We had our final dress last night. Two people in the audience. One of them gave us a standing ovation. Either that or he had to pee.
We worked hard to get here. Very hard. And a huge amount of dedication from a really solid cast.
I was off, personally, but that's because I was thinking of a ton of other things onstage.
My buddy, Jim Petersmith, came to see it last night. I think he liked it. Talked to him briefly afterwards. He had no preconceptions coming into the play, in fact had no idea whatsoever what it was about, even. Jim is notoriously closed mouth about things like this. Doesn't really give criticism. That's just Jim. He tends to find little moments he likes and latches onto them. I'm sure five years from now, out of the blue, he'll recreate something he saw last night and catch me completely off-guard. Jim is quite possibly the most unaffected charismatic actor I know. When we were younger I hated being onstage with him because audiences tend to look nowhere else. It is not something that can be taught.
My next play, probably in the late summer, at NoHo will be Praying Small. I think Jim would be great in that play. Maybe I can entice him to do it. He has a long history of waffling back and forth before committing to a project.
So it was okay last night. First time we'd done the whole thing with everything - lights, sound, props, costumes, non-stop.
Tonight is a full house. A few close friends in the audience, too.
We have dubbed Wednesday night "celebrity night." A few old friends, Michael Moriarty, Joe Mantegna, George Wendt, Charlie Sheen and a couple of others are allegedly attending. Joe and George I know from my Chicago days, Charlie and I worked with Naked Angels in NYC, and Michael, of course, was my teacher of note for many years. The wonderful actor, John Schuck, who originally read the character of "Harry" will also be there. Older readers of this blog will remember John from M.A.S.H. (the movie) and a long stint as Sgt. Enright opposite Rock Hudson in McMillan and Wife in the seventies.
Had some new things happen last night, which is always good. I was hoping some unexpected things would happen just to catch my cast and I off-guard. Final dress is always sort of a test drive. See if the car shakes in the wrong places or makes the turns tight enough.
I once stopped a show in the middle of a final dress. It was (and I blush to confess this) The Music Man and I was playing Harold Hill. This was in Pennsylvania about 15 years ago. I completely went up (forgot the lyrics) in the middle of the song TROUBLE. I simply stopped, cut the orchestra off, said to the audience, "This is what final dress is for..." and started over. Petrified the cast, but hey, whatcha' gonna do?
That's what live performance is all about. I was watching David Mamet's Speed the Plow years ago on Bway...it's the famous production that Madonna did with Joe Manegna and William H. Macy (both Mamet stalwarts). In the middle of the first act, some crazed Madonna fan simply climbed up to the stage and began walking toward her. Joe was closest to the idiot and, without missing a line, grabbed him by the arm and guided him offstage into the wings. Although Madonna was clearly shaken by this and sort of stumbled through her lines for the rest of the act, Mantegna and Macy, pros that they are, were completely non-plussed. I later asked Joe about it and he said, "Well, my first thought was that he might be armed. My second thought was 'How dare this guy interrupt my monolgue?'" Now that's an actor.
As I mentioned before, Actors Equity is making us carry scripts during the show. At first I was disappointed with this. But we're getting used to it and the actors don't seem to mind. The exact rule is that the scripts, "...must be on the actor's person." So everyone (except me, that is) comes on stage with their script and then just tucks it into their pocket.
My assistant director, Mary Evans, is a godsend for this play. Last night, knowing I can no longer see anything on stage, she gave some wonderful notes to myself and the cast. I was really pleased.
Many years ago I saw the iconic actor James Earl Jones onstage. I was way in the back. Apparently there were some older ladies in the front row conversationally chatting throughout the entire first act. I couldn't hear them but obviously Mr. Jones could. At one point he stopped acting, turned and looked at the geriatric offenders and said, in that God-like voice of his, "Would you PLEASE shut the fuck up?" Loved that.
Speaking of Jones, I once remember Moriarty telling me, "I once had a chance to play opposite Jimmy Jones. I told the casting lady that called me, 'Are you out of your friggin'mind? No one 'shares' the stage with Jimmy Jones.'" Loved that, too.
So, here we are, fight fans. Opening night. The first time the public has heard these words, ever. To be honest, I'm not sure how to feel about it all. I hope it's good. I lost the ability to judge that about a week ago. Just too close to it. I hope people like the story...because in the final analysis, that's why we're here: to tell a story. Ultimately, that's why the actor exists. To Tell a Story.
In Lord Olivier's book he says, "I am not an actor, I am a purveyor of plays." I think that pretty much says it all.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
On Quirky Choices...
Last night we did a moment to moment run and then went back and did a full run. Not a bad night overall. I enjoy sitting back and watching the other actors work and coming up with quirky little behavioral things to do. We found a few last night. A lot of people don't like this sort of thing, other professionals, that is. They don't understand why it is being done.
I remember acting and directing a play by Lanford Wilson called Redwood Curtain in Rochester, NY, about a decade ago. I was directing it and acting the role of Lyman Fellars, the disenchanted Vietnam Vet in it. At one late rehearsal we were going from moment to moment trying to find some quirky things and the AD, a dimwit administrator who had no business being in charge of a theatre company, said to me, "Well, you can't just be eccentric for eccentricities sake." And I remember turning to him and saying, "Ah, contraire. We can and will do that. People spend their lives being eccentric for eccentricities sake." All anyone has to do is walk out their front door right now, right this very instant, walk down the block, see a few people outside, watch them closely for a few minutes, and see that people are mind-bogglingly odd. Their behavior patterns, even when dealing with the mundane, are often times just incomprehensible. Every character in every play ever written should reflect exactly that.
Here's a truth. The moment the audience gets ahead of the actor and director, the play is dead. And by "gets ahead," I mean the moment they can subconsciously guess what is coming next, it's all over. Why watch anything you know the ending to? We do it all the time when we watch TV. We call it getting bored with the show. Nope. What is happening is, we're ahead of the writers. We know, more or less, what is going to happen next.
It is the job of the writer, director and actor to NEVER let that happen.
Well, after picking some quirky, behavioral moments, we ran the show. Not a bad run, still some technical stumbles, easily fixed. My lead actor, Chad, is carrying a ton of weight. It is an enormously difficult role and he is straining mightily with it. But he's good and smart and I'm not worried. We "froze" some moments. That is to say, we liked them, ran them, worked them and I said, "Freeze it." Cause that's the best we could hope for.
I've added a line here and there. At the suggestion (a very good one, I might add) of the AD we actually cut the last line of the play. We're getting used to the music in the piece - I'm a HUGE fan of LOTS of incidental music in theatre. This play is using everything from Johnny Cash to Nick Cave to Tom Waits to Glen Campbell.
So I'm not too worried. Tonight we have a few invited guests. Tomorrow we open.
Oh, and doing my first camera gig today since coming to LA. A short thirty second industrial thingee over in Culver City. Should take me about a half hour. That might be fun.
All is exactly as it should be. I'm rather odd when it comes to impending plays. Rather than get introspective and nervous, the closer opening night looms, the more relaxed and loose I get. There are actors that like to isolate, concentrate before a show, lose themselves in thought. I've never felt that way, even with the big, dramatic roles of theatre. I've always felt if I didn't have the damned role under my belt by opening night, all the druid-like isolation in the world won't help me.
This is gonna be so cool.
See you tomorrow.
I remember acting and directing a play by Lanford Wilson called Redwood Curtain in Rochester, NY, about a decade ago. I was directing it and acting the role of Lyman Fellars, the disenchanted Vietnam Vet in it. At one late rehearsal we were going from moment to moment trying to find some quirky things and the AD, a dimwit administrator who had no business being in charge of a theatre company, said to me, "Well, you can't just be eccentric for eccentricities sake." And I remember turning to him and saying, "Ah, contraire. We can and will do that. People spend their lives being eccentric for eccentricities sake." All anyone has to do is walk out their front door right now, right this very instant, walk down the block, see a few people outside, watch them closely for a few minutes, and see that people are mind-bogglingly odd. Their behavior patterns, even when dealing with the mundane, are often times just incomprehensible. Every character in every play ever written should reflect exactly that.
Here's a truth. The moment the audience gets ahead of the actor and director, the play is dead. And by "gets ahead," I mean the moment they can subconsciously guess what is coming next, it's all over. Why watch anything you know the ending to? We do it all the time when we watch TV. We call it getting bored with the show. Nope. What is happening is, we're ahead of the writers. We know, more or less, what is going to happen next.
It is the job of the writer, director and actor to NEVER let that happen.
Well, after picking some quirky, behavioral moments, we ran the show. Not a bad run, still some technical stumbles, easily fixed. My lead actor, Chad, is carrying a ton of weight. It is an enormously difficult role and he is straining mightily with it. But he's good and smart and I'm not worried. We "froze" some moments. That is to say, we liked them, ran them, worked them and I said, "Freeze it." Cause that's the best we could hope for.
I've added a line here and there. At the suggestion (a very good one, I might add) of the AD we actually cut the last line of the play. We're getting used to the music in the piece - I'm a HUGE fan of LOTS of incidental music in theatre. This play is using everything from Johnny Cash to Nick Cave to Tom Waits to Glen Campbell.
So I'm not too worried. Tonight we have a few invited guests. Tomorrow we open.
Oh, and doing my first camera gig today since coming to LA. A short thirty second industrial thingee over in Culver City. Should take me about a half hour. That might be fun.
All is exactly as it should be. I'm rather odd when it comes to impending plays. Rather than get introspective and nervous, the closer opening night looms, the more relaxed and loose I get. There are actors that like to isolate, concentrate before a show, lose themselves in thought. I've never felt that way, even with the big, dramatic roles of theatre. I've always felt if I didn't have the damned role under my belt by opening night, all the druid-like isolation in the world won't help me.
This is gonna be so cool.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
On Realism and Naturalism...
The last few days my cast and I have been playing around with the "no obligation" rehearsal. That is to say, there is no obligation whatsoever to the audience. It is only a technique thing. Obviously not to be used in performance. But it was suggested to me by my buddy, the veteran actor John Bader. It was a good suggestion.
We work the beats, the moments, with no concern about being heard, or getting a laugh or finding a dramatic moment. Instead, we work for each other. It is only necessary that the actors hear each other. It is a serious step toward absolute naturalism.
Now, naturalism is a double-edged sword. It is a really tough thing to do, sometimes. On the surface it seems the easiest way to work. But mostly what happens is that the actor simply retreats inside himself and the volume drops and, well, it just isn't very exciting. Remember, we're talking about a play, not a movie. Not a TV show.
Naturalism reached a zenith in the fifties. Strasberg taught it as though it were the savior of American acting. He had, long before, read the first book written by Stanislavski and was convinced a new era of acting was upon us. Of course, in reality, Constantine S. had written THREE books about acting. American teachers had only the first one translated into English at the time, so that was the one they taught. And, as I've mentioned before in this blog, the first one was specifically about teaching the actor how to rehearse, not to perform. So, in typical American fashion, we got only a part of the information and made our choices based on that.
I remember years ago, my buddies John and Jeff and I would sit around the living room of their big house in Brooklyn, near the promenade, and tape our conversations with each other. We were young enough and naive enough to think our conversations would make good theatre. After an hour or so of talking (usually accompanied by a LOT of beer), we would transcribe it and then try to recreate it live. A noble thought. In fact, other actors have done this very same thing and it has been documented - we were not terribly original about it.
What we learned, of course, is that we were boring. We were completely on the wrong track in trying to find a way to act absolute naturalism.
We even went further. Jeff Wood, one of the handful of great directors I've worked with, was making a short film. It was about two bums that made their money singing in the subway. So, as a rehearsal project, John and I, the two lead actors in the film, stayed up all night once, with Jeff watching eagle-eyed from a safe distance, and played a broken guitar and put out a hat for change and sang all night in a midtown subway station tunnel. True story. We were intentionally very bad. John was playing the guitar and singing, as I recall, and I was sort of his half-wit second banana. John could neither sing nor play the guitar. I don't remember exactly, but I think we sang the song, "High Hopes" all night.
At the end of the long night, in which John and I never once broke character (ah, youth), I think we had exactly one dollar and sixty one cents in the hat. People would hurry by and toss off comments, mostly stuff like, "You guys need to do something else for change." Or, "That's the worst subway act I've ever seen." Or "Jesus, shut up." The buck sixty one was entirely sympathy money. But that was what we wanted, that was the point.
I don't remember what became of the project. I know Jeff never got around to actually making the film. But, even now, all these years later, I think it was a fascinating exercise.
For me, anyway, the entire evening (and we're talking about ALL night), was about naturalism. Could passersby ascertain that we were not really bums, but actors pretending to be bums? I don't think they could (John and I were dressed rattily and had smeared some grime on us). Although the exercise was naive and tiring (I would never in a million years do that today) it taught me something - naturalism is boring and requires intense concentration. And not especially effective.
Now REALISM...that's a different story. And HEIGHTENED realism, well, that's something I've been striving for for a quarter of a century. The Steppenwolf boys used to do it better than anyone I've ever seen. If you don't know what heightened realism is, just watch John Malkovich do ANYthing. That's it.
It is something I'm exploring while doing Harry in From the East to the West. Quite literally a heightened sense of everything on stage.
Tuesday night I'll see if I'm on the right track.
See you tomorrow.
We work the beats, the moments, with no concern about being heard, or getting a laugh or finding a dramatic moment. Instead, we work for each other. It is only necessary that the actors hear each other. It is a serious step toward absolute naturalism.
Now, naturalism is a double-edged sword. It is a really tough thing to do, sometimes. On the surface it seems the easiest way to work. But mostly what happens is that the actor simply retreats inside himself and the volume drops and, well, it just isn't very exciting. Remember, we're talking about a play, not a movie. Not a TV show.
Naturalism reached a zenith in the fifties. Strasberg taught it as though it were the savior of American acting. He had, long before, read the first book written by Stanislavski and was convinced a new era of acting was upon us. Of course, in reality, Constantine S. had written THREE books about acting. American teachers had only the first one translated into English at the time, so that was the one they taught. And, as I've mentioned before in this blog, the first one was specifically about teaching the actor how to rehearse, not to perform. So, in typical American fashion, we got only a part of the information and made our choices based on that.
I remember years ago, my buddies John and Jeff and I would sit around the living room of their big house in Brooklyn, near the promenade, and tape our conversations with each other. We were young enough and naive enough to think our conversations would make good theatre. After an hour or so of talking (usually accompanied by a LOT of beer), we would transcribe it and then try to recreate it live. A noble thought. In fact, other actors have done this very same thing and it has been documented - we were not terribly original about it.
What we learned, of course, is that we were boring. We were completely on the wrong track in trying to find a way to act absolute naturalism.
We even went further. Jeff Wood, one of the handful of great directors I've worked with, was making a short film. It was about two bums that made their money singing in the subway. So, as a rehearsal project, John and I, the two lead actors in the film, stayed up all night once, with Jeff watching eagle-eyed from a safe distance, and played a broken guitar and put out a hat for change and sang all night in a midtown subway station tunnel. True story. We were intentionally very bad. John was playing the guitar and singing, as I recall, and I was sort of his half-wit second banana. John could neither sing nor play the guitar. I don't remember exactly, but I think we sang the song, "High Hopes" all night.
At the end of the long night, in which John and I never once broke character (ah, youth), I think we had exactly one dollar and sixty one cents in the hat. People would hurry by and toss off comments, mostly stuff like, "You guys need to do something else for change." Or, "That's the worst subway act I've ever seen." Or "Jesus, shut up." The buck sixty one was entirely sympathy money. But that was what we wanted, that was the point.
I don't remember what became of the project. I know Jeff never got around to actually making the film. But, even now, all these years later, I think it was a fascinating exercise.
For me, anyway, the entire evening (and we're talking about ALL night), was about naturalism. Could passersby ascertain that we were not really bums, but actors pretending to be bums? I don't think they could (John and I were dressed rattily and had smeared some grime on us). Although the exercise was naive and tiring (I would never in a million years do that today) it taught me something - naturalism is boring and requires intense concentration. And not especially effective.
Now REALISM...that's a different story. And HEIGHTENED realism, well, that's something I've been striving for for a quarter of a century. The Steppenwolf boys used to do it better than anyone I've ever seen. If you don't know what heightened realism is, just watch John Malkovich do ANYthing. That's it.
It is something I'm exploring while doing Harry in From the East to the West. Quite literally a heightened sense of everything on stage.
Tuesday night I'll see if I'm on the right track.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
On Raging Against the Dying of the Light...
Got together with my old buddy, Jim Petersmith, the other day. Jim, John Bader and myself. We found this old diner in North Hollywood, been there for decades, and sat and drank coffee and ate the early bird special. Chatted about old times.
Jim moved out here about ten years ago to be a movie star. I don't watch as many films as I used to, but I don't think it took.
Anyway, it was a fun day. We all met each other while interning at an Equity theatre in Iowa about 26 years ago. Jim was a few years older than John and I so he sort of took the "big brother" role for us all back then. We did a couple of shows together on tour during that time...The Fantasticks (first time I'd done it) and the one and only children's show I've ever done in my careeer, a really ridiculous piece called The Wonderful Tang. Incidentally, also the only time I've done "drag" (I played the evil "Madame Tso" in the play - full drag). Anyway, we had a wonderful time on that tour. It was just a little bus and truck kind of thing. Sometimes we stayed in cheap hotels and sometimes we stayed in "host homes." We were actors then, and young. Hehe.
At one point during our early bird special, I sort of paused and looked at us. Jim, who used to look a lot like a young Dick Van Dyke, is now a tad overweight, grey-haired, sporting a beard. John still has a full head of hair but the grey is seeping in. And I am bald and bearded (for the play) and looking a bit like the old pro wrestler, Mad Dog Vachone. How's that for an obscure reference?
The one thing that never changes is time. It marches on regardless of our protestations. About a year ago I was in Chicago on Michigan Avenue and I had stopped for a moment in front of a Border's Bookstore on The Magnificent Mile. I was looking at the cover of a book in the window when I looked up for a second and saw the reflection of a man standing behind me, an older, balding, sort of gruff-looking, middle-aged man. I politely moved a step aside so he could see in, too. It was then that I realized it was me. It was a startling moment for me. I hadn't recognized my own reflection.
When I dream, I am always about thirty years old. Maybe subconsciously that's when I thought I looked and felt my best. I don't know.
I know this: I am really appreciative of nearly every moment in my life these days. Because I know that moment will never come again. It's over. It's gone. Time only gives us one shot. I didn't grasp that back when I was younger. Not at all.
This is not to say I'm depressed in my middle-aged years. Not at all. I'm happy I've made it this far at all. In fact, in many ways, this is the best time of my entire life.
But it's funny, I think. NO ONE ever expects to get older. It happens to other people. I honestly don't know when or how it happened to me. A few days ago I was looking in the mirror, worried about when I could get another hair cut because it was so out of hand. Today the hair and that boy are gone, never to return.
A few days ago I was on a small farm in Iowa, riding horses with John and Jim and dressed like a cowboy just for fun, roaring with laughter and living exactly in that moment. Today, horses just seem big to me.
A few days ago, I drank most of the night away in an Irish Pub in New York City, laughing and telling theatre stories all night with my buddies, Jeff and Robert and John and Greg and Don and Mike and so many others, finishing at four in the morning when the bar closed, knowing full well I had to be at work at nine and not in the least worried about it. Today, I contentedly get into bed by ten, watch a little TiVo and drift off to sleep, delighted in the knowledge that I'll be up by six and writing.
A few days ago, I fell in and out of love as often as I changed my underwear (and the two are probably somehow related). Today I am ensconced in the final fling of my life and completely satisfied with that thought.
A few days ago, I could remember lines. Today, I work terribly hard at remembering lines.
A few days ago, I worried about what people thought of me as an artist, an actor, a writer. Today, I could care less. I have learned that the only opinion that counts is what I think of myself as an artist, an actor, a writer.
A few days ago, I would think nothing of spending an entire day and night doing nothing, hanging out, drinking beer, expecting nothing. Today, I can't wait to create, to acknowledge details in my life, to focus on a great dinner, a wonderful movie, a good friend, a few hours with Angie.
No one ever expects to get older. It is the sneakiest thief in the history of mankind. It is as slow as the glaciers. And it takes away some things and gives, as a beautiful and unexpected gift, others. The trick is to learn to accept it all gracefully, I suppose. There are days I simply can't do that. I still raise my voice against this thief now and then. I defy it. But I always lose. I always sigh and accept. It's a no win situation. But I still rage against the dying of the light.
So there we were, Jim and John and I, sitting there, drinking coffee, hot tea, iced tea, Sprite, sitting in the sun, which made us squint, wearing baggy pants and shoes that we didn't "pick" but simply were closest to the bed when we got up.
And we laughed for three straight hours. Happy to be grey. I really enjoyed that day.
Jim moved out here about ten years ago to be a movie star. I don't watch as many films as I used to, but I don't think it took.
Anyway, it was a fun day. We all met each other while interning at an Equity theatre in Iowa about 26 years ago. Jim was a few years older than John and I so he sort of took the "big brother" role for us all back then. We did a couple of shows together on tour during that time...The Fantasticks (first time I'd done it) and the one and only children's show I've ever done in my careeer, a really ridiculous piece called The Wonderful Tang. Incidentally, also the only time I've done "drag" (I played the evil "Madame Tso" in the play - full drag). Anyway, we had a wonderful time on that tour. It was just a little bus and truck kind of thing. Sometimes we stayed in cheap hotels and sometimes we stayed in "host homes." We were actors then, and young. Hehe.
At one point during our early bird special, I sort of paused and looked at us. Jim, who used to look a lot like a young Dick Van Dyke, is now a tad overweight, grey-haired, sporting a beard. John still has a full head of hair but the grey is seeping in. And I am bald and bearded (for the play) and looking a bit like the old pro wrestler, Mad Dog Vachone. How's that for an obscure reference?
The one thing that never changes is time. It marches on regardless of our protestations. About a year ago I was in Chicago on Michigan Avenue and I had stopped for a moment in front of a Border's Bookstore on The Magnificent Mile. I was looking at the cover of a book in the window when I looked up for a second and saw the reflection of a man standing behind me, an older, balding, sort of gruff-looking, middle-aged man. I politely moved a step aside so he could see in, too. It was then that I realized it was me. It was a startling moment for me. I hadn't recognized my own reflection.
When I dream, I am always about thirty years old. Maybe subconsciously that's when I thought I looked and felt my best. I don't know.
I know this: I am really appreciative of nearly every moment in my life these days. Because I know that moment will never come again. It's over. It's gone. Time only gives us one shot. I didn't grasp that back when I was younger. Not at all.
This is not to say I'm depressed in my middle-aged years. Not at all. I'm happy I've made it this far at all. In fact, in many ways, this is the best time of my entire life.
But it's funny, I think. NO ONE ever expects to get older. It happens to other people. I honestly don't know when or how it happened to me. A few days ago I was looking in the mirror, worried about when I could get another hair cut because it was so out of hand. Today the hair and that boy are gone, never to return.
A few days ago I was on a small farm in Iowa, riding horses with John and Jim and dressed like a cowboy just for fun, roaring with laughter and living exactly in that moment. Today, horses just seem big to me.
A few days ago, I drank most of the night away in an Irish Pub in New York City, laughing and telling theatre stories all night with my buddies, Jeff and Robert and John and Greg and Don and Mike and so many others, finishing at four in the morning when the bar closed, knowing full well I had to be at work at nine and not in the least worried about it. Today, I contentedly get into bed by ten, watch a little TiVo and drift off to sleep, delighted in the knowledge that I'll be up by six and writing.
A few days ago, I fell in and out of love as often as I changed my underwear (and the two are probably somehow related). Today I am ensconced in the final fling of my life and completely satisfied with that thought.
A few days ago, I could remember lines. Today, I work terribly hard at remembering lines.
A few days ago, I worried about what people thought of me as an artist, an actor, a writer. Today, I could care less. I have learned that the only opinion that counts is what I think of myself as an artist, an actor, a writer.
A few days ago, I would think nothing of spending an entire day and night doing nothing, hanging out, drinking beer, expecting nothing. Today, I can't wait to create, to acknowledge details in my life, to focus on a great dinner, a wonderful movie, a good friend, a few hours with Angie.
No one ever expects to get older. It is the sneakiest thief in the history of mankind. It is as slow as the glaciers. And it takes away some things and gives, as a beautiful and unexpected gift, others. The trick is to learn to accept it all gracefully, I suppose. There are days I simply can't do that. I still raise my voice against this thief now and then. I defy it. But I always lose. I always sigh and accept. It's a no win situation. But I still rage against the dying of the light.
So there we were, Jim and John and I, sitting there, drinking coffee, hot tea, iced tea, Sprite, sitting in the sun, which made us squint, wearing baggy pants and shoes that we didn't "pick" but simply were closest to the bed when we got up.
And we laughed for three straight hours. Happy to be grey. I really enjoyed that day.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
On Becoming Harry...
There are those that don't believe in the concept of "becoming" a character. I agree with them to a certain extent. We are who we are on stage no matter what. DeNiro can gain 80 pounds to get to where he wants to be as Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull or Daniel Day Lewis can twist his body into a pretzel to be closer to his version of the character in My Left Foot or Christian Bale can become a virtual skeleton in The Mechanic to make his point but ultimately it is still DeNiro, Lewis and Bale doing the role. In Stephen King's book "On Writing" he talks about how a character is but a mere "bag of bones" compared to a living, breathing human being. He says that's the most an author can hope for. So the Strasbergian idea of "becoming" a character is pretty much nonsense. However, having said that, an actor can still do things to create the "illusion" of being someone else on stage. At least in his own mind.
So I thought I'd write a bit about the process I'm taking to become Harry, the character I'm playing in From the East to the West.
My approach has always been an "outside in" approach as opposed to an "inside out" approach. It's the old Olivier quote...I run as fast as I can and hope someone throws me the ball (see earlier blog). The first thing I do is find the walk. I experiment with different centers of gravity, find out what kind of shoes or boots I'm gonna be wearing, go through my mental inventory of people I've known that might have a similar walk, throw it all together in a pot and see what I have. In the case of Harry, two things came to mind. One is a next door neighbor I had as a kid. His name was Freeman Stark and he was, earlier in his life, a star athlete. He still had the slightly pigeon-toed, swaggering walk of the confident athlete. But he was older, in his forties, by the time I knew him and there was an added element. His knees were going. So in addition to the "athlete" walk, there was also a slight groaning about his movement. He was still graceful, but there was a slight hitch here and there, and a definite reluctance of his body to get going. It was still a rather intimidating walk.
The other image was Tom Hanks way back when he did "A League of Their Own." Same sort of thing, an athlete gone to seed, his knees and hips refusing to do as ordered. I remember seeing that film a long time ago, this was before Hanks had established himself as the very fine actor he is today, and saying to the person next to me in the theatre, "This guy is good. He's more than just a sitcom actor." Little did I know.
So I practiced walking around my back yard as Harry. Finally, I found the walk. And as I've discovered throughout my career, once I've found the walk, the rest usually follows fairly quickly.
Next was the voice. As I mentioned before, I had in mind the growling, tender, volatile sound of George C. Scott. But I also had to incorporate that hard R, sort of ugly, southern Missouri sound. Listen to the actress Holly Hunter in nearly everything she does...that's the sound. Fortunately this part was pretty easy because that's where I grew up and many years ago had worked hard to actually discard that dialect in my voice. Now all I had to do was bring it back.
Next was the psychological gesture. Every character has something they do, either vocally or physically, that is singular to who they are. In this case, I've incorporated two gestures: the slight pause before certain words as Harry allows his brain to catch up with his mouth (Duvall does this especially well with some characters) and a sweeping, open hand gesture he uses to make a point.
Also the stillness of the character. Ben Kingsley once said he's spent his entire professional life learning to be still. I like that. A stillness on stage from a character can be quite chilling. Every instinct in an actors body tells him to move, keep moving, do something, shuffle, grimace, drop the head, lick the lips, clench the teeth, change the stance, sit forward, etc. To work against those instincts and find a stillness often times allows the audience themselves to place upon the actor exactly what they want him to feel at any given time. It is an aspect of "Naked Face" work, too. Lose the emotion in the face, and let the audience do the work for you. It is not easy because, as I said, it goes against every instinct the actor has. But, when done right, it is really, really compelling.
This is something I strive for with Harry.
Had a friend watch rehearsal a while back...afterward he said something to the effect, "I'd like to see in Harry this such and such reaction." I could not possibly agree less. I'd like to show NOTHING and let the audience decide what they'd like to see. It is an odd approach, I know, but that's what I teach to my students and that's what I strive for as an actor. A lot of times, like this guy, a respected veteran actor here in LA, they just don't get it. But that's okay.
Alright, so I've got the walk, the shoes, the voice, the inflection, the psychological gesture, the speech rhythm, the stillness, the motionless threat of the character. What next?
For me, what's next, are the externals, the costume, the set, the heat under the lights, the other characters, the relationships, the blocking, the props, the space itself. All of that is now incorporated. So how does Harry and his walk, his talk, his posture, his stature, react to all of this? Suddenly it starts to get interesting and really complicated. The fun part.
Moriarty once told me long ago when I asked him about the actor Jon Voight, whom Michael had known for many years, to take note at how brilliant Voight was when he "had something to work with." That is to say, an accent or a limp or something external. Then, he said, look how hard he struggles when he doesn't have any of that, when he essentially is just play Jon Voight. Day and night. Michael was right. Voight is one of those actors that soars when he has a hook to hang on to. Something to play with, some "thing" that is different. But take all that stuff away and Voight struggles. I know exactly how he feels.
Last night at rehearsal as we worked through Act II, several times I stopped and did it again as Harry would do it, physically, that is. Makes all the difference in the world. Cross stage left as Clif and it won't stick. But cross stage left as Harry, in his halting, swaggering, injured-athlete walk, and it sticks forever.
An old friend of mine, a director, once said something to me in passing that has been in my mind for three decades. He said, "What you do in rehearsal is what you're going to do in performance." A seemingly common sense piece of advice. I dare say it has turned out to be far, far more than that. Somewhere deep in an actors mind is the idea that he will "explode" on stage opening night, once the audience is there. It is not true. Even veteran actors think this sometimes..."well, I'm not worried, I'll pull all the stops out when I get an audience." This is very dangerous thinking. What we do in rehearsal is, when under moment to moment pressure under the lights on opening night, is EXACTLY what we will do on stage. A very important and often self-preserving piece of advice.
I also remember doing 1776 years ago. The guy playing Ben Franklin, an older gentleman, made me laugh very hard one day. He called me aside and asked me to listen to his "three different accents" that he had narrowed it down to for Franklin. He spoke a few lines in the first "accent." Then he did the second. Then the third. I swear they were exactly the same. No change whatsoever. But I didn't want to topple this guy's perception of himself. He, clearly, really thought there was a difference. I said, straight-faced, "Oh, the second one, definitely." He seemed pleased and went about his work.
The point is, sometimes the work is only visible to the actor. And that's necessary. It's important. And it's what this silly pretending business is all about.
See you tomorrow.
So I thought I'd write a bit about the process I'm taking to become Harry, the character I'm playing in From the East to the West.
My approach has always been an "outside in" approach as opposed to an "inside out" approach. It's the old Olivier quote...I run as fast as I can and hope someone throws me the ball (see earlier blog). The first thing I do is find the walk. I experiment with different centers of gravity, find out what kind of shoes or boots I'm gonna be wearing, go through my mental inventory of people I've known that might have a similar walk, throw it all together in a pot and see what I have. In the case of Harry, two things came to mind. One is a next door neighbor I had as a kid. His name was Freeman Stark and he was, earlier in his life, a star athlete. He still had the slightly pigeon-toed, swaggering walk of the confident athlete. But he was older, in his forties, by the time I knew him and there was an added element. His knees were going. So in addition to the "athlete" walk, there was also a slight groaning about his movement. He was still graceful, but there was a slight hitch here and there, and a definite reluctance of his body to get going. It was still a rather intimidating walk.
The other image was Tom Hanks way back when he did "A League of Their Own." Same sort of thing, an athlete gone to seed, his knees and hips refusing to do as ordered. I remember seeing that film a long time ago, this was before Hanks had established himself as the very fine actor he is today, and saying to the person next to me in the theatre, "This guy is good. He's more than just a sitcom actor." Little did I know.
So I practiced walking around my back yard as Harry. Finally, I found the walk. And as I've discovered throughout my career, once I've found the walk, the rest usually follows fairly quickly.
Next was the voice. As I mentioned before, I had in mind the growling, tender, volatile sound of George C. Scott. But I also had to incorporate that hard R, sort of ugly, southern Missouri sound. Listen to the actress Holly Hunter in nearly everything she does...that's the sound. Fortunately this part was pretty easy because that's where I grew up and many years ago had worked hard to actually discard that dialect in my voice. Now all I had to do was bring it back.
Next was the psychological gesture. Every character has something they do, either vocally or physically, that is singular to who they are. In this case, I've incorporated two gestures: the slight pause before certain words as Harry allows his brain to catch up with his mouth (Duvall does this especially well with some characters) and a sweeping, open hand gesture he uses to make a point.
Also the stillness of the character. Ben Kingsley once said he's spent his entire professional life learning to be still. I like that. A stillness on stage from a character can be quite chilling. Every instinct in an actors body tells him to move, keep moving, do something, shuffle, grimace, drop the head, lick the lips, clench the teeth, change the stance, sit forward, etc. To work against those instincts and find a stillness often times allows the audience themselves to place upon the actor exactly what they want him to feel at any given time. It is an aspect of "Naked Face" work, too. Lose the emotion in the face, and let the audience do the work for you. It is not easy because, as I said, it goes against every instinct the actor has. But, when done right, it is really, really compelling.
This is something I strive for with Harry.
Had a friend watch rehearsal a while back...afterward he said something to the effect, "I'd like to see in Harry this such and such reaction." I could not possibly agree less. I'd like to show NOTHING and let the audience decide what they'd like to see. It is an odd approach, I know, but that's what I teach to my students and that's what I strive for as an actor. A lot of times, like this guy, a respected veteran actor here in LA, they just don't get it. But that's okay.
Alright, so I've got the walk, the shoes, the voice, the inflection, the psychological gesture, the speech rhythm, the stillness, the motionless threat of the character. What next?
For me, what's next, are the externals, the costume, the set, the heat under the lights, the other characters, the relationships, the blocking, the props, the space itself. All of that is now incorporated. So how does Harry and his walk, his talk, his posture, his stature, react to all of this? Suddenly it starts to get interesting and really complicated. The fun part.
Moriarty once told me long ago when I asked him about the actor Jon Voight, whom Michael had known for many years, to take note at how brilliant Voight was when he "had something to work with." That is to say, an accent or a limp or something external. Then, he said, look how hard he struggles when he doesn't have any of that, when he essentially is just play Jon Voight. Day and night. Michael was right. Voight is one of those actors that soars when he has a hook to hang on to. Something to play with, some "thing" that is different. But take all that stuff away and Voight struggles. I know exactly how he feels.
Last night at rehearsal as we worked through Act II, several times I stopped and did it again as Harry would do it, physically, that is. Makes all the difference in the world. Cross stage left as Clif and it won't stick. But cross stage left as Harry, in his halting, swaggering, injured-athlete walk, and it sticks forever.
An old friend of mine, a director, once said something to me in passing that has been in my mind for three decades. He said, "What you do in rehearsal is what you're going to do in performance." A seemingly common sense piece of advice. I dare say it has turned out to be far, far more than that. Somewhere deep in an actors mind is the idea that he will "explode" on stage opening night, once the audience is there. It is not true. Even veteran actors think this sometimes..."well, I'm not worried, I'll pull all the stops out when I get an audience." This is very dangerous thinking. What we do in rehearsal is, when under moment to moment pressure under the lights on opening night, is EXACTLY what we will do on stage. A very important and often self-preserving piece of advice.
I also remember doing 1776 years ago. The guy playing Ben Franklin, an older gentleman, made me laugh very hard one day. He called me aside and asked me to listen to his "three different accents" that he had narrowed it down to for Franklin. He spoke a few lines in the first "accent." Then he did the second. Then the third. I swear they were exactly the same. No change whatsoever. But I didn't want to topple this guy's perception of himself. He, clearly, really thought there was a difference. I said, straight-faced, "Oh, the second one, definitely." He seemed pleased and went about his work.
The point is, sometimes the work is only visible to the actor. And that's necessary. It's important. And it's what this silly pretending business is all about.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
An Excerpt: From the East to the West - 2/16, 2/17, 2/18
FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST, a new play written and directed by Clifford Morts.
A Benefit Performance for the prestigious NoHo Arts Center.
Executive Producer: Teal Sherer
February 16, 17 and 18. 8:00pm.
Call 818-508-7101 Extension 1 for production information, Extension 7 for reservations.
Featuring: Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Alex Robert Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Assistant Director/Production Stage Manager - Mary Evans.
An evening of wounds reopened, secrets revealed and a family in turmoil. Funny and dark, a play, ultimately, of forgiveness and tolerance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harry
Kevin! (Harry suddenly gets up and crosses quickly down to Kevin on the lawn.) You marry that little girl! Don’t let her get away! Ask her now! Before you both go away to college. Ask her ‘for it’s too late!
Kevin
(Startled.) Well, we’ve talked about it and . . .
Harry
(Taking him by the shoulders.) Don’t talk about it! Do it! Ask her!
Kevin
Well, she . . .
Harry
You take her out to a field. Take her out to a fresh cut field, boy. Lay her down. Smother her with kisses.
Kevin
We don’t . . .
Harry
Listen to me! (Beat.) Listen to me. Don’t waste one more second, boy. Things’ll change on you if you do. Things’ll slip away, boy. Listen to me hard, now. You take that pretty little girl out to a field and spread a blanket. Lay her down and promise her the world. Tell her you’ll give her a life she can’t even dream of. Kiss her on the lips and set her on a cloud, boy. Set her on a cloud. Don’t lose the days, son. Don’t let ‘em get away! Don’t let ‘em get away. Don’t wake up alone one more day, boy!
Kevin
Okay! Okay! I will. That hurts.
Harry
(Easing his grip.) Oh. Sorry, son. (Beat.) It’s just that . . . I don't want you to not know what’s important. You do your runnin’, boy. You got your whole damn life to run. You go to college and get yourself a good job. Buy yourself a nice little house. Plant a garden. Do ALL of that! But take that little girl and make her your wife. Do it today, boy! Don’t waste no more days! Not one more goddamn day!
Kevin
Okay, Mr. Cooke. (Beat.) Okay. (Backing off.) I’ll come back by to see Cory, okay? Just tell him I said hey. (Beat.) I’m sorry about Mrs. Cooke, sir. She was a nice lady.
Harry
(Looking hard at Kevin.) Marry that girl.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
See you tomorrow.
A Benefit Performance for the prestigious NoHo Arts Center.
Executive Producer: Teal Sherer
February 16, 17 and 18. 8:00pm.
Call 818-508-7101 Extension 1 for production information, Extension 7 for reservations.
Featuring: Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Alex Robert Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Assistant Director/Production Stage Manager - Mary Evans.
An evening of wounds reopened, secrets revealed and a family in turmoil. Funny and dark, a play, ultimately, of forgiveness and tolerance.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Harry
Kevin! (Harry suddenly gets up and crosses quickly down to Kevin on the lawn.) You marry that little girl! Don’t let her get away! Ask her now! Before you both go away to college. Ask her ‘for it’s too late!
Kevin
(Startled.) Well, we’ve talked about it and . . .
Harry
(Taking him by the shoulders.) Don’t talk about it! Do it! Ask her!
Kevin
Well, she . . .
Harry
You take her out to a field. Take her out to a fresh cut field, boy. Lay her down. Smother her with kisses.
Kevin
We don’t . . .
Harry
Listen to me! (Beat.) Listen to me. Don’t waste one more second, boy. Things’ll change on you if you do. Things’ll slip away, boy. Listen to me hard, now. You take that pretty little girl out to a field and spread a blanket. Lay her down and promise her the world. Tell her you’ll give her a life she can’t even dream of. Kiss her on the lips and set her on a cloud, boy. Set her on a cloud. Don’t lose the days, son. Don’t let ‘em get away! Don’t let ‘em get away. Don’t wake up alone one more day, boy!
Kevin
Okay! Okay! I will. That hurts.
Harry
(Easing his grip.) Oh. Sorry, son. (Beat.) It’s just that . . . I don't want you to not know what’s important. You do your runnin’, boy. You got your whole damn life to run. You go to college and get yourself a good job. Buy yourself a nice little house. Plant a garden. Do ALL of that! But take that little girl and make her your wife. Do it today, boy! Don’t waste no more days! Not one more goddamn day!
Kevin
Okay, Mr. Cooke. (Beat.) Okay. (Backing off.) I’ll come back by to see Cory, okay? Just tell him I said hey. (Beat.) I’m sorry about Mrs. Cooke, sir. She was a nice lady.
Harry
(Looking hard at Kevin.) Marry that girl.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
See you tomorrow.
Monday, February 8, 2010
And Once Again...The Damned Lines.
Sometimes I think it's good to let go of a play for a little while. That's what I did yesterday. My beautiful and empathetic girlfriend, Angie, encouraged me not to think of it for a day. Of course, it didn't work. My mind was whirling all day. But one good thing came from it; I figured out the last moment of the piece, something that was giving me fits.
Also, I have always been able to compartmentalize what is bothering me throughout my life. I get restless, irritable and discontent sometimes, particularly when I have a new play going up. I've been restless, irritable and discontent for a week or so now. But I couldn't put my finger on it until yesterday. My philosophy has always been, "Find out what's really bothering you and fix it. Don't wallow in it, just fix it." Problem is, until yesterday, I didn't really know what was bothering me. During the football game yesterday, I figured it out. (Saints! Yes!) The lines. I still don't have the damn lines.
So today, I'm in "fix it" mode.
Today, I attack the lines with renewed vigor. It is the old actor's nightmare (so perfectly described in Christopher Durang's one-act). If I don't have the lines down perfectly, I'm off balance. Insecure. Searching.
I have visions of what might happen if I'm still flailing about on opening night.
There are some very famous stories in the theatre about this. One is with Olivier. Although it is not so much about lines as it is false cues. It seems during a performance of a Noel Coward piece, Olivier was opposite a young actor when the phone rang on stage, completely at the wrong time. They both froze for an instant. Finally, Olivier picked it up, said hello, listened for a second, and then handed the phone to the terrified, young actor and said, "It's for you."
Another one of my favorites was during the famous Julius Caeser that was done in the park with Pacino, Sheen and Hermann. New York production. Apparently someone had neglected to turn the phone off backstage during one of the performances. Ed Hermann himself told me this story. The director, months earlier, had had the brilliant idea of casting both "senior" senators and "junior" senators in the assassination scene (when the senate rises up and brutally stabs to death poor Caeser). So he had gone to the Equity Lounge in NYC (I've been there many times) and simply shouted out, "Anyone in here over 60 wanna be in a play?" Now back in those days, at any given time, one could find a dozen or so old Borscht Belt actors, probably hadn't worked in years, hanging around, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, gossiping. They all leapt at the opportunity. Now, remember, these were guys that still remembered Vaudeville. So here they are, all dressed in togas, doing the very slow and menacing scene in which Caesar is riddled with knives. As they back away from the body after stabbing him repeatedly, fake blood everywhere, silence on the stage as they begin to realize what they've just done, the phone starts ringing very loudly backstage. There is a beat as they all process this. Finally one of the old guys, in a loud stage whisper, with perfect timing, in a Bronx accent, says, "What if it's for Caesar?"
I directed myself some years back in an odd, little play called Redwood Curtain, up in Rochester, NY. I was directing and acting in the piece. As usual, as opening night loomed closer, I was still dragging the script around with me. I was petrified of putting it down. One of the actors in the show came to me at one point and said, "You know, you walk around here telling everyone what to do, how to proceed, marking your lines, giving notes, and every so often you put the script down and act and it scares the living shit out of all of us." A backhanded compliment, to be sure.
So today is all about lines. Saying them, walking around, saying them again.
In the play, there is a moment when Harry (the role I'm playing) has to fall to his hands and knees because of the overwhelming emotion of the moment. It is a very dramatic beat. So, I'm an old guy now, somedays older than others, and I'm not fluid and comfortable about falling on stage (after all, at my age I could break a hip and have to push that little button on my wrist band and say, "I've fallen and I can't get up"). So there I am in my backyard practicing falling down. My dog Zooey was out with me that day. She was terribly disconcerted by all this. I'd say my line and then fall to the ground, over and over. Fortunately, we have an enclosed backyard, so no one can see in. I can only imagine what the neighbors might have thought.
I remember, years ago in NY, I had a buddy in to visit me for a few days. He was not an actor, not in the theatre, in fact he was an architect. I had an audition that I simply had to go to. So he went along with me. As we walked in, hundreds of actors were sitting around, staring straight ahead, and seemingly talking to themselves. To me, of course, I didn't think anything of it. They were simply saying their lines. But afterwards, my buddy said to me, "I felt like I was in an asylum."
I have a hundred weird audition stories, like any actor, and someday I'll recount a few. It is an odd time for the actor, full of tension and ego and insecurity. Of course, strange things happen.
But today...today I memorize. And memorize. And memorize. It just has to be done. No getting around it. Repetition is the soul of art.
See you tomorrow.
Also, I have always been able to compartmentalize what is bothering me throughout my life. I get restless, irritable and discontent sometimes, particularly when I have a new play going up. I've been restless, irritable and discontent for a week or so now. But I couldn't put my finger on it until yesterday. My philosophy has always been, "Find out what's really bothering you and fix it. Don't wallow in it, just fix it." Problem is, until yesterday, I didn't really know what was bothering me. During the football game yesterday, I figured it out. (Saints! Yes!) The lines. I still don't have the damn lines.
So today, I'm in "fix it" mode.
Today, I attack the lines with renewed vigor. It is the old actor's nightmare (so perfectly described in Christopher Durang's one-act). If I don't have the lines down perfectly, I'm off balance. Insecure. Searching.
I have visions of what might happen if I'm still flailing about on opening night.
There are some very famous stories in the theatre about this. One is with Olivier. Although it is not so much about lines as it is false cues. It seems during a performance of a Noel Coward piece, Olivier was opposite a young actor when the phone rang on stage, completely at the wrong time. They both froze for an instant. Finally, Olivier picked it up, said hello, listened for a second, and then handed the phone to the terrified, young actor and said, "It's for you."
Another one of my favorites was during the famous Julius Caeser that was done in the park with Pacino, Sheen and Hermann. New York production. Apparently someone had neglected to turn the phone off backstage during one of the performances. Ed Hermann himself told me this story. The director, months earlier, had had the brilliant idea of casting both "senior" senators and "junior" senators in the assassination scene (when the senate rises up and brutally stabs to death poor Caeser). So he had gone to the Equity Lounge in NYC (I've been there many times) and simply shouted out, "Anyone in here over 60 wanna be in a play?" Now back in those days, at any given time, one could find a dozen or so old Borscht Belt actors, probably hadn't worked in years, hanging around, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, gossiping. They all leapt at the opportunity. Now, remember, these were guys that still remembered Vaudeville. So here they are, all dressed in togas, doing the very slow and menacing scene in which Caesar is riddled with knives. As they back away from the body after stabbing him repeatedly, fake blood everywhere, silence on the stage as they begin to realize what they've just done, the phone starts ringing very loudly backstage. There is a beat as they all process this. Finally one of the old guys, in a loud stage whisper, with perfect timing, in a Bronx accent, says, "What if it's for Caesar?"
I directed myself some years back in an odd, little play called Redwood Curtain, up in Rochester, NY. I was directing and acting in the piece. As usual, as opening night loomed closer, I was still dragging the script around with me. I was petrified of putting it down. One of the actors in the show came to me at one point and said, "You know, you walk around here telling everyone what to do, how to proceed, marking your lines, giving notes, and every so often you put the script down and act and it scares the living shit out of all of us." A backhanded compliment, to be sure.
So today is all about lines. Saying them, walking around, saying them again.
In the play, there is a moment when Harry (the role I'm playing) has to fall to his hands and knees because of the overwhelming emotion of the moment. It is a very dramatic beat. So, I'm an old guy now, somedays older than others, and I'm not fluid and comfortable about falling on stage (after all, at my age I could break a hip and have to push that little button on my wrist band and say, "I've fallen and I can't get up"). So there I am in my backyard practicing falling down. My dog Zooey was out with me that day. She was terribly disconcerted by all this. I'd say my line and then fall to the ground, over and over. Fortunately, we have an enclosed backyard, so no one can see in. I can only imagine what the neighbors might have thought.
I remember, years ago in NY, I had a buddy in to visit me for a few days. He was not an actor, not in the theatre, in fact he was an architect. I had an audition that I simply had to go to. So he went along with me. As we walked in, hundreds of actors were sitting around, staring straight ahead, and seemingly talking to themselves. To me, of course, I didn't think anything of it. They were simply saying their lines. But afterwards, my buddy said to me, "I felt like I was in an asylum."
I have a hundred weird audition stories, like any actor, and someday I'll recount a few. It is an odd time for the actor, full of tension and ego and insecurity. Of course, strange things happen.
But today...today I memorize. And memorize. And memorize. It just has to be done. No getting around it. Repetition is the soul of art.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
From The East to the West
An excerpt: FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST. February 16,17, 18, 2010,
NoHo Arts Center,
11136 Magnolia,
North Hollywood, CA.
Written and Directed by Clifford Morts
Featuring Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Robert Alex Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Executive Producer Teal Sherer
Producer NoHo Arts Center
Assistant Director Mary Evans
HARRY (to his youngest son, Cory, on the death of his mother):
"Well . . . Cory . . . this is the first and last time I’m gonna say this. I swear that. You’re her son. You deserve to know. (Beat.) We was covin’ out. Back up in six-mile cove. That spot where we always go. Peaceful. Quiet. No boats to speak of, really. No wake, no waves. Momma was a-sittin’ out back. On the back deck of the houseboat. She was sippin’ a salty dog. She’d taken to those lately. Gin, grapefruit juice, salt on the rim. I was at the wheel lettin’ the anchor down. Just holdin’ the button lettin’ the electric anchor down. We’d only just stopped the engines. Just as peaceful. I heard . . . I heard, now that I think of it, a boat, an engine, a buzz, like a far off fly or something, off in the distance. It was pitch black. Couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Not close, I thought. She called up, "Harry, there’s a ski boat a-followin’ us." Pitch black. I said, "A what? Where is it?" It was so dark I was feelin’ around tryin' to find the guard rail. And then, good God almighty, that son of a bitch must’ve run right square into the back of the boat. I’d stepped around the wheel and was standin’ next to the rail lookin’ in the wrong direction. That son of a bitch hit us and I just went to flyin’. Knocked me way the hell out into the middle of the goddamned lake. I came up and looked and saw that damned boat parked right up on top of the goddamned houseboat. Right up on the top. The boat was sinkin’ then. Ass end first. Just sinkin’, quick as shit. I started in to swimmin’ back as fast as I could, and I got to within maybe ten, fifteen feet of the boat, half of it was underwater by then, and I run right smack dab into your momma. She was gone, I know’d it right away. Her body . . . her head was . . . she was in bad shape, Cory. And I . . . held onto her . . . she flipped up on me then, her body sort of corked up, wrong end up, and her . . . shoes came off. I grabbed ‘em. Both of ‘em ‘fore they could get away, float away, lose ‘em in the water, slide away, sink, sink. And I held your momma up by the hair, by her bloody, bloody red hair, and her shoes, her shoes, up with the other hand. Kickin’ my feet like crazy to stay afloat. Up over my head. I wanted to . . . it seemed important to . . . keep ‘em dry. I don’t know what the Sam-hell I was thinkin’. She just, she just liked those shoes so damn much, I didn’t want them to get ruint. I honestly don’t know how long it was. Long enough to have a long conversation with her. I talked a blue streak. The boat was sunk. Gone. Them two fellas in the other boat was both wearin’ life jackets and I could see ‘em floatin’ a little ways off. They was both knocked out, I guess. They was both quiet. So I just held your momma up and her shoes and kicked my feet till I started thinkin’ I would just sink right along with her. Talkin’ to her. Talkin’ ‘bout personal things, you know. Stuff only me and your momma cared about. Stuff only me and her would know. And then a-finally. I could hear a boat full-out. Full throttle. Off in the yonder. Coast Guard, I knew. I knew it would be just few seconds then afore I was okay. And I give your momma a kiss on her bloody face and her . . . bloody hair and . . . and . . . told her . . . I’d see her in a little while. Save a place at the table for me. (Cory whimpers and breaks someplace very deep.) I made sure she was decent, covered up. And they pulled us out. Took your momma away from me. Covered her up. Put a blanket around me. Tried to take her shoes from me. Tried to take those shoes from me. Tried to . . . they couldn’t get my fingers to loosen off-a them shoes. Had to pry ‘em. (Pause.) I never wanted a drink so bad in all my natural life. But I held onto them shoes like they was the goddamn crown of thorns or some goddamn thing. (Beat.) I got ‘em upstairs."
See you tomorrow.
NoHo Arts Center,
11136 Magnolia,
North Hollywood, CA.
Written and Directed by Clifford Morts
Featuring Chad Coe, Nickella Moschetti, J.R. Mangels, Robert Alex Holmes and Malcolm Devine.
Executive Producer Teal Sherer
Producer NoHo Arts Center
Assistant Director Mary Evans
HARRY (to his youngest son, Cory, on the death of his mother):
"Well . . . Cory . . . this is the first and last time I’m gonna say this. I swear that. You’re her son. You deserve to know. (Beat.) We was covin’ out. Back up in six-mile cove. That spot where we always go. Peaceful. Quiet. No boats to speak of, really. No wake, no waves. Momma was a-sittin’ out back. On the back deck of the houseboat. She was sippin’ a salty dog. She’d taken to those lately. Gin, grapefruit juice, salt on the rim. I was at the wheel lettin’ the anchor down. Just holdin’ the button lettin’ the electric anchor down. We’d only just stopped the engines. Just as peaceful. I heard . . . I heard, now that I think of it, a boat, an engine, a buzz, like a far off fly or something, off in the distance. It was pitch black. Couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Not close, I thought. She called up, "Harry, there’s a ski boat a-followin’ us." Pitch black. I said, "A what? Where is it?" It was so dark I was feelin’ around tryin' to find the guard rail. And then, good God almighty, that son of a bitch must’ve run right square into the back of the boat. I’d stepped around the wheel and was standin’ next to the rail lookin’ in the wrong direction. That son of a bitch hit us and I just went to flyin’. Knocked me way the hell out into the middle of the goddamned lake. I came up and looked and saw that damned boat parked right up on top of the goddamned houseboat. Right up on the top. The boat was sinkin’ then. Ass end first. Just sinkin’, quick as shit. I started in to swimmin’ back as fast as I could, and I got to within maybe ten, fifteen feet of the boat, half of it was underwater by then, and I run right smack dab into your momma. She was gone, I know’d it right away. Her body . . . her head was . . . she was in bad shape, Cory. And I . . . held onto her . . . she flipped up on me then, her body sort of corked up, wrong end up, and her . . . shoes came off. I grabbed ‘em. Both of ‘em ‘fore they could get away, float away, lose ‘em in the water, slide away, sink, sink. And I held your momma up by the hair, by her bloody, bloody red hair, and her shoes, her shoes, up with the other hand. Kickin’ my feet like crazy to stay afloat. Up over my head. I wanted to . . . it seemed important to . . . keep ‘em dry. I don’t know what the Sam-hell I was thinkin’. She just, she just liked those shoes so damn much, I didn’t want them to get ruint. I honestly don’t know how long it was. Long enough to have a long conversation with her. I talked a blue streak. The boat was sunk. Gone. Them two fellas in the other boat was both wearin’ life jackets and I could see ‘em floatin’ a little ways off. They was both knocked out, I guess. They was both quiet. So I just held your momma up and her shoes and kicked my feet till I started thinkin’ I would just sink right along with her. Talkin’ to her. Talkin’ ‘bout personal things, you know. Stuff only me and your momma cared about. Stuff only me and her would know. And then a-finally. I could hear a boat full-out. Full throttle. Off in the yonder. Coast Guard, I knew. I knew it would be just few seconds then afore I was okay. And I give your momma a kiss on her bloody face and her . . . bloody hair and . . . and . . . told her . . . I’d see her in a little while. Save a place at the table for me. (Cory whimpers and breaks someplace very deep.) I made sure she was decent, covered up. And they pulled us out. Took your momma away from me. Covered her up. Put a blanket around me. Tried to take her shoes from me. Tried to take those shoes from me. Tried to . . . they couldn’t get my fingers to loosen off-a them shoes. Had to pry ‘em. (Pause.) I never wanted a drink so bad in all my natural life. But I held onto them shoes like they was the goddamn crown of thorns or some goddamn thing. (Beat.) I got ‘em upstairs."
See you tomorrow.
Friday, February 5, 2010
On Giving Notes and Muhammad Ali...
Some time back I was watching an interview with Angelo Dundee, Muhammad Ali's trainer. Dundee was with Ali his entire career. He's a squat, little man with a glaring Brooklyn accent, exactly like a boxing trainer is supposed to look and sound. Right out of Central Casting.
So one of the questions asked was, "How did you train Muhammad Ali? With his ego and natural gifts, what could you tell him to make him better?" Dundee said early on he discovered he couldn't train Ali the way he trained other fighters. So what he did was this: if Ali were working in the ring and he wasn't doing something Dundee wanted him to do, say, throw the jab off the hook, Dundee would tell him in the corner between rounds, "I love the way you're throwing that jab off the hook. I've never seen another fighter do it so perfectly. It's a thing of beauty, watching you throw that jab immediately after the hook. I don't know how you do it, Muhammad." And then Ali, who was NOT throwing the jab off the hook, would get off the stool and go out and do exactly that. And more importantly, actually think it was his idea. Great insight from Dundee into working with this genius of a fighter.
It is a great thing for a director to know, too. Not that I employ it so shamelessly as Mr. Dundee. But sometimes its best to let the actor think he's come up with something on his own. As I've said before, I'm an actor first, a playwright second and a director third. I adore actors. They are the most fascinating, child-like, intelligent people I know; full of doubt and confidence all at once. And when they're at the top of their game, they are thoroughbreds. I have worked with so many directors that simply don't understand this.
So sometimes its necessary to use this backward sort of encouragement. "I love the way you're taking that tiny pause before the line in order to nail that laugh. Really nice moment for you." That's all that need be said. The next time through, you can be absolutely sure that tiny pause will be there.
This is not patronizing. Not in the least. I believe its making a point without the carnage of actually giving a note. Note-giving is a delicate thing. I used to work with this tin despot of a director down south that would give hours, HOURS, of notes...caustic, horrible notes that included personal attacks, long, weeping stories from his own childhood, a performance unto themselves, these note-giving sessions. I used to think, "Are we rehearsing a play or watching a one-man show?"
So, last night we threw off the sickliness of the night before and attacked the piece with renewed vigor. The play's lead actor, Chad Coe, came in rearing to go. He'd obviously done a lot of "processing" over the past 24 hours and was shockingly cleaner, sharper and more focused. His is the most difficult character in the play. I'm very careful with how I direct him because of that. Its just simply not a case of "you cross here and say the line." Its a tough-assed role to do. Glad he's doing it, in fact, and not me.
The other two principal actors in the play have their curious strengths and weaknesses, too. Nickella Moschetti, playing Eileen, is one of the most instinctive actors I've seen in many, many years. Frankly, I have no idea what her process is and I honestly don't care. I worked with another actress like her years ago named Katherine Kelly in Glass Menagerie. They seem to be incapable of being dishonest onstage. There is some governor in their internal engine that won't let them be fake. This can be daunting to another actor like myself who's just openly fake sometimes. Working with people like that makes me sigh and put my acting tricks away. Just tuck them all away in a bag somewhere. Cause if I'm not glaringly honest with her onstage, I come out looking very, very stilted and manipulative. Nickella makes me a better actor because of this. That's saying something.
J.R. Mangels is working on the other big role. I get J.R. I completely know where he's coming from. Like myself, he can sniff out a laugh line from about two miles away. And he knows, he KNOWS, he'll get the laugh, too. And like myself, sometimes he has to purposely NOT go for the laugh in order to serve the greater good, the play itself. He's a fun actor to watch.
So here we are, this little band of Charlie in the Boxes, at the exact halfway point of the rehearsal process. We open this thing on February 16, right around 8:00 at night. Eleven days, thirteen hours, or something like that. And I've gone from being a tad stressed and rather doubtful, to being full of optimism and rather sprightly.
Today we're adding the music and sound to the mix. Sort of like sprinkling some pepper into an already spicy chili. Should be fun.
See you tomorrow.
So one of the questions asked was, "How did you train Muhammad Ali? With his ego and natural gifts, what could you tell him to make him better?" Dundee said early on he discovered he couldn't train Ali the way he trained other fighters. So what he did was this: if Ali were working in the ring and he wasn't doing something Dundee wanted him to do, say, throw the jab off the hook, Dundee would tell him in the corner between rounds, "I love the way you're throwing that jab off the hook. I've never seen another fighter do it so perfectly. It's a thing of beauty, watching you throw that jab immediately after the hook. I don't know how you do it, Muhammad." And then Ali, who was NOT throwing the jab off the hook, would get off the stool and go out and do exactly that. And more importantly, actually think it was his idea. Great insight from Dundee into working with this genius of a fighter.
It is a great thing for a director to know, too. Not that I employ it so shamelessly as Mr. Dundee. But sometimes its best to let the actor think he's come up with something on his own. As I've said before, I'm an actor first, a playwright second and a director third. I adore actors. They are the most fascinating, child-like, intelligent people I know; full of doubt and confidence all at once. And when they're at the top of their game, they are thoroughbreds. I have worked with so many directors that simply don't understand this.
So sometimes its necessary to use this backward sort of encouragement. "I love the way you're taking that tiny pause before the line in order to nail that laugh. Really nice moment for you." That's all that need be said. The next time through, you can be absolutely sure that tiny pause will be there.
This is not patronizing. Not in the least. I believe its making a point without the carnage of actually giving a note. Note-giving is a delicate thing. I used to work with this tin despot of a director down south that would give hours, HOURS, of notes...caustic, horrible notes that included personal attacks, long, weeping stories from his own childhood, a performance unto themselves, these note-giving sessions. I used to think, "Are we rehearsing a play or watching a one-man show?"
So, last night we threw off the sickliness of the night before and attacked the piece with renewed vigor. The play's lead actor, Chad Coe, came in rearing to go. He'd obviously done a lot of "processing" over the past 24 hours and was shockingly cleaner, sharper and more focused. His is the most difficult character in the play. I'm very careful with how I direct him because of that. Its just simply not a case of "you cross here and say the line." Its a tough-assed role to do. Glad he's doing it, in fact, and not me.
The other two principal actors in the play have their curious strengths and weaknesses, too. Nickella Moschetti, playing Eileen, is one of the most instinctive actors I've seen in many, many years. Frankly, I have no idea what her process is and I honestly don't care. I worked with another actress like her years ago named Katherine Kelly in Glass Menagerie. They seem to be incapable of being dishonest onstage. There is some governor in their internal engine that won't let them be fake. This can be daunting to another actor like myself who's just openly fake sometimes. Working with people like that makes me sigh and put my acting tricks away. Just tuck them all away in a bag somewhere. Cause if I'm not glaringly honest with her onstage, I come out looking very, very stilted and manipulative. Nickella makes me a better actor because of this. That's saying something.
J.R. Mangels is working on the other big role. I get J.R. I completely know where he's coming from. Like myself, he can sniff out a laugh line from about two miles away. And he knows, he KNOWS, he'll get the laugh, too. And like myself, sometimes he has to purposely NOT go for the laugh in order to serve the greater good, the play itself. He's a fun actor to watch.
So here we are, this little band of Charlie in the Boxes, at the exact halfway point of the rehearsal process. We open this thing on February 16, right around 8:00 at night. Eleven days, thirteen hours, or something like that. And I've gone from being a tad stressed and rather doubtful, to being full of optimism and rather sprightly.
Today we're adding the music and sound to the mix. Sort of like sprinkling some pepper into an already spicy chili. Should be fun.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Dreaded First Run-thru...
We ran the play last night. It was everything I expected it to be at this point: sloppy, slow, tedious, ugly, dishonest and chaotic. Aside from that, not so bad.
I was particularly bad. I'm wearing several hats on this one: actor, writer, director, producer, sound designer and cheerleader. The only thing I did well last night was cheerleader. That may have had something to do with the short skirt and matching sweater with the embroidered "E/W" on it that I chose to wear. I wanted to just wear jeans but Angie said the cheerleading outfit brought out my eyes.
Years ago I saw the great George C. Scott onstage with John Cullum (also a fine actor) in a terrible play called Boys of Autumn. It was about Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer grown up. Huck (Scott) was an old hermit and Tom (Cullum) was on the run as a child molester. Talk about beating your sacred cow. Anyway, the play was pretty bad; talky, uneventful, full of rambling monologues. But, hey, George C. Scott. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Scott barely moved a muscle during the performance. Stood like an old oak in the middle of the stage while Cullum walked around him most of the night. His performance, even in this dreck, was mesmerizing. And that growling, tender, scary voice of his.
That's my role model for Harry (the character I'm playing).
The problem is that he's George C. Scott and, well, I'm not.
We haven't even begun to plug in all the technical stuff - lighting, sound, props, etc. So that was bothering me. Also, I'm beginning to second guess myself. This doesn't come as a surprise. It happens in every play. But the thing to do, and this comes from a butt-load of stage time, is to remember that there is a reason the first choice was settled on to begin with. Trust that choice. I'm trying to.
My buddy, John Bader, watched it last night. And for a few minutes we discussed the play at intermission. Amidst all the gobbledygook (that's what I heard, anyway, cause my mind was a million miles away) I heard him say, "What are their objectives?" That stopped me. Wow. It suddenly occurred to me I had to go back to Acting 101 again. Indeed. What ARE our objectives?
It is the little things I miss, as often as not. It is sort of like attempting the triple gainer before you've learned the cannonball. As a director I have skipped over a few things, not because I didn't know they were there, but because I just assumed everyone knew about them. And what is it they say about "assume?" Heavens.
So Johnny is right on this one. Wrong on some other things, I think. But dead on with this comment. It is the lifeblood of the actor's work...what do you want? That's the building block for everything...what do you want? What do you want? It informs everything, every choice, every reading, every nuance and shading, every movement. What do you want?
I also learned last night that I don't have the stage stamina that I once had. In a role this large and with this much emotion involved, I pooped out. I got tired at round five or six. I didn't have the whole fight in me. This will come back, I'm sure. But it caught me off-guard last night.
As always, I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night because I was thinking of a thousand things that needed fixing. We still have 12 days left to put it all together. But the rubber is meeting the road now, the idealism of the rehearsal process has come to an end. We have reached the "put up or shut up" moment.
Fortunate for me I have some really fine actors around to make me look good. To make the play look good. To rescue this dismal business. I'm only joking, of course. But a part of me is really wary right now. Can this be done? Will anyone be the least bit interested in all this yammering? Can we fascinate? Are we on the right path? Does anyone even care?
Oy.
See you tomorrow.
I was particularly bad. I'm wearing several hats on this one: actor, writer, director, producer, sound designer and cheerleader. The only thing I did well last night was cheerleader. That may have had something to do with the short skirt and matching sweater with the embroidered "E/W" on it that I chose to wear. I wanted to just wear jeans but Angie said the cheerleading outfit brought out my eyes.
Years ago I saw the great George C. Scott onstage with John Cullum (also a fine actor) in a terrible play called Boys of Autumn. It was about Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer grown up. Huck (Scott) was an old hermit and Tom (Cullum) was on the run as a child molester. Talk about beating your sacred cow. Anyway, the play was pretty bad; talky, uneventful, full of rambling monologues. But, hey, George C. Scott. Wouldn't have missed it for the world. Scott barely moved a muscle during the performance. Stood like an old oak in the middle of the stage while Cullum walked around him most of the night. His performance, even in this dreck, was mesmerizing. And that growling, tender, scary voice of his.
That's my role model for Harry (the character I'm playing).
The problem is that he's George C. Scott and, well, I'm not.
We haven't even begun to plug in all the technical stuff - lighting, sound, props, etc. So that was bothering me. Also, I'm beginning to second guess myself. This doesn't come as a surprise. It happens in every play. But the thing to do, and this comes from a butt-load of stage time, is to remember that there is a reason the first choice was settled on to begin with. Trust that choice. I'm trying to.
My buddy, John Bader, watched it last night. And for a few minutes we discussed the play at intermission. Amidst all the gobbledygook (that's what I heard, anyway, cause my mind was a million miles away) I heard him say, "What are their objectives?" That stopped me. Wow. It suddenly occurred to me I had to go back to Acting 101 again. Indeed. What ARE our objectives?
It is the little things I miss, as often as not. It is sort of like attempting the triple gainer before you've learned the cannonball. As a director I have skipped over a few things, not because I didn't know they were there, but because I just assumed everyone knew about them. And what is it they say about "assume?" Heavens.
So Johnny is right on this one. Wrong on some other things, I think. But dead on with this comment. It is the lifeblood of the actor's work...what do you want? That's the building block for everything...what do you want? What do you want? It informs everything, every choice, every reading, every nuance and shading, every movement. What do you want?
I also learned last night that I don't have the stage stamina that I once had. In a role this large and with this much emotion involved, I pooped out. I got tired at round five or six. I didn't have the whole fight in me. This will come back, I'm sure. But it caught me off-guard last night.
As always, I had a lot of trouble sleeping last night because I was thinking of a thousand things that needed fixing. We still have 12 days left to put it all together. But the rubber is meeting the road now, the idealism of the rehearsal process has come to an end. We have reached the "put up or shut up" moment.
Fortunate for me I have some really fine actors around to make me look good. To make the play look good. To rescue this dismal business. I'm only joking, of course. But a part of me is really wary right now. Can this be done? Will anyone be the least bit interested in all this yammering? Can we fascinate? Are we on the right path? Does anyone even care?
Oy.
See you tomorrow.
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