Halloween, Green Screens and Coyotes

Halloween is tomorrow night as everyone knows. We don't do a lot when it comes to Halloween, although Angie does have a giant, plastic pumpkin out front indicating we at least acknowledge its existence. We still have yet to buy candy for the gaggle of trick-or-treaters we'll undoubtedly get. I suggested to my wife a few days ago that we should get something out of the ordinary for Halloween - to give to the kids, I mean. And, no, I didn't mean anything clever or anti-candy. I meant COOLER candy AND a little something extra, a little something off the beaten path. Something they wouldn't normally get. The grocery stores are full of standard candy; bags and bags of your normal, everyday candy - Snickers, Hershey's, M & M's, what have you.

Last year I was completely caught off guard by the singleness of purpose our trick-or-treaters exhibited. I quickly became intimidated by the voraciousness of their approach, their hungry eyes and baleful, pleading voices. Instead of jumping into the psuedo-holiday spirit, I felt like I was being fleeced. My feelings were justified when, toward the end of the evening, we had a few adults dressed up in simple masks come to the door demanding candy. They looked to be in their mid-thirties. But, hey, times are tough so I let it go.

But this year I want to get something out of the ordinary for the little buggers. Yes, some candy of some sort, but something useful as well. I'm thinking reading glasses. There is a 99 cent store not far from us that has reading glasses for a buck. All different types, of course; 1.25, 1.5, 1.75, etc. We usually get around a hundred kids, if last year was any yardstick. I'm thinking maybe we go ahead and get some candy to throw in there, some little bags of tiny Butterfingers, perhaps, but we also throw in a pair of reading glasses. Angie hasn't signed off on it yet, but I think she's considering it. Anything to shut me up for a while.

Last night I wrested control of the TV clicker for a bit. While my wife made an amazing dinner of Mexican stuff, I watched Battle: Los Angeles. And I loved it. I suspected I'd turn it off after a bit, disappointed with Hollywood as usual, but I didn't. Decent script, good work from a handful of unknowns, and wisely, a director who steered clear of almost any sort of dialogue and just put a bunch of explosions on screen. It was sort of a Black Hawk Down meets Aliens. Plus I like the fact that one of the newspaper headlines in the movie said, "BURBANK UNDER ATTACK!" Which, with the exception of the headline, "GEORGE W. BUSH EMBRACES HINDUISM!" may be the most incongruous headline I've ever seen.

I also got a call to come audition for a new film yesterday. Well, not a call exactly, but an invitation. But here's the thing - it's a 'green call.' I'd never heard of this before, but Angie had. It's where I get the script and set up and shoot the scene myself and then send it to NYC or wherever and the producers watch it. It's a terrible idea and one, apparently, we're seeing more and more of. Eventually, all actors will be required to have a camera, studio, mixing board and green screen in their own homes. Hell, I can barely afford a computer. I decided not to play ball. I won't be auditioning for this film.

All three of my scripts currently on the table have entered the land that time forgot. That is to say, they are all on some producer/director laptop somewhere waiting to be read, reread, or optioned. This could take anywhere from 12 to 30 years. In the meantime, I'm making Raman Noodles and the California Lottery MegaMillions a lot of money.

When it comes to getting a film made, Hollywood works in dog years.

So, in an odd reaction, I spend a great deal of time these days being angry about the response to Occupy Wall Street movements around the globe. I gnash my teeth a lot. I subject Angie to long, passionate diatribes about the end of justice as we know it. I fantasize about being an all-powerful Deity with the ability to smash Citibank with one clenched, metaphorical, cloud-like fist. And I post as many pro-OWS stories as I can find on Facebook. Sad, I know. But I'm waiting to hear about these damn scripts and I can't help myself.

Speaking of dog years, I also find myself taking extraordinary enjoyment from our two dogs, Franny and Zooey. Angie and I live on the cusp of Griffith Park and the Los Angeles Equestrian Center. We are literally yards away from a myriad of trails and hiking jaunts leading up into the mountains. Yesterday, while taking a long walking excursion with Franny and Zooey, we happened across a rogue coyote, just sashaying around by himself in the middle of the day. Our dogs are small and perfect mid-morning snacks for a coyote. Thankfully, I saw him from a distance and called F and Z back into our protective circle before he spotted them. And then spent the rest of the day, being bored and powerless about the script development, fantasizing about an epic battle between myself and this ghoulish coyote, a hand-to-hand, or hand-to-paw, titanic struggle as I fended him off, protecting my dogs from an unstoppable, giant canine. In my fantasy I win, but come away bloodied and wounded but with a lifelong gratitude from our puppies. And every so often, during this fantasy, I check my cell phone to see if any of the three producers might have called.

My wife is not entirely comfortable with me when I'm between gigs. I think she finds me to be a little unreasonable. For one thing I don't live in the real world. She notices that I can't seem to stay interested in anything for too long, about 9 seconds or so. And I routinely promise her ridiculous things, like a brand new car or a trip to London. And then I check my cell again. She much prefers it, I think, when my mind is occupied.

Now, this reading glasses idea. I really am convinced it could work.

See you tomorrow.

Becoming Paul

A couple days ago I was sent in for a one-liner on a major network television show. Just one line. The character even had a name: Paul. I was sent to an office in Hollywood (when I say 'sent' I mean my management set up the reading and I sashayed over for it) and upon arriving sat with ten or fifteen other men of a certain age and waited to go in and be captured on camera saying the one line. So I did. I waited and after six or seven of the other guys my name was called and in I went. Even carried my script with the one line meticulously yellowed out, so I could see it better. Highlighted so I wouldn't confuse it with another line on the page.

But before I could go in and interpret the line, infuse it with all the subtext and facial expression it so richly deserved, I had to sit and wait my turn. Apparently the line could be read by a vast ethnic quiltwork of characters. The producers were opening it up to a whole spectrum of race and age types. As I walked up the short flight of stairs to the waiting room, I noticed black, white, Asian, Latino and a guy in a wheelchair. Which made sense, because the line certainly didn't indicate one had to run or jump while saying it.

Actually, it was two lines. The first part was very short. "Um, excuse me." That was the first part. The second part demanded a little more exploration, sense-memory work, substition, varying shades of intensity. The second part was, "Is anyone else here concerned with his lack of experience?" This part of the line was obviously the chunk that would separate the men from the boys. It was the part of the line where the rubber met the road. This was the part where my thirty-some years of training would pay off. I was undaunted. I can see where a lesser talent might be intimidated by this part of the line. I was not.

Others in the room, probably not as far along as I was as an actor and not yet comfortable with their craft, wrestled with it right up to the last moment, their lips moving silently, saying the tricky line over and over, getting it JUST right in their heads, building a backstory for the character, Paul, who utters the line, finding a nuance perhaps unthought of by anyone else in the room, putting themselves THERE, in the moment, making the line their own, OWNING the line, really. One man next to me in a chair, said the line over and over to himself the better part of fifteen minutes. Occasionally he would glance back at the script he held tightly in his hands, just to make sure he didn't stray with the tense, or God forbid, add anything to the tightly constructed piece of writing. When his name was called, just before mine, he sprang to his feet and practically jogged into the room. He was ready. The line was so firmly embedded within him, it was as though he'd written it his own damn self. He was like a sleek, powerful racehorse pushing at the gate, eager to run, run like the wind, and say that line with the conviction of a Brando or a Streep or an Olivier. The line didn't stand a chance in his mouth. I've seen this type of confidence in a waiting room before. In New York once, I auditioned for the part of Iago in Othello. It came down to three of us...it was for a major Shakespearean producer. I didn't get it. But the guy that did had the same confidence as this guy. He WAS Iago. He attacked Iago like a Tazmanian Devil. Iago was a mere hurdle to be jumped for this guy. He wanted it more than me, I guess. He became Iago. But I was younger then, and not quite so prepared for the awesome talent one has to contend with in this business. And the same was true for this guy. Paul was his. In his mind, he already WAS Paul. And that open-ended second part of the line, the part open to a dozen or more interpretations, the complicated part of the line, "Is anyone else concerned with his lack of experience?" was meat in his hands. Just bloody, uncooked, seasoned MEAT ready to be cooked in his hands, his brain, his creative soul.

There was another guy there, too. He was a little smug for my taste. He wasn't reading for Paul. No, he was reading for "The Guy at the Basketball Game." Huh? Why was he there with us 'Pauls?' And frankly, after a bit, he explained to no one in particular that he didn't particularly care to be lumped with the assorted 'Pauls' in the room. Clearly, he felt he was a little higher on the food chain as 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' than we 'Pauls' were. We all glanced about, a little wary now, we Pauls, not quite certain where this guy stood in the hierarchy of things. Not Paul? And not WANTING to be Paul? What was going on?

After a bit the casting associate came out. I'll call her Susan, although that was, in fact, her actual name. Susan was about 12 or so. So 'Susan' comes out and tells us a little about 'Paul.' Turns out, according to the breakdown Susan got, 'Paul' is maybe a college professor, maybe a tweed jacket kind of guy, an intellectual of sorts. I glanced around the room. A few crestfallen faces. I could see their pain. They owned tweed jackets, they had outfits that indicated an 'intellectual' Paul, but instead they had worn 'business' jackets. I could see the five stages of grief wash over them. Clearly some agents were getting some speed-dialed calls immediately after the reading. "Bob Jones, please. What? No I will NOT hold! I just walked out of this audition for 'Paul!' Yeah, over here in Hollywood. I'm wearing a suit. A plain, gray suit. Neutral tie. And guess what the casting lady just told me? Okay, I'll tell you. She said Paul was 'A College Professor!' Maybe. She said, "MAYBE Paul is a college professor." And I'm sitting there, I'M SITTING THERE, in a business suit! You tell Bob, I HAVE a tweed jacket. I HAVE a bow tie. I COULD HAVE combed my hair to indicate a COLLEGE PROFESSOR. I have fake glasses. Horn-rimmed! HORN-RIMMED, COLLEGE PROFESSOR GLASSES! But tell Bob it's too late now. Too late, I say! I read the goddamned line looking like a BUSINESS GUY! What? No, I can't hold. Just give him the message, okay?"

Anyway.

The guy waiting to read for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' soon revealed why he was disdainful of the Pauls in the room. As Susan finished her quick speal about who Paul 'maybe' was, he quickly said to her, before she could exit into the room with the camera, "Uh, excuse me. I'm not here for 'Paul.' (I swear he smirked) My agent said she called you and you said I could come in and read early for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' because I have another audition later. 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' has three lines so I'll probably be taking a little more of your time than the 'Pauls'"

Ah! There it was. He was there to say THREE lines. Not just the measly one and half that we Pauls had. You could smell the superiority on him. His arrogance permeated the room of Pauls. Some of us, the less confident Pauls, visibly shrank in their seats. They were in the presence of someone who had THREE lines. I, of course, was unfazed. Even though, and I'm only saying this because it's true, I WAS a little intimidated by 'The Guy at the Basketball Game.' He, in some earlier secret meeting of the casting associate and the casting director and the producers, had been chosen as someone who deserved THREE lines instead of the ONE AND A HALF that Paul had. And he had just spit out all that information IN FRONT OF US right into the room there. The information laid there on the threadbare carpet like a sizzling piece of star power. I can see how a less confident actor would blanche at such an admission. And even though I suddenly felt a little awe-struck at the additional two lines The Guy at the Basketball Game had, I tried to stay focused. I fantasized, just a little, about what his lines might be, The Guy at the Basketball Game. But I MADE myself snap out of it.

Eventually, Susan called my name. She came out, glanced at the sign-in sheet and said, deceptively casually, 'Okay, uh, Clifford?'

I got up and followed her, not too closely, not too eagerly, just a simple, medium distance follow. My face revealed nothing. I specifically didn't glance in the direction of The Guy at the Basketball Game. Now was not the time to suffer a crises of confidence. Just stay focused, go in, be peppy but not inferior, strong but not overbearing, eye on the prize, eye of the tiger. Plus I had an ace up my sleeve. I had on my 'college professor' glasses. Entirely by coincidence! Not thought out, just something I decided to wear at the last second! Oh, ho, a delicious moment. I had beaten the odds, fate had intervened. I, through no deliberate action of my own, had DRESSED SORT OF LIKE A COLLEGE PROFESSOR!

When Susan had mentioned that 'maybe' Paul was a college professor I don't think I'm imagining anything when I say there were SEVERAL clandestine glances my way. "He's wearing something that might be construed as a 'college professor,' the faces said. What information did HIS agent get that mine didn't? Is he pre-cast? Is he the 'Paul' they wanted all along?' No, I don't think I'm making any of that up. I could see it in their eyes. Even The Guy at the Basketball Game looked at me with a little new-found respect.

I don't usually boast in this blog but this one time, I'm gonna let it out...I ATTACKED Paul. I SLAM DUNKED Paul. I would put my Paul up there with any fucking Paul ever done, anywhere, anytime. I mean that, too. I'm not just blowing smoke. I fucking NAILED Paul!

When I finished (Susan: "I don't think I need to see any more." I swear by all that's holy, that's what she said: "I DON'T THINK I NEED TO SEE ANY MORE!" Huh? Huh?) I strolled from the room, not too smugly, but with a nearly imperceptable smile on my face, strolled past the 'business dressed' Pauls, past The Guy at the Basketball Game, past the smell of fear and defeat infesting the room, past all the 'wannabe' Pauls and swaggered, not overtly, just a HINT of a swagger, and down the short set of stairs and into the welcoming, cleansing, heat of Southern California. It was done. As Luke, the physician, said when our Lord Jesus Christ took his last breath, "It is finished." And it was. It was. Paul was mine.

There are days I really hate this fuckin' town.

See you tomorrow.

Occupy Wall Street and the Futile Insurrection.

There is a quote I rather like, and I'm paraphrasing, "Never doubt that a small, passionate band of men can change the world. Do you know why? Because it is the only thing that ever has."

I was thinking of that last night as I was surfing the web and getting all the reports of the arrests and tear gas and alleged police brutality in Oakland and San Francisco and Phoenix in response to the Occupy Wall Street movement. Almost at the same time I watched a story on NBC news about the high price in overtime being paid to police officers in the major cities because of the uprisings. And, the police union declared they would sue any individual who injured an officer while being attacked by the police in these gatherings. Which, even in it's ironic grotesquery, amused me. Apparently the overtime costs in NYC alone are closing in on 3 million dollars.

So as my wife and I watched a bit of television last night at the end of a long day, my mind kept wandering. I kept trying to put myself in the shoes of the police, the city administrators and mayors, the local governments opposed to the demonstrations. And asking myself, "Why is this particular movement, unorganized and shoddy at times as it is, garnering so much malevolent resistance?" And I began thinking on the phrase used to describe the NAZI's following the holocaust: the banality of evil. The cops are not to blame in the clearer, bigger picture, really. They are, as tedious and worthless as it sounds, simply following orders. Of course, as history has proven time and again, it is a defense that doesn't hold water. Nonetheless, it works at the time. Until later, in 20/20 hindsight, it is condemned. However, always too late for the average Joe who's had his head bashed in.

So those of us, the fabled 99%, well, what are we to do in the meantime? And with whom, exactly, should we be angry?

Often times the criminal spends his jail time being angry with the cop that arrested him rather than the judge who condemned him. It's a pedestrian anger, an ill-conceived anger, a sophomoric response. And yet, sometimes it is the only tangible anger possible.

Declaring war on cops is not the answer, as satisfying as that approach might be. Occupy Wall Street must engage the larger issue. The people and institutions the cops represent. The cops are only the drones. The queen ant is congress. Bought and paid for, Democrats and Republicans alike. There is but one weapon left, and frankly, it was always the only weapon, really: one vote, one man. Although the OWS movement is quite noble on a grass-roots level, it is ultimately inconsequential. It is a no-win situation, good for stirring the water but in the final analysis, moot. There must be an electoral revolution. One man, one vote. Oust Ceaser. Vote Louis 14 out of the palace. Overturn Tojo's Diet. Strip the fascists of their power legally. And demand the one thing, in the end, that will resolve the current horror: regulate Wall Street and end political lobbying once and for all. Clean house.

When the Nixon tapes were released in the late eighties, there was one segment, largely overlooked, that scared the bejesus out of me. The conversation in late July, 1974, between Nixon and Halderman in the Oval Office when Tricky Dick asked what steps needed to be taken to MILITARILY hold onto power. Awesome. Nixon wanted to know, as Commander-in-Chief, if the United States military would follow his direct order to seize absolute power in Washington, DC, and disband both congress and the courts as an emergency measure. Simply astounding. The idea was discarded in the end of course, but the thing is, NIXON CONSIDERED IT.

Of course, perhaps even scarier than the idea of a bought and paid for congress, is the idea of a bought and paid for fifth column, a national press taking orders from the almighty dollar, an entire system of free press being manipulated by a nation in the throes of a plutocracy. This is called propoganda. And it is the single most terrifying result a democracy can face. Once the press is corrupted, a nation is stricken with an incurable disease because information, not money, is the final step to absolute power. Once information is taken away, all resistance is, indeed, futile.

Like the peasants before the Bastille, the Occupy Wall Street movement doesn't stand a tinker's damn of a chance. But also, like the peasants before the Bastille, the inhabitants of the structure are eyeing them ever-so-warily. Politicians across the country, from mayors to representatives to senators to the president himself are, late at night, when no one is watching, when the rubber meets the road, actually pondering the unthinkable: money or votes. Because money has always insured votes. Always. And now, unspeakably, that particular philosophy is under scrutiny. What if...what if money, in this case, does NOT insure votes? Which way do I step off the fence? What if, heaven help me, I have to make a choice? What if one man, one vote actually WORKS this time?

No, cops are not the target. Although I personally believe in Machiavelli's concept of power corrupting, they should not be the target. The target should be November, 2012. The weapon that must be picked up, the rusted sword lying on the ground, unused for decades, maybe more, is the Constitution of the United States. It hovers over the bought politicians and the unsavory, greed-stricken, cowering bankers, traders and regulators and lobbyists like a hot sun threatening to burn Orpheus to the ground. One man, one vote. November, 2012. Therein lies salvation. Not in the day to day, senseless struggle over inches at the political Maginot and Seigfried lines. November, 2012.

There is a phrase often used in boxing gyms around the world: kill the body and the head will die. It is not meant to be metaphorical. But I can't think of anything quite as apt at the moment.

November, 2012.

See you tomorrow.

Cars and Screenplays.

For a few months there I put aside a screenplay I had been working rather dilligently on because the producer was in Europe doing an entirely different project. Also, I coudn't make the damn thing work in my head and just needed some time away from it. And aside from a few small things, nothing much was happening on the acting front. So in an effort to remain constructive I did a couple of things: I wrote a pilot for a new series I'm attempting to get off the ground and pulled out my old chestnut, Praying Small, and turned it into a screenplay. The pilot was a labor of love because it is about boxing. Boxing in the 1960s, to be precise. And Praying Small was less difficult than one might imagine because it is so episodic to begin with.

So imagine my surprise when I threw it out there on the end of my pole and suddenly I'm struggling to land a really, really big leaping, turning, twisting, giant, open-water swordfish. Which is exactly what happened almost immediately. Naturally, it wouldn't be prudent to go into details yet except to say it's in the hands now of a highly visible producer and a very recognizable star type at this very moment.

My wife and I always joke about something she said right after I moved to Los Angeles. We were yapping back and forth about some acting gig that was on the horizon. It didn't pan out. But in the middle of the conversation (and I'm taking this completely out of context) she said, "Listen, honey, the only way you're gonna make a dime in this town is as a writer." She didn't mean it the way it came out, but that's what was said. These days, of course, that has proven not to be true, thank God, but I always drag it out and remind her. We laugh about it, of course, because it wasn't meant the way it sounded. I bring this up because we laughed about it again last night after all the Praying Small stuff was going down in back and forth phone calls and texts and emails.

I've always known Praying Small could be a very powerful piece in the right hands and productions in Chicago, New York and here in Los Angeles over the years have proven me right. I also knew it wouldn't be a terribly long leap to turn the damn thing into a screenplay. So while I was procrastinating and avoiding the other project, the one I couldn't make work in my head, I sat down and started writing non-stop on Praying Small for a few weeks. I sent it to a producer/director here in Hollywood last week. This week I get a message saying, "I love this script and I want to produce and direct it." I love it when a plan comes together.

So last night I get a call about the script going to yet another producer (to add to the budget) and the afore mentioned star. I said, 'Let me clean it up a bit and make sure the formatting is just so.' Which is what I did last night for several hours. And upon re-working it I realized what a tight script it is for the big screen. I don't know why I didn't do this years ago.

Funny story: one of the actors who had performed in one of the stage productions of the piece wrote me some time back (I was still in Chicago, in fact) and asked my permission to rework the script into a screenplay. Since at the time I had no inclination to do it myself I said, 'sure.' About a year later, after I'd come to LA, I asked him if he'd ever done that. He said yes. So I asked if I might see it. He said yes and showed me what he had written. It was EXACTLY, word for word, scene for scene, the same script except at the end the main character is seen walking through a park playing frisbee with a dog with the words 'Fade to' written before it. I said, 'Well, I see you've really opened it up.'

In any event, I'll know more next week how it all stands.

Off this morning to read (again) for a guest starring thing on 'Parks and Recreation.' It's a funny show, I've always thought so, and I wouldn't mind doing one. Not as funny as 30 Rock, but funny. So...we'll see. It's an AFTRA contract and like just about any actor in LA will tell you, AFTRA is, well, um, a bit ghetto when it comes to unions.

I started watching a film last night called 'Stone' with DeNiro and Edward Norton. Norton is always interesting to watch even when he's not ('The Illusionist' comes to mind) but I was reminded all over again how very, very good Robert DeNiro is in the right role. He's a marvel of subtlety in this. I have always contended that one of the great American screen performances is his Michael in 'The Deerhunter.' It is one of those performances that, no matter how many times I see it, I see something new in DeNiro's work in it. I didn't finish 'Stone' because, well, I got sleepy. But what I saw was good. Very good.

And finally, we're looking at new cars. Well, not NEW cars but new to us. And yesterday, just for shits and giggles, we were talking to a dealer about an incredible 750i BMW. We didn't test drive it because I suspect if we had all my defenses would have crumbled and I would have written the check on the spot, even though it would have bounced. Angie, although impressed with it, too, simply said, 'It's too much car for us.' And when she said that I had another of those terrible moments of clarity making me realize I'm fifty years old. She's right. It is too much car for us. After talking to the dealer awhile about what kind of deal we could make we wisely moved on to looking at a Volvo. The Volvo is not too much car for us. But as we looked at the trim, spare, utilitarian Volvo, my eyes kept wandering over to the big, black, smokin' BMW, my youth zipping around in my head, my mind's eye imagining myself behind that dark wooden wheel, my wife beside me, maybe taking a daytrip up to Santa Barbara or heading over to Vegas at the spur of the moment, no cares, no responsibities, finding myself on a deserted stretch of highway and crankin' that big, black bastard up to about 105. The Volvo was nice, though.

See you tomorrow.

Filming on Location in the Wilds of Michigan

On Location Filming 'Confirmation' in the U.P. of Michigan.

During my week in Michigan filming 'Confirmation' I was reminded of a Dustin Hoffman story, possibly apocryphal, about him on a film set early in his career. Hoffman knew the value of absolute naturalism even though his background and training was on the stage (he has gone back to it over the years - Willy Loman, Shylock) and would engage the crew, whoever happened to be closest, in fact, in everyday, normal, unaffected conversation and when the time came for 'action' would simply turn into the scene and continue talking. Of course, his focus was still there, his intensity regarding the scene and the arc and intention. But his actual physical delivery was completely natural. To the uninitiated this may sound easy. It is not always so. Especially as the 12 and 14 hour days begin to mount up. At that point one of two things begins to happen: either the focus starts to dissipate or it becomes too much, too sharp as the actor tries to adjust the 'drama' him or herself. It becomes necessary to remind oneself that adjusting the 'drama' is not the actors job when it comes to film, it is the director and the editor's job. Film is not shot in sequence, of course, so it's necessary to always know exactly where one is in the story; what has just happened and what has yet to happen, in other words. And that, of course, is just the tip of the iceburg. Other things come into play on top of that such as that ol' devil-sent, continuity. Matching the shots. "Let's do it again, Clif, you used your left hand to give him the cup of coffee in the medium shot. You used your right hand in the over the shoulder shot. So we need to pick one." Oh. Damn. Okay. So in addition to all of the 'naturalism' concessions, one has to do it exactly the same way in all of the subsequent shots. None of this is new. Just sayin'.

As the long days wear on, it's easy to let one thing become more important than the other. It's easy to become so caught up in the 'matching shots' that one forgets the reason for the film in the first place: to tell a dramatic and watchable and identifiable story. And then, in an effort to get back on track, one can start forgetting about the technical aspects all over again. It's a fine line.

Film acting is boring. There, I said it. It is. It's boring. Mostly it involves waiting for the camera to turn around, waiting for the lighting to be reset, waiting for the next location, waiting for the slight sight line adjustment, waiting for airplane to go over so the shot can continue, waiting for the sound guy to readjust for various movement and blocking, waiting, waiting, waiting. And then when all of the soul-sapping waiting is done, be able to focus and nail it clearly take after take after take. Film acting is uncomfortably close to solving a long and tedious math problem sometimes.

And then comes the scene or the moment when the camera comes in close, the crux of the film, the big dramatic potshot and often times, because everyone is a pro, the director doesn't have the time or the inclination to let the dust settle for a second and pull the actor aside and remind him, "Okay, this is the three seconds we've been working toward for the past three days." The actor must know this and adjust accordingly. Just the way it is.

It was a good 'shoot' as they say. An old, very old, Jesuit camp rented for the occasion in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, beautiful countryside, crisp, cold weather. My final 'martini shot' for the last day was in the pouring rain, doing a shot over and over until it was just right; saying my line and then ambling over to a 1959 Ford pick-up, turning for one last, wry smile and driving off into the storm. It was about 35 degrees and I had only a t-shirt on. It was an important shot so we did it until we were happy with it, the night wearing on, the temps dropping, the rain coming down harder and harder, the overtime mounting up. And finally, after what seemed an eternity, long about ten-thirty, we were satisfied. I asked to do it a couple more times for good measure (accompanied by a couple groans from the crew) and we wrapped for the day.

Most of my scenes were opposite a tremendous, young, sixteen year old actor named Thomas Phelan (remember the name - he's gonna be a major star, I predict - a young DiCaprio in the making). The film itself is G picture - sort of like "Shiloh" without the dog. The director, Michael Breault, kept the thing moving briskly and quickly. He instantly excised any unecessary emotion or 'profundity' from our work, thank goodness. Michael also kept a great deal of levity and casualness on the set. I appreciated that. He was also a very generous director, always asking me how I thought the scene should be played, considering it, and sometimes even shooting the scene two ways, mine and his, and then promising to figure things out in the edit. He was under no obligation to do that, of course, but Michael clearly loves actors (his is a theatre background, too, working for a time as the AD at Circle in the Square in NYC) and trusts them. At least he trusted young Thomas and myself. The day after I wrapped, he had some eighty 13 and 14 year old extras on the set. I wished him luck with that, he rolled his eyes, and I jumped on a plane.

Michael also didn't believe in letting actors watch the 'dailies' on the set. I didn't see a second of the work on film so frankly I have no idea whatsoever how it looks. But I did get to see how it looked as they set it up and I loved all of the deep brown and sepia colors he was using. Very old-fashioned. He had me in an old, dirty, white t-shirt (much to the chagrin of the lighting guy). The character ('Gus') is an old, crusty, war veteran, living out the rest of his life in relative solitude as a summer camp cook away from civilization. I kept thinking of Robert Duval in 'Tender Mercies.'

I particularly liked the catering on the set. They couldn't very well fly an entire company out to do it so instead they did something very smart; they employed an army of local housewives to cook. Consequently the meals on the set were like dinner at The Waltons everday. Very tasty.

All in all, a really fun experience, and actually, boredom and all, I really look forward the next one. Which, thank my lucky stars, will be sooner than I expected. More on that as it pans out.

See you tomorrow.

Green Light

A long and fruitful meeting yesterday with the producer of the indy film I've written. One final swooping, balls-to-the-walls attack on the script and then we're off and running. He wants to 'get this thing moving.' Couldn't agree more. I discovered the budget was considerably more than I first anticipated, which was a pleasant surprise; a pleasant, intimidating surprise.

This entire project to date has been an extraordinary process for me in that I have only once before been commmissioned to write something not my original idea. That occurred in Kentucky long ago and involved American Indians singing showtunes so it's best to not think about it. Nonetheless, I was payed handsomely for it so all was not a total nightmare.

But this has been different. I got an opening shot, a vague idea of the relationships, a pervading theme...and that was it --- go. Quite an experience. The script, which is far from finalyzed, has undergone somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 drafts.

Once we nail down the shooting script (about two weeks, I'm guessing) we'll start searching for the perfect director and bring him on board for pre-pre-production meetings. And then I relinquish control of the writing and start concentrating on the acting (naturally I wrote myself into it). All tremendously exciting and new for me. This is Hollywood at it's most guerrilla.

Writing someone else's vision has, for me, not only been fascinating, it's also been an academic puzzle for me to solve. That is to say, anyone can say - and they often do - that they are a 'writer,' or a 'playwright,' or 'I write screenplays. And frankly, they're right - they (we) DO write these things. But to take another idea altogether, a vision not passionately owned and nurtured from genesis to splashy omega, well, that's a horse of a different color. I've had to actually, well, write. Not just try and make my fingers keep up with my brain, but actually write the damned thing. I have, over the past six months of living with this project, at times felt overwhelmed, underwhelmed, patronizing, fearful, superior, inadequate, and finally, just stubborn, sort of like a math jockey repeatedly assailing a singularly complicated formula on a chalk board and wiping it clean every now and then only to start over. The unexpected part of it was after the initial slight indifference (because it wasn't my idea to begin with) I actually became, against my will really, absorbed by it all. And because these were not my characters (some of them, anyway) I felt justified in making them not only ignoble but also felt no remorse in killing them off whenever I damn well felt like it.

When I first became a fan of John Irving, the novelist, in the early eighties, one of the things about his writing that struck me was the fact that he had no problem killing off his protagonists. No one was ever safe in his books. Just when the reader began to feel comfortable with a character, to understand to a certain degree the character's flaws and foibles and paradoxes, Irving would just up and kill him or her. He's a perpetually unpredictable writer and after my initial irritation with his distant and omnipotent approach, I grew to love and admire his work. Still do. I'd go so far to say that, in my opinion, he is our greatest living American writer, although I'm sure there a many who would disagree. But I honestly think so. He is our Dickens. The twists and turns of his plot manipulations boggle the mind. No scenario is too taboo for him. If the human heart can experience it, he can write about it. And often does. But not in an uncaring way; he is every bit as gentle and perceptive and detailed about, say, brutal, wire-hanger abortion as he is with confused, perplexing adolescent love. I adore his writing. And, like many of the writers I admire, he now and then writes a paragraph so perfect and beautiful as to take my breath away.

But I digress...

I'm off to Michigan for a week to shoot this new indy so I won't be able to work on the script for a bit. That's fine. The producer wants to do a line-by-line analysis and then give it back to me and take a last run at it. So he's got a week.

This is one of three writing projects being juggled at the moment for me. The other two are projects of the heart. And both are still in a positon to explode under the right circumstances. But unlike this one, they are a far cry from being 'green lighted.'

And the roosters are crowing in our little green acre of Los Angeles. It's dark out still but the edges of the morning are back lit by the sun and another day is taking unsuspected shape. I'm off to see a gaggle of six-year-olds play organized flag football this morning. Something tells me this is going to put me in a very good mood.

See you tomorrow.

A Productive Day

Yesterday was one of those days that a lot got done. Intentionally, or otherwise, a lot got done.

I like days like that.

I was up early, five-ish, so I could make what are known as 'the generals' at The Mark Taper Forum. Normally, I would never do a cattle call audition. I did enough of those in my NY days to last me a lifetime. Broadly speaking, they're kind of tough on the self-esteem. One lines up early in the morning to get a 'time slot.' And then one tries to find something to do to pass the time until that slot arrives. At least that's how it always was in New York.

Not so in Los Angeles I learned yesterday. If there were ever a specific moment at which to point to forever prove this is a film town and not a theatre town, yesterday was it. I had managed to cajole my friend John to join me for the auditions. My agent told me that The Forum has a long history of casting through their generals and, as I've mentioned, I don't exactly have a fan base out here. That is to say, I'm virtually unknown. It's not like the old days on the East Coast when I had gigs lined up a year in advance. It's a different ballgame now and I scramble for jobs just like anyone else. Working on the West Coast has been like starting over from scratch for me. It's like I'm 24 again sometimes and just starting out in NYC.

So John and I get there around 8 in the morning to sign up for a slot at 9. When we arrived there were three people in line. John's an old NY theatre veteran, too, so we were both a bit shocked, to say the least. Around ten till nine, a few more people showed up. Turns out, John and I got the numbers 2 and 3 slots, respectively.

The Mark Taper Forum and The Center Theatre Group are the big dogs in town when it comes to stage...The Geffen, Music Theatre West, Pasadena Playhouse, Reprise and a couple of others closely following. The Old Globe, too, if you count San Diego.

It was an actor's dream to actually get there, sign up, go in, audition and walk out, all before ten a.m. But that's what happened. I can remember standing in the rain for hours in NY waiting for a sign up slot. Hundreds of starving actors ahead of me even though I'd gotten there at six in the morning.

Amazing.

When we finished we had a hearty and terribly unhealthy breakfast in Burbank and then came back to my house. John wanted a website (he's throwing himself into his career these days after sort of a 'hiatus' of doing commercial work almost without exception for the last couple of years - highly lucrative but not so satistying). So I spent the rest of the morning and afternoon designing John's simple but classic website. Now, of course, I'm not a web designer by any stretch of the imagination, but I found a very user-friendly site that helps the uninitiated do it. So by 6pm, we had ourselves a very cool website which John will be posting within the next couple of days. Here's the temporary link:

http://www.wix.com/clifdmts/john

During this time I finally got the word about a film audition I've been waiting to hear about. Plus the sides. That happens today at noon. Very exciting and one that my wife and I have been looking forward to. More on that as it pans out.

John stayed for dinner (a two hour, labor intensive 'Mexican Casserole' with everything in it except an actual Mexican). Angie is, quite possibly, the most talented chef I've ever run across and it was lip-smackin' good, this Mexican Casserole. Fortunately, she loves cooking. And she's really, really good at it. On more than one occasion I've opened the refrigerator door and exclaimed there was nothing to eat only to find myself sitting in front of a feast an hour later made with nothing but 'stuff' found in the kitchen.

Afterwards, in John's continuing 'attack the career' mindset, we designed his new business cards online and ordered them.

I love days where things get done. We seem to spend so many where things don't get done. And by 'we' I mean all of us. Sometimes it seems we're on this little hamster wheel, running full speed ahead and when we get off, we've nothing to show for it. I remember reading a passage in Marlon Brando's book, Songs My Mother Taught Me. Not a very good book, considering. But in it, every now and then, Brando would write something fascinating. In this particular passage he says, "As I look back I realize I could never have been successful at anything but acting. The reason is not because I think I'm talented or anything of that sort, but rather because I have an attention span of seven seconds. I've timed it. Seven seconds exactly. That's the longest I can stay excited about something. Which, of course, made me a perfect candidate to be a professional actor."

I know precisely how he felt.

See you tomorrow.

One Year

Yesterday my wife and I celebrated our one year wedding anniversary. It happened to coincide with two things: the start of a decidedly un-fun 'Dr. Oz Cleansing Diet' and the table read for the new film I'm doing in Michigan, of all places, called "Confirmation." I'll be in the U.P. for approximately a week playing the role of a gruff, aloof war veteran who has shut himself off from the world and is now a cook at a private summer camp. The guy (the character's name is 'Gus') gets involved with a rebellious youth against his better judgement and ends up teaching the young man a valuable lesson about loyalty. It's not a bad script, filming on location at a remote camp in Michigan with a fun and irreverent director. Of course, I'll be surrounded by 12 and 13 year old actors all of which will be flown to Michigan with their parents but I'm hoping for the best. Needless to say, the film is G-rated. But then again, so was 'E.T.' Dogs and kids - always a possibility of disaster there. I have, through the years, worked extensively with both. I enjoy the dogs a little more, I'd have to say.

It was an interesting table read. Like a good soldier, I brought my script along. Not the kids. Oh, no. They all had their laptops and i-pads and alien technology in front of them. I felt like a dinosaur. An actual script at a table read - the nerve of me.

My rather unusual contract states I'll have a 'log cabin,' to myself; 'rustic but comfortable.' Before the table read one of the producers told us 'cell phones will be sketchy' because the area was so remote. Although, he continued, 'there is one land line.' Hm. Sounded a bit like the beginning of a bad plot in a B horror movie.

Realizing too late this was the case, our anniversary was also the beginning of our 'Dr. Oz Diet,' which my wife has actually been looking forward to while I've been dreading it like the first day in a new Gulag. So even though I had some flowers delivered we didn't have a big, beautiful, candlelit meal like I wanted. Instead we had, and I'm not making this up, sliced apples and sour kraut. For lunch yesterday I had a huge plate of cut vegetables and for breakfast something resembling Russian gruel without the explosion of flavor.

I've never been a diet kinda guy. I've been exceptionally lucky most of my life because I never really had to diet. But I'm in the tall weeds now, age-wise, and I can't avoid them any longer. Thus the 'Dr. Oz Diet.' Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, my wife approaches them kind of like Patton approached Sicily. She is relentless in her preparation. Our refrigerator and cabinets are full of things I can't pronounce much less eat. And that schlepp, Dr. Oz, seems to have gone out of his way to include exotic foodstuffs in the diet. Sunday at our local grocery store I overheard my wife asking the manager in which aisle might she find the 'canned otter entrails in butterscotch paste.'

This past year has been a doozy, I'll say that. For longtime readers of this blog you might recall we were married in a mall by 'Reverent Chuck' (who was also the vice president of his local Harley Davidson Club). It was a conveyor-belt-type wedding, in and out, a quick 'for sickness and in health' speech by Reverend Chuck who also had the San Diego Chargers game playing in the background and every now and then would pepper the marriage ceremony with 'Oh, for God's Sakes, just THROW THE BALL!' Nonetheless, we both wept. Mostly because the Chargers lost big.

Our photos from that day are odd because my head was shaved for a role. Angie, naturally, looked great and was excrutiatingly beautiful. Our photographer had to do some fancy trick shooting so as not to get the Harley Davidson trophies in the background. I wrote the vows myself and when we were done, Reverend Chuck gazed at both of us tenderly, tears wellng in his eyes and said poetically, "Is that it? Are you done? Can I finish this now?" We were both terribly moved.

I'm not an easy guy to live with. I could go on and on about that but suffice to say perhaps Angie's greatest gift to me is that she makes it LOOK easy to live with me. It is not. I'm a troublemaker. Always have been. I make trouble. I can't help myself. And yet my wife daily rises above it all and takes exquisite care of me. And that's just pretty darn cool.

I remember our big, lavish dinner after the ceremony with Reverend Chuck. Our dear friend Tammy Jackson-Lipps arranged it all. Wonderful food, great wines, stunning table arrangements, the spread stretching about forty feet or so through our backyard, the horses nearby watching with curiosity, about thirty of our closest friends in attendance. And Tammy gave a little toast. My two Best Men, Jim Barbour and John Bader, did the same and Angie's Women-in-Waiting, or whatever the bride's counterparts are called, also raised a glass and spoke a little. But Tammy's short speech has stuck with me. She started and ended her toast with the words, 'Marriage is hard.' And then in the middle she explained how beautiful and magical it can be. And then she repeated, to make sure we both grasped the essence of her toast, 'Marriage is hard.'

I have often thought how wise and generous that toast was. Without slapping us around, she outlined briefly and pointedly just what to expect. Really she was telling us that all of our dreams and hopes and aspirations and fantasies were now within reach. We were a team now, Angie and I, and the odds of our lifetime happiness had just advanced exponentially. She was telling us that joy and daily satisfaction were within our reach now, shockingly close, in fact. But it was not free. It comes with a price. And we needed to be willing to pay it. Every hour of every day we have to pay it. And it's not easy. Simple, perhaps, but not easy. But if we did pay it, if we did make the sacrifice of putting each other ahead of ourselves, if we did think in terms of 'we' and not 'I,' if we did trust in the idea, the possibility, the beauty of unconditional love, well, we needed to strap in and take the roller coaster ride of our lives. And we have. We stray, we demand, we fight, we argue, we love, we apologize, we regret, but we make it work. And lo and behold it has turned out to be the best year of my entire life. And not because I've accomplished anything wonderful, not because I've done great things, not even because I've done anything remotely good. But because I, we, both of us, go to bed happy and wake up happy every single day. And that's more than I ever, ever expected out of life.

See you tomorrow.

Capitalism - A Love Story and Occupy Wall Street

I suspect, after watching 'Capitalism - A Love Story' by Michael Moore last night, that more than a few of the original organizers of 'Occupy Wall Street' were influenced by it. Although the documentary/film has the usual sarcastic and cynical tone of most of Moore's features, this one felt a little different. I think Moore filmed mad.

Let me explain. In professional boxing there are few maxims, a few absolutes that are generally considered unbreakable. One is 'Kill the body and the head will follow.' Another is 'No one can beat the heavy bag.' And yet another is 'Never fight mad.' The most recent example of the latter is the famous ear-biting fight with Tyson and Holyfield. Tyson fought mad. He lost control and, well, he bit Holyfield's ear off and lost the fight.

So this is the pervasive feeling I got from 'Capitalism - A Love Story.' When I was younger, high school in fact, I was a member of the Speech and Debate team. Forensics, we called it. Mostly I did the acting part of it -the creative part: Duet Acting, Solo Monologue Acting, Improv, whatever. And I carried a whole buttload of trophies home, for the record. But once, I recall, I debated. Me and this other guy, can't remember his name now, were a team, a debate team. It went like this: we were given a subject a half hour before the debate and we had exactly thirty minutes to prepare. We were, unlike today with the entire internet at one's disposal, allowed to bring a small, metal box, carefully weighed, with our research material crammed into it. The tricky part was we had no idea what subject we would be debating so we had to choose our material wisely. Most debaters, ourselves included, would cram the box with old TIME or NEWSWEEK magazines. Sometimes, to the really serious debater, a ludicrously detailed, handwritten series of 4 by 5 cards with facts on every hotbutton subject possible. We weren't that serious. We just had a bunch of TIME magazines in our box.

In any event, I quickly discovered I wasn't very well suited for the 'debate' part of 'speech and debate.' I would inevitably lose my temper. I would, in effect, 'debate mad.' I specifically remember being penalized for starting a rebuttal like this: "Alright, now you listen to me, you fat, little, four-eyed punk..."

So this is the feeling I got while watching 'Capitalism - A Love Story.' Moore was filming mad. Unlike his brilliant 'Roger and Me' or even his frightening 'Bowling for Columbine,' this film is recklessly angry. Which, in the end, it really needn't be for Moore is, to a greater degree I suspect, preaching to the Choir. I'm guessing the CEO of GM or Goldman Sachs or AIG or Bank of America didn't rush out to watch this documentary. And yet Moore shot it as though they were going to. Consequently, his trademark absurdist interviewing and partisan bent feels strained and forced, like a comedian having an off night.

Now, make no mistake, I'm in the choir. I don't need convincing. I, like most of liberal America, have conjured up images of nefarious back room deals drenched in cigar smoke, fat cat CEOs with evil handlebar mustaches and ill-fitting, three-piece suits setting out to screw the American people just for the sheer hatred-filled fun of it. The rational part of me knows this is not true, at least not literally, but nonetheless I can't help myself. These guys, these companies, did a bad thing, an amoral thing. It is undeniable. They were bailed out to the tune of 700 billion dollars with Americn taxpayed money and then they screwed us. The government gave them a blank check with no rules attached, just a verbal promise they would 'do the right thing.' And, of course, they didn't. Why would they? There was absolutely nothing to be gained, profit-wise, by doing 'the right thing.' So they went right back to screwing us with their newly acquired chunk of 'found money.'

There is, however, one section of 'Capitalism - A Love Story' that not only caught me off guard but absolutely fascinated me. And that was the 'secret memo' sent by Bank of America to its largest shareholders outlining (I think it was sent in 2005 before all hell broke loose) their plans for a 'financial coup de'tat.' The memo brazenly outlines Bank of America's assessment that we no longer live in a democracy but rather a plutocracy, which is to say, that the one percent of the wealthiest Americans now control the country, Republic be damned. The memo goes on to say the only thing to be feared would be if the 99 percent rose up and 'voted as one.' Because the one thing they couldn't control was the 'one person, one vote' part of the American democratic system. This idea, while farfetched, also scared the hell out of them.

As I continue to visualize my idea of the privileged, let-them-eat-cake, cigar-chomping, sail boat-buying fatcats of Bank of America and Goldman Sachs wandering from window to window, looking down at the Occupy Wall Street crowds below, much like a frantic Saruman in Lord of the Rings when the Ents attacked his tower, I can't help but wonder what they're really thinking. Are they the least concerned with this little peasant uprising? Or do they feel completely insulated from any retribution? I'd love to be a fly on the wall durng a high-level meeting about this in one their ivory towered discussions. If they even have a discussion about it. Or is it too inconsequential still? Do they really even care?

Obviously for any real change to take place laws would have to be repealed, rewritten and then enforced. And we've seen, all too clearly, that the United States Congress cannot be counted on to upset the apple cart. Although initially voting down the 700 billion dollar bailout, they quickly reversed themselves and gave Wall Street exactly what they asked for. And more, they gave it to them without any, I repeat, ANY reservations or prerequisites. After the initial vote, Congress, clearly seeing which way the wind was blowing, caved a mere three days later after some very heavy and threatening lobby work from the banking institutions. It was one of the saddest days in American history if not the saddest day.

In the other film I've seen regarding this travesty in our history, HBO's 'Too Big to Fail,' the banks are represented as a sort of Tri-lateral Commission, planning and scheming to economically rape the American working class. Which they do. And this well-written film espouses the Machiavellian credo 'the ends always justify the means.' This placed our President, George W. Bush, in a perfect position to implement his final nation-killing decision, sadly only one in a long line of nation-killing decisions. He appeared on national television imploring the American people to support the big bank bailout. If you go back and look at that speech, it's right out of Chaplin's 'The Great Dictator,' Bush's eyes darting about, trying to hide an emerging smirk, stringing together preposterous sentences defying any and all logical thought. And of course it worked.

I think, in the end, history will be kinder to G.W. Bush about Iraq and Afghanistan than we suspect. But with the 20/20 vision of hindsight it will be very harsh regarding his final act of treachery, the selling off of the American middle class. At least I hope so.

In the final analysis I fear the Occupy Wall Street movement and Mr. Moore's cautionary documentary, Capitalism - A Love Story, are most likely simply annoying gnats flitting about a sleeping grizzly; soul-stirring and rightous in their outrage and demands but ultimately unthreatening. For the banks and Wall Street aren't doing anything illegal. They made sure of that. They're only doing what we, the huddled masses, gave them the legal right to do: take away all our stuff and then leave us to die.

See you tomorrow.

Lucky Guy

Above - with the fine actor, Powers Boothe, following an invitation only reading of 'ABSOLUTE TRUTH.'

It's been a short second since I've blogged. The reason is simple. I've been too busy working on other projects. Three writing projects and a couple of acting projects, to be precise. I have entered an unexpected phase of my hot and cold career lately in that I find myself writing big things, long things, complicated and time consuming things that will, in the end, not only generate substantial income but also dictate my day to day life. The acting stuff (I used to be 'an actor who writes.' These days I find myself squarely in the category of 'writer who acts') is paying the bills but the writing stuff is sustaining the dreams.

I'm not sure exactly when or how I fell into my particular habit of writing, but I seem to be at my best early in the morning. For example, it is now 4:50 in the morning. I feel fresh, relaxed and clear-headed and pushing at the gates to get going. Odd, since most of my life was about getting to bed right about now.

One of the bi-products that surfaced after I made a cognizant pardigm shift in thinking some years back (read: stopped drinking enough to kill a bull elephant every night) was the astonishing realization that I'm a morning person by nature. I like the morning. I feel at my best in the morning. I am acutely aware of the myriad possibilities spread before me like an impromptu banquet.

The downsize is I'm ready to hit the hay around 7:30 at night. Just about the time Alex Trebek rolls out the final Jeopardy question I'm ready to put my face mask on. This is one of the things my wife found 'cute' early on but now finds annoying.

Speaking of my wife, this Monday, October 10, we'll celebrate one year of marriage. And what a year. Good Lord, what a year. The best of times and, well, the best of times. How she manages to put up with my eccentricities, which border on a need for clinical diagnosis at times, is beyond me. Nonetheless, she does. And not only does she allow me my personality quirks and disorders, she makes it fun. That's about all I can say about that. I'm learning to be prudent.

I just finished a film in San Pedro a couple weeks ago. It's called 'Sunken City.' A throw back kind of script. A few times during the filming I began to feel a little like Mike Connor in 'Mannix.' Except my suit was nicer.

In a week I head to Michigan, the U.P., to shoot the exteriors in a new film called 'Confirmation.' The location stuff is a remote camp in the apparently beautiful (I've never been there but my mother-in-law, Rosemary, who has traveled almost as much as Christopher Columbus tells me so) part of Northern Michigan and then back to LA to do the interiors for a week or so. In fact, I just learned yesterday I'll be lodged in a 'log cabin' for the shoot there. It's a good role - the gruff, but loveable, ex-military high school teacher. Kind of like Lou Gosset Jr. in 'Officer and a Gentleman' except without the karate and the potty mouth.

I just finished another reading with the gruff but lovable Powers Boothe. I love talking to Powers. It's sort of like talking to a film encyclopia. He knows everyone, has worked with everyone, and has an opinion about everyone. Smart guy and, of course, a very good actor.

And along the way I've done what I never expected to do, which is turn down some theatre gigs, good ones, at that, so I that I might be in a position to do more film work. And speaking of which, the next gig, following the gruff but lovable, ex-military high school teacher, looks to be a 'sleazy lawyer' (although I've read the script and he doesn't seem all that 'sleazy' to me) in a Lifetime movie to be shot in and around LA this winter. Of course, that's not in the bag yet. Until the contract is dried and the money is in the bank, I've learned, through trial and error, to not count on anything in this business. I still have to read for it. But it looks very promising and also it's a chance to work with a good buddy of mine who happens to be a wonderful director. My wife and I have our fingers firmly crossed for that one, hoping for the best and always expecting the worst. A credo I've become all too familiar with in this town.

The screenplay I've been commissioned to write is finally complete after about 187 drafts. In addition to being exceptionally challenging, it also made me learn to write for the screen. Literally. I think it goes without saying that writing for the screen is a different animal than writing for the stage. For film one is literally 'writing images.' Not words, but images. Took me awhile, but I finally grasped that long about the 104th draft. In any case, it's done and I'm happy with it. I meet with the producer next week before heading to Michigan to discuss what we have.

I also spent a lifetime or so turning 'Praying Small,' my most successful stage piece, into a screenplay. But I really can't count that as work. More a labor of love. That, too, I think, is pretty good, albeit a little wordy.

And finally, a television pilot. I just finished that one. Angie and I have a dear friend in the television biz and I'm going to put it in front of him soon and see if there's anything there to pursue. It's the best, most natural, most exciting writing I've done in quite some time and it involves a subject I'm most passionate about and, I'd like to think, anyway, somewhat knowledgeable: professional boxing in the 1960s. Again, it's a subject off the beaten path, to say the least, but one that stirs me. To be perfectly honest, it's a piece of writing I've been waiting decades to put on paper, metaphorically speaking. Actually, it's not 'on paper' at all but sitting firmly and securely in my computer.

I'm a lucky guy. Always have been except for a brief decade I spent being unlucky in the bowels of Chicago. And frankly, all of Chicago is a bowel as far as I'm concerned. I heard a good line in an otherwise bad film the other night. Some chick said, "You're my angel. You've rescued me simply by being alive." I knew instantly exactly how she felt. Because the same happened to me. I was blind and then I saw. I met my wife.

And finally, I've found myself inordinantly preoccupied with, no pun intended, with Occupy Wall Street, the movement taking place all around the country at the moment. It has awakened in me a sense of injustice, a sense of indigination. I don't really know what, if anything, this movement hopes to accomplish (my wife constantly points this out to me - "They don't even know what they want") but the fact that they're angry about being the ox and yoke for a privileged, well-paid few speaks to me on a very basic level. I, like the stalwart and brave-hearted hundreds freezing their asses off tonight on Wall Street, feel betrayed. And I feel I cannot keep up a constant chatter of patriotic blather and still live with the knowledge that the big banks and the corporate innkeepers of this nation are getting unspeakably rich on the backs of the dwindling middle class. Anyway. I could write reams on this, but I'll exercise discretion here and not. Suffice to say, if I still lived in New York I'd be very cold and laying in a tent right this very moment.

But I'm a lucky guy. And I have more to write this morning before my perfect wife and my perfect dogs, Franny and Zooey, awake. I have miles to go before I sleep (which, as I mentioned, comes about 7:30 or 8:00 these days, it seems). I have a road less taken to explore. I have to fire up the Pandora and stare for few endless minutes at an unyielding white piece of paper. I have to hope for a little while that someone else thinks that what I'm about to write today is as interesting as I think it is.

I wouldn't have it any other way. Because I'm a very lucky guy.

See you tomorrow.