "Objection!" In that single glance, we see the tables turn, we see the bad guy 'get his.' We see justice and moral rights upheld. It's a stunning and delicious moment.
Ask any professional actor and he'll tell you how much fun it is to play the bad guy. Much more so than playing the good guy. I've had the opportunity to play more than a few in my time and I couldn't agree more. And, as Anthony Hopkins so eloquently described, it all has to do with believing in the character, loving the character you're playing. It's not only difficult, but uninteresting, to play a bad guy as though he thinks he IS a bad guy. The trick is to play him as 'the good guy.'
It's the reason this older charcter actor in the mini-series of The Kennedy's bothers me so much. He's been given a golden opportunity. And he's squandering it by actually playing the bad guy AS the bad guy. Maybe he's being directed that way, I don't know. Wouldn't surprise me. Most directors I've come across don't understand the balancing act in playing villains. They're too afraid 'the point' will be missed. But then again, I've rarely met any directors with a healthy sense of imagination. A few, but not too many. But that's a whole different blog on a whole different day.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Kennedy's on TV...
When I was younger I did a lot of improv. Starting in college (with a wonderful seminar with the legendary Del Close - who at the time I did not know was 'legendary') and then with a late night group in NYC in the East Village. I enjoyed it a lot. I was not bad at it. I learned the basic rules and arcs of the form. Never deny. Always augment but don't top. Push for the full story rather than the quick laugh. That sort of thing.
Frankly, I'm appalled when I audition for a new piece, be it a television pilot or a film of some kind, when the director says, "Why don't you just improvise for a bit here. See what you can come with?" My first thought is always, 'No.' I mean, I'd be glad to, but pay me as a writer first. I'm not here to give your writers free ideas and dialogue. I'm here as an actor.
I once auditioned for a piece, some while back, and a few days later got a callback on the piece. During the original audition, they had asked me to improvise. I did so with gusto. Then the dimwits called me back and lo and behold the stuff I'd improvised was now in the script. As they used to say in the beginning of the old Hill Street Blues series, 'Be careful out there.'
There is no protection, union or otherwise, for the actor that is especially good at improvising dialogue. None at all. So nowadays whenever I'm asked to improvise something, I'm always in a bit of a quandry. The truth is, I'm pretty good at this sort of thing. So when I let loose and really do it, it's usually better than the crap on the page. The quandry, of course, is do I let them take my dialogue or do I just go ahead and do my best and shoot for the acting job? It sucks.
A little while back I was asked to improvise WHILE THE CAMERA WAS RUNNING in a new film. The papers had been signed and I was in the midst of actually shooting on the set. I balked. I made a decision. Nope. I purposely took a submissive back seat in the scene and let the other actor flounder around a bit while I simply agreed with him. The scene struggled to an end and they didn't ask again.
Here's an interesting and true story. An old, old friend of mine in NYC was in the original Broadway production of Fifth of July by Lanford Wilson. Now, let me say up front that I happen to be a huge Lanford Wilson fan. He died recently, which I was very sad to hear. My friend is still a little bitter about that production. Apparently during rehearsals (they opened it first at Circle in the Square downtown and then later moved it to Broadway) there was a huge chunk in the second act that simply wasn't working. So Wilson and the director, Marshall Mason, asked the cast to improvise some of the dialogue. They gave them a beginning and end and told them to just take off. That dialogue, word for word, ended up in the final production and in the published version of the play.
Which brings me to my next honorable mention this morning. Angie and I have been watching the new mini-series on televison, The Kennedy's. It's well acted (although Barry Pepper is about forty years too old for 'Bobby Kennedy' and Katie Holmes has all the charisma of a head of cabbage) but badly written. I keep watching it, though, because I'm fascinated with the subject matter. I don't know what it is about that family that Americans are obssessed with, but I'm one of them. I love the serpentine lives of that cursed yet gifted family. But with regards to the series I can't help thinking how extraordinary it could have been with someone like Aaron Sorkin or David Kelly at the helm. The writing is coarse and broadly painted. Bad stuff, for the most part. The actors, especially Tom Wilkinson, mostly rise above it, however, but it's really fairly pedestrian stuff. Biopics, with a few exceptions, generally are.
Anyway, sitting here at home and watching this thing, I, like many other writers in LA, keep thinking, "Who greenlighted this thing? Did someone actually read the script and say out loud, 'We have to do this!'" I'll never understand the myriad workings of Hollywood. Time and again, for nigh on 100 years now, good writing is ignored and bad writing is celebrated. Now and then, all too rarely, a good piece of writing slips through the cracks and gets made. But not too often. Yes, there is some good television mini-series writing out there - Holocaust, Roots, - a few others, but it's just rare. Just very rare.
Whaddayagonnado?
See you tomorrow.
Frankly, I'm appalled when I audition for a new piece, be it a television pilot or a film of some kind, when the director says, "Why don't you just improvise for a bit here. See what you can come with?" My first thought is always, 'No.' I mean, I'd be glad to, but pay me as a writer first. I'm not here to give your writers free ideas and dialogue. I'm here as an actor.
I once auditioned for a piece, some while back, and a few days later got a callback on the piece. During the original audition, they had asked me to improvise. I did so with gusto. Then the dimwits called me back and lo and behold the stuff I'd improvised was now in the script. As they used to say in the beginning of the old Hill Street Blues series, 'Be careful out there.'
There is no protection, union or otherwise, for the actor that is especially good at improvising dialogue. None at all. So nowadays whenever I'm asked to improvise something, I'm always in a bit of a quandry. The truth is, I'm pretty good at this sort of thing. So when I let loose and really do it, it's usually better than the crap on the page. The quandry, of course, is do I let them take my dialogue or do I just go ahead and do my best and shoot for the acting job? It sucks.
A little while back I was asked to improvise WHILE THE CAMERA WAS RUNNING in a new film. The papers had been signed and I was in the midst of actually shooting on the set. I balked. I made a decision. Nope. I purposely took a submissive back seat in the scene and let the other actor flounder around a bit while I simply agreed with him. The scene struggled to an end and they didn't ask again.
Here's an interesting and true story. An old, old friend of mine in NYC was in the original Broadway production of Fifth of July by Lanford Wilson. Now, let me say up front that I happen to be a huge Lanford Wilson fan. He died recently, which I was very sad to hear. My friend is still a little bitter about that production. Apparently during rehearsals (they opened it first at Circle in the Square downtown and then later moved it to Broadway) there was a huge chunk in the second act that simply wasn't working. So Wilson and the director, Marshall Mason, asked the cast to improvise some of the dialogue. They gave them a beginning and end and told them to just take off. That dialogue, word for word, ended up in the final production and in the published version of the play.
Which brings me to my next honorable mention this morning. Angie and I have been watching the new mini-series on televison, The Kennedy's. It's well acted (although Barry Pepper is about forty years too old for 'Bobby Kennedy' and Katie Holmes has all the charisma of a head of cabbage) but badly written. I keep watching it, though, because I'm fascinated with the subject matter. I don't know what it is about that family that Americans are obssessed with, but I'm one of them. I love the serpentine lives of that cursed yet gifted family. But with regards to the series I can't help thinking how extraordinary it could have been with someone like Aaron Sorkin or David Kelly at the helm. The writing is coarse and broadly painted. Bad stuff, for the most part. The actors, especially Tom Wilkinson, mostly rise above it, however, but it's really fairly pedestrian stuff. Biopics, with a few exceptions, generally are.
Anyway, sitting here at home and watching this thing, I, like many other writers in LA, keep thinking, "Who greenlighted this thing? Did someone actually read the script and say out loud, 'We have to do this!'" I'll never understand the myriad workings of Hollywood. Time and again, for nigh on 100 years now, good writing is ignored and bad writing is celebrated. Now and then, all too rarely, a good piece of writing slips through the cracks and gets made. But not too often. Yes, there is some good television mini-series writing out there - Holocaust, Roots, - a few others, but it's just rare. Just very rare.
Whaddayagonnado?
See you tomorrow.
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Gold Ring.
I can't seem to get a story out of my head that my wife told me the other day. She used to be, for some twenty years or so, a casting associate here in the LA area. She knows a lot of the major 'players' here. She has worked on a goodly number of films you would recognize in an instant. And now and then, she will off-handedly tell me some inside goop about the business, which of course, I always love.
So she tells me about the ultimate, to my way of thinking anyway, the ultimate Hollywood nightmare story. Although normally she has worked directly with casting agencies and even for a brief time as an associate producer on several films, at this particular time she was working closely with a management firm. Managing actors, that is.
A young actor, tall, goodlooking, sort of personable, former model, comes out here and auditions for one of the most sought-after roles in Hollywood, the lead in a major motion picture, produced and distributed by one of the leading studios. He's all over the press, doing junkets, talk shows, etc. Problem is, he's no good. He's really not a very good actor. And probably never will be. But he's got his one and only shot at the gold ring. And he took it. Turns out the film was a flop, he was eviscerated by the critics, and the big time turned it's back on him.
For some reason this story, absolutely true and factual, fascinated me. Nowadays, this guy lives in somebody's guest house with his wife and struggles mightily for another chance. It is the Hollywood dream tale gone bad. Naturally, prudence dictates that I not use any names or titles, but I saw it as a gargantuan cautionary tale about being ready for the shot at the title when or if it comes.
I know and have worked with a lot of young actors, both here and in Chicago and New York. Some good, some bad, some with potential, some with wonderful instincts but no technique, some with charisma but no craft, some with craft and no charisma. I am drifting dangerously close to 'old codger-ism' here but nonetheless...
Young actors, more so here than NY or Chicago, think that getting the break is enough. Getting the shot at the title is enough. It's not. I am astonished sometimes at the sheer naivety displayed by young artists. And yet, I think it's only natural.
I don't know why people think the acting business is just something one can 'get into.' Good Lord, this is a tough and competitive biz. Even at the very low and early level upon which I compete, it is fierce at times. Of course, I've only been out here in LALA Land about a year or so, and I don't often get the opportunity to get in front of the real movers and shakers. But every now and then, I do. And even after some thirty years of making a living at this muck, I get very anxious as to whether or not I have the 'right stuff.' I can't imagine getting a shot at something big and not being supremely confident in my ability to deliver the goods. Early on I discovered that potential is the cheapest commodity in the world. No one is interested in potential, certainly not at my age, anyway.
Recently I was up for a rather large gig that ended up not getting because I didn't 'look' the part. That's okay. I can handle that. The CD involved called my agent personally and said, "He was the best actor in the room, but we decided he didn't fit the role." I can live with that. I'm not happy about it, but I can live with it.
The old boy scout motto...Be Prepared. It's so important. Hard to make a young arrogant actor realize that, but it is. And in this business of constant, day to day rejection, arrogance is not always a bad thing. As long as it doesn't go too far, that is. I tell my students this all the time...it's okay to think highly of your talent, but when the time comes to show your goods, well, you damn well better have them.
See you tomorrow.
So she tells me about the ultimate, to my way of thinking anyway, the ultimate Hollywood nightmare story. Although normally she has worked directly with casting agencies and even for a brief time as an associate producer on several films, at this particular time she was working closely with a management firm. Managing actors, that is.
A young actor, tall, goodlooking, sort of personable, former model, comes out here and auditions for one of the most sought-after roles in Hollywood, the lead in a major motion picture, produced and distributed by one of the leading studios. He's all over the press, doing junkets, talk shows, etc. Problem is, he's no good. He's really not a very good actor. And probably never will be. But he's got his one and only shot at the gold ring. And he took it. Turns out the film was a flop, he was eviscerated by the critics, and the big time turned it's back on him.
For some reason this story, absolutely true and factual, fascinated me. Nowadays, this guy lives in somebody's guest house with his wife and struggles mightily for another chance. It is the Hollywood dream tale gone bad. Naturally, prudence dictates that I not use any names or titles, but I saw it as a gargantuan cautionary tale about being ready for the shot at the title when or if it comes.
I know and have worked with a lot of young actors, both here and in Chicago and New York. Some good, some bad, some with potential, some with wonderful instincts but no technique, some with charisma but no craft, some with craft and no charisma. I am drifting dangerously close to 'old codger-ism' here but nonetheless...
Young actors, more so here than NY or Chicago, think that getting the break is enough. Getting the shot at the title is enough. It's not. I am astonished sometimes at the sheer naivety displayed by young artists. And yet, I think it's only natural.
I don't know why people think the acting business is just something one can 'get into.' Good Lord, this is a tough and competitive biz. Even at the very low and early level upon which I compete, it is fierce at times. Of course, I've only been out here in LALA Land about a year or so, and I don't often get the opportunity to get in front of the real movers and shakers. But every now and then, I do. And even after some thirty years of making a living at this muck, I get very anxious as to whether or not I have the 'right stuff.' I can't imagine getting a shot at something big and not being supremely confident in my ability to deliver the goods. Early on I discovered that potential is the cheapest commodity in the world. No one is interested in potential, certainly not at my age, anyway.
Recently I was up for a rather large gig that ended up not getting because I didn't 'look' the part. That's okay. I can handle that. The CD involved called my agent personally and said, "He was the best actor in the room, but we decided he didn't fit the role." I can live with that. I'm not happy about it, but I can live with it.
The old boy scout motto...Be Prepared. It's so important. Hard to make a young arrogant actor realize that, but it is. And in this business of constant, day to day rejection, arrogance is not always a bad thing. As long as it doesn't go too far, that is. I tell my students this all the time...it's okay to think highly of your talent, but when the time comes to show your goods, well, you damn well better have them.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
One for Art and then One for the Money...
Ideally, I'll finish the few, short scenes I have left in this low-budget film I'm doing today. I'm looking forward to finishing for a couple of reasons. First, the moment I'm done I can cut my hair. Yes, cut my hair. It hasn't been cut since October of last year because I had to have it long for ADDING MACHINE. And, as it turns out, the director and producer of the film wanted me to keep it that way. So, here I am six months later with this whole 'Bob, your friendly, small town, midwestern, comb-over, insurance man" look going. Or, as I like to call it, the 'Gorbachev with a hangover' look. Oddly, my wife likes it. Go figure. I despise it and can't wait to shave my head later on today.
Today's finishing scenes are all to be shot in 8mm and then later transferred and processed digitally. They're B & W flashback scenes.
I also have the unexpected opportunity (well, 'opportunity' may be a bit strong) to do 'King Lear' in a theatre way south of here. That would be actually playing Lear in the play. I'm passing on that. It's not a lot of money and frankly I just don't want to tie myself up in another massive stage role for so long. Although the idea of doing Lear is rather enticing. It is, of course, one of those roles actors like to test themselves against. It was Olivier's last stage appearence. Finney has done it, most famously in recent times and I read that Kevin Kline is looking into doing it at Lincoln Center soon.
Personally, I've always felt Lear to be a rather silly role; a cantankerous, old man, consumed by jealousy, living solely by his ego. But it's Willy the Shakes, and that alone is challenging. I just don't think it's the role or play that others think so highly of. I always thought I was alone in this thinking but I recently discovered Olivier felt the same way. He writes in his first of two books on acting, "I suppose people think it's such a great part because it's usually only attempted by older, established actors late in their career."
A friend of mine told me the other day that I should reconsider because 'you'll probably never get another shot at it.' He's right, of course, but honestly, after just finishing this huge piece of stage acting in ADDING MACHINE, I just don't think I have it in me right now.
In John Houseman's book about his life and career, he recounts a conversation he once had with Marlon Brando in the mid-eighties. It was a chance meeting on the upper east side in New York. He said he saw Brando getting out of a car (remember, Houseman produced the film 'Julius Caesar' in the mid-fifties with Brando in the role of Marc Antony) and rushed up to him. He begged him to consider doing Lear onstage in New York calling it 'the greatest casting coup of the century.' He says Brando seemed unexpectedly excited about it for a few minutes and then stared off into space for a bit and said, "I just did the whole thing in my head. It was wonderful. But, John, that's the closest I'll ever get to the stage again. Sorry."
I've seen a few productions of Lear over the years. The latest here on the West Coast was, in fact, just a few miles from here with the wonderful actor, Dakin Matthews, in the title role. Matthews, incidentally, won an Ovation Award for it. But after a bit of soul-searching, I've decided I'm not interested in grappling with the role myself.
That is not to say there are a still a few older roles I wouldn't drop everything to assay. For example, I think sometime in the next ten years or so I'll take a shot at Willy Loman somewhere. I'd also like to pull out that old chestnut, Inherit the Wind, and take a crack at Drummond or Brady. But that's all just speculation.
In any event, first things first. I'm nearly finished with my new play, THE PROMISE, which I'm eager to mount somewhere in the LA area. In fact, just yesterday I emailed the script, unfinished but taking shape, to the key players. It's clearly going to be a long one, a three-act piece, and I'm sort of getting excited about it. The inescapable fact is as I get older I take so much more satisfaction in writing than I do in actually performing. I suppose it's only natural.
These days I'm kind of letting my mind and body relax after pouring everything into Mr. Zero. It was one of those roles that simply left me hollow after doing it onstage every night for so long. The thought of jumping right back into another all-consuming role like that, so soon after finishing one, just makes me quake. I think an actor has to let him or herself rejuvenate, get the mojo back, find the excitement again after climbing a mountain like that. And, to be perfectly frank, I haven't given myself that time yet.
There's also that old acting adage about alternating roles. You do one for yourself and then one for money. ADDING MACHINE was for myself. Now I need to do one for the money. It's a sad state of affairs, but a solid truth in this business. Man does not live by reviews alone. Now and then he needs to put a taco on the table.
See you tomorrow.
Today's finishing scenes are all to be shot in 8mm and then later transferred and processed digitally. They're B & W flashback scenes.
I also have the unexpected opportunity (well, 'opportunity' may be a bit strong) to do 'King Lear' in a theatre way south of here. That would be actually playing Lear in the play. I'm passing on that. It's not a lot of money and frankly I just don't want to tie myself up in another massive stage role for so long. Although the idea of doing Lear is rather enticing. It is, of course, one of those roles actors like to test themselves against. It was Olivier's last stage appearence. Finney has done it, most famously in recent times and I read that Kevin Kline is looking into doing it at Lincoln Center soon.
Personally, I've always felt Lear to be a rather silly role; a cantankerous, old man, consumed by jealousy, living solely by his ego. But it's Willy the Shakes, and that alone is challenging. I just don't think it's the role or play that others think so highly of. I always thought I was alone in this thinking but I recently discovered Olivier felt the same way. He writes in his first of two books on acting, "I suppose people think it's such a great part because it's usually only attempted by older, established actors late in their career."
A friend of mine told me the other day that I should reconsider because 'you'll probably never get another shot at it.' He's right, of course, but honestly, after just finishing this huge piece of stage acting in ADDING MACHINE, I just don't think I have it in me right now.
In John Houseman's book about his life and career, he recounts a conversation he once had with Marlon Brando in the mid-eighties. It was a chance meeting on the upper east side in New York. He said he saw Brando getting out of a car (remember, Houseman produced the film 'Julius Caesar' in the mid-fifties with Brando in the role of Marc Antony) and rushed up to him. He begged him to consider doing Lear onstage in New York calling it 'the greatest casting coup of the century.' He says Brando seemed unexpectedly excited about it for a few minutes and then stared off into space for a bit and said, "I just did the whole thing in my head. It was wonderful. But, John, that's the closest I'll ever get to the stage again. Sorry."
I've seen a few productions of Lear over the years. The latest here on the West Coast was, in fact, just a few miles from here with the wonderful actor, Dakin Matthews, in the title role. Matthews, incidentally, won an Ovation Award for it. But after a bit of soul-searching, I've decided I'm not interested in grappling with the role myself.
That is not to say there are a still a few older roles I wouldn't drop everything to assay. For example, I think sometime in the next ten years or so I'll take a shot at Willy Loman somewhere. I'd also like to pull out that old chestnut, Inherit the Wind, and take a crack at Drummond or Brady. But that's all just speculation.
In any event, first things first. I'm nearly finished with my new play, THE PROMISE, which I'm eager to mount somewhere in the LA area. In fact, just yesterday I emailed the script, unfinished but taking shape, to the key players. It's clearly going to be a long one, a three-act piece, and I'm sort of getting excited about it. The inescapable fact is as I get older I take so much more satisfaction in writing than I do in actually performing. I suppose it's only natural.
These days I'm kind of letting my mind and body relax after pouring everything into Mr. Zero. It was one of those roles that simply left me hollow after doing it onstage every night for so long. The thought of jumping right back into another all-consuming role like that, so soon after finishing one, just makes me quake. I think an actor has to let him or herself rejuvenate, get the mojo back, find the excitement again after climbing a mountain like that. And, to be perfectly frank, I haven't given myself that time yet.
There's also that old acting adage about alternating roles. You do one for yourself and then one for money. ADDING MACHINE was for myself. Now I need to do one for the money. It's a sad state of affairs, but a solid truth in this business. Man does not live by reviews alone. Now and then he needs to put a taco on the table.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Scott Turow
I'm about halfway through a novel by Scott Turow. It's not his latest, but his second to last one, I think. Turow is sort of the thinking man's John Grisham. He is, apparently, still a working lawyer in Chicago despite his success as a novelist. His biggest hit, of course, was 'Presumed Innocent' back in the late eighties. I remember reading that novel when it was a sensation. I would take the subway into Manhattan every day from Astoria and it seemed nearly everybody on the train was reading it.
Like Faulkner, he keeps a cast of characters going throughout all of his books which are set in the fictional 'Kindle County' in the midwest, clearly meant to be Cook County. Turow is a fine writer, not in the least lawyerly or didactic. Unlike Grisham, with clear cut villains and heroes, Turow sees the law as a grey place, an ever-bending and very flixible line that can be crossed and re-crossed.
The book is called 'Reversable Errors' and, like all of Turow's books, once I got into it a bit, I became riveted. He knows his way around a sentence, this guy.
One of the interesting devices he uses is the 'judgemental set up scene.' He will introduce a character, revel in recounting his or her questionable moral decisions and/or lifestyle and then take a literary U-turn and explain what it might be like to be in their shoes. Just when you think you have somebody to root against, he turns the tables. It sort of violates all the 'writing class' rules one is taught and I love it. It tends to keep the reader on shaky moral grounds. Like a lot of readers, I love to see a good villain get his come-uppance. Often times, like Wambaugh, Turow places his cops in a wholly separate universe of right and wrong. They break rules to fight the greater evil. And usually, the police officers are blind to the moral implications of their actions. But his primary characters are officers of the court and they all seem to regard cops as a necessary evil. My thoughts exactly.
Another aspect of his writing that I enjoy are his physically less than ideal women characters. Unlike Grisham, there are rarely 'stunning, beautiful, desired' women to be chased. Turow's women are flawed. A little overweight, or older than one might expect, or perhaps even downright ugly. No matter, he still basks in their sexuality. And in Turow's world, a fifty five year old woman is still very much a sexual being.
As I mentioned, his most famous novel is 'Presumed Innocent,' which was later made into a film with Harrison Ford. It was one of those rare books that was actually very good writing and also happened to capture the public's imagination. Plus it had the added benefit of a startling 'reveal' towards the end of the story. It was one of those delicious who-done-its that, once explained, made the reader slap his forehead and say, 'Of course!'
Unlike Grisham's lawyers, Turow's people don't seem to get a great deal of enjoyment from the law. His characters all find themselves sinking in a dirty mire of hypocricy and double standards at one point or another. One can only suspect that Turow himself thinks this way. If so, it's refreshingly honest writing. In the words of Shakespeare, 'First, kill all the lawyers.' Consequently, Turow's characters are all on the line, neither good people or bad people but rather people struggling mightily to maintain dignity in a sea of mendacity.
This is my fifth Turow novel and he has yet to disappoint me. He's the kind of writer you'd really like to have a long cup of coffee with if you could. I also feel that way about John Irving. I'd really just like about an hour or two to simply pick his brain. And Turow, like Irving, has no compulsions about killing characters off. It's another device academia would frown upon, spending a great deal of the book flushing out a leading figure and then unceremoniously disposing of them. Tends to keep the reader unsettled.
I have so much respect for good prose writers. If nothing else, for their sheer stamina, living and wallowing in a story, a plot, a theme for years at a time sometimes. The good ones - the Irvings, the Turows, the Hemingways, the Faulkners, what have you - are latter day knights, I think. Spending their countless days and nights pursuing a murky truth that ultimately can't be found. They never patronize, these writers. They assume, rightly so, that their reader is every bit as bright as they are.
See you tomorrow.
Like Faulkner, he keeps a cast of characters going throughout all of his books which are set in the fictional 'Kindle County' in the midwest, clearly meant to be Cook County. Turow is a fine writer, not in the least lawyerly or didactic. Unlike Grisham, with clear cut villains and heroes, Turow sees the law as a grey place, an ever-bending and very flixible line that can be crossed and re-crossed.
The book is called 'Reversable Errors' and, like all of Turow's books, once I got into it a bit, I became riveted. He knows his way around a sentence, this guy.
One of the interesting devices he uses is the 'judgemental set up scene.' He will introduce a character, revel in recounting his or her questionable moral decisions and/or lifestyle and then take a literary U-turn and explain what it might be like to be in their shoes. Just when you think you have somebody to root against, he turns the tables. It sort of violates all the 'writing class' rules one is taught and I love it. It tends to keep the reader on shaky moral grounds. Like a lot of readers, I love to see a good villain get his come-uppance. Often times, like Wambaugh, Turow places his cops in a wholly separate universe of right and wrong. They break rules to fight the greater evil. And usually, the police officers are blind to the moral implications of their actions. But his primary characters are officers of the court and they all seem to regard cops as a necessary evil. My thoughts exactly.
Another aspect of his writing that I enjoy are his physically less than ideal women characters. Unlike Grisham, there are rarely 'stunning, beautiful, desired' women to be chased. Turow's women are flawed. A little overweight, or older than one might expect, or perhaps even downright ugly. No matter, he still basks in their sexuality. And in Turow's world, a fifty five year old woman is still very much a sexual being.
As I mentioned, his most famous novel is 'Presumed Innocent,' which was later made into a film with Harrison Ford. It was one of those rare books that was actually very good writing and also happened to capture the public's imagination. Plus it had the added benefit of a startling 'reveal' towards the end of the story. It was one of those delicious who-done-its that, once explained, made the reader slap his forehead and say, 'Of course!'
Unlike Grisham's lawyers, Turow's people don't seem to get a great deal of enjoyment from the law. His characters all find themselves sinking in a dirty mire of hypocricy and double standards at one point or another. One can only suspect that Turow himself thinks this way. If so, it's refreshingly honest writing. In the words of Shakespeare, 'First, kill all the lawyers.' Consequently, Turow's characters are all on the line, neither good people or bad people but rather people struggling mightily to maintain dignity in a sea of mendacity.
This is my fifth Turow novel and he has yet to disappoint me. He's the kind of writer you'd really like to have a long cup of coffee with if you could. I also feel that way about John Irving. I'd really just like about an hour or two to simply pick his brain. And Turow, like Irving, has no compulsions about killing characters off. It's another device academia would frown upon, spending a great deal of the book flushing out a leading figure and then unceremoniously disposing of them. Tends to keep the reader unsettled.
I have so much respect for good prose writers. If nothing else, for their sheer stamina, living and wallowing in a story, a plot, a theme for years at a time sometimes. The good ones - the Irvings, the Turows, the Hemingways, the Faulkners, what have you - are latter day knights, I think. Spending their countless days and nights pursuing a murky truth that ultimately can't be found. They never patronize, these writers. They assume, rightly so, that their reader is every bit as bright as they are.
See you tomorrow.
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