Sometime in the next few weeks we're putting up a play of mine that I wrote a long time ago called Bachelor's Graveyard. Now, this place actually exists. It's a graveyard outside the small town of Bachelor, Missouri, a few miles from my hometown of Fulton, Missouri. It's nearly impossible to find. One has to drive on some pretty obscure country roads to get to it. And once, there, one has to park on the side of an old gravel road and climb up through brambles and countryside to reach this little patch of land with very, very old tombstones scattered about. Most from the nineteenth century. Back when I was in high school it was a closely guarded secret as to exactly where it was. Many tried to find it, many failed. It was passed down through word of mouth from one "cool" group of seniors to the next chosen group. I was, I'm proud to announce, in the "cool" group that was given the location.
So our group of friends, Guy Cooke, Steve Steinrauf, Dave Gibson, Ross Olsby, Vince Humphries, Jay Karr, Randy Fuller, Jimmy Pardue, Wayne Waldon, Jim Barnes, Dave Brady...we would head out there on occasion, highly secret, need-to-know only, and take out a ridiculous amount of beer and spread blankets and sleeping bags in and around the tombstones and drink and talk deep into the night, slightly awed and amused to be sleeping on graves.
Bachelor's Graveyard is a fictional account of our last night there and a condensed version of all the things we talked about in that last magic summer in Missouri before we all went our separate ways, convinced we would be friends forever.
I honestly think I had more fun writing Bachelor's Graveyard than any other play I've written. I had fun putting myself back into that eighteen year old mindset. The play is filled with gratuitous cursing and stories about hoped-for sex. It is purposely written with a delightful yet naive and sophomoric philosophy. Ah, I thought I knew so much at eighteen. I really thought I had most of the world's problems figured out. We, all of us, loved to wax poetic on subjects ranging from Hemingway to the new testament to sports and politics. We were, in the true Latin sense, Wise Fools. We honestly believed we knew what we were talking about. That's the whole point of Bachelor's Graveyard, to sit in and listen to those conversations, to be a voyeur on one of those charming and senseless nights, to be grown up and hear something forbidden to adult ears.
The play will be presented as a simple reading. Some blocking, perhaps. Simple lighting. Maybe a bit of sound design.
I've given the play to a few people over the years and asked them what they think. The general response has always been, "This is an incredibly funny play. No one will ever do it."
I handed it to the AD of NoHo, James Mellon, awhile back and one morning he called me and I couldn't make out what he was saying over the phone. He was laughing too hard. He said, "This is the funniest opening scene to a play I have ever read." He was laying in bed guffawing. He said his housekeeper had just come in to check on him because he was yelping with laughter.
He got it.
I was re-reading it myself yesterday. There is a moment in it that is so honest, so embarrassing, that I found myself tearing up a bit. Generally, when that happens, my first impulse is to cut it. My second impulse, and the right one, is to leave it and know I've done something good.
We've got a crackerjack cast, five young actors perfect for it. And a great director with a list of credits longer than my arm, Karesa McElheny.
I remember reading in Elia Kazan's biography that Tennessee Williams used to sit in the back during rehearsals for Glass Menagerie, I think it was, and wail with laughter at this delicate, sad play, really throwing the actors off. He was clearly remembering things as they happened and not what was onstage. I suspect that's how I'll be at rehearsal, too.
One thing about when I was writing the piece a few years back. I used to say to people, "I wish I were eighteen again and know what I know now." Well, after writing this play now I say, "I wish I were eighteen again. And do it all again and see how the dice fall this time."
See you tomorrow.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Excerpt from Bachelor's Graveyard, a new play by Clifford Morts
Bachelor's Graveyard, a new full-length play in one act, will be presented as a staged reading in the
very near future at NoHo Center for the arts under the direction of Karesa McElheny. Here's a teaser.
Chip (Overlapped.)
And so he comes for him. Stomps, step by step, toward Ali leaning on the ropes. Big, heavy, awkward
steps. Like an executioner wearily trudging up the steps of the gallows. Ali peaking through his gloves,
staring at George like a rabbit stares at a hawk, like a mouse stares at a cat, like old, homeless, black men
stare at cops. And George goes to work. This is his house, now. He’s home. (Mimes the body punches
again.) And Ali, twitching like the last kid on a dodge ball team, swaying and twisting on the ropes,
taking those cannon shots on his arms, his elbows, his chest, his shoulders, everywhere but his head.
Twisting like a corpse hanging from a tree branch in the wind. It’s all over. An entire STADIUM of
people gone quiet, an entire WORLD of underdogs watching the last car wreck they ever wanna see,
can’t turn away, can’t stop the pictures, can’t make sense of it all anymore. (Beat. Quietly:) Ding, ding.
(Beat.) Ali walks slowly to his corner. Refuses to sit on his stool. Head down. Looks up. Worry on his
face. Sweat dripping off his chin. Eyes focused on George less than twenty feet away. And . . .
and . . . smiles. And in that heartbeat, that eye blink, that moment of clarity, he knows. He KNOWS. And
for Ali, it’s the best-kept secret on the earth. He’s the ONLY one that knows. He’s smiling ‘cause he
knows, deep in his heart, deep in his soul, so deep in himself only a handful of men have ever been there,
he knows . . . it’s over. He knows the long fight is his. And like a book that repeats itself, paragraph after
paragraph, chapter after chapter, so predictable, so mind-numbing, so sad, and so the fight plays itself out.
Ding, ding. Ali leans on the ropes. Foreman follows. Ali protects his head. Foreman swings. And swings.
And swings. And . . . Jesus Christ, swings. And Ali talks to Foreman, explaining things, teaches school,
lessons of life, talks, pours out his philosophy, makes Foreman understand, recites, demands, scolds,
pontificates, talks to him, puts his mouth right up to his ear, drags him into clinch after clinch and lectures
quietly into his ear. He says, "My name is Muhammad Ali. You’ve been hearin’ about me since you
was a scared, little boy. My name is Muhammad Ali. I been walkin’ in your dreams for years. My name
is Muhammad Ali and, listen good, boy, I want it all BACK." Round five, round six, round seven. Ding,
ding. Big George can’t even walk to his corner without staggering. He’s so tired of hittin’ on Ali. No man
can hit something all night long. Doesn’t matter what it is: a pillow, a tree, a wall. Why won’t he go down?
Why won’t he fall? Why won’t he lay down, goddamnit. Who IS this man? And Big George is praying,
oh, yes he is. Not big prayers, not even to win anymore. George is praying small now, just get me through
another round. Oh, God, I’m so tired. (Beat.) Ding, ding. George pushes himself off his stool. God, I just
want this to be over. I’m just so . . . so tired. Ali. To the ropes. Waves George in. C’mon. This is not over
yet. You gotta finish me. If you want me to lay down, you gotta kill me, George. Can you do that? You
got that in you? Can you kill me? Don’t you know that might isn’t always right? Don’t you KNOW that?
(Beat.) On the ropes. Always on the ropes. He looks like a man leaning out his bedroom window to see
if there’s a cat on the roof. Big George stumbles toward him. This is all cosmically written. God’s puppets.
There’s nothing else for him to do. Just swing. Put his head down and swing. Just swing. (Beat.) And
then. Like a flash of heat lighting in the middle of the blackest night in the middle of the loneliest field in
the middle of nowhere. Ali starts punching. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight perfect shots
to the face. Like a sniper, patient and blindingly fast, firing round after round of ammo. Each punch whips
George’s head from left to right, from right to left, from east to west. Each punch hard enough to knock
out most men alive. Each punch so fast George can only feel them, not see them. And he starts a slow
spin, downward, arms twirling, like a man on a tightrope. He can’t feel his legs. All he can see are lights
in his eyes. He’s in the queer room now. Where alligators play trombones and bats sing choruses of
hallelujia and time slows to nothing. Stay down, George. Stay down. It never really belonged to you
anyway. (Beat. Quiet. Even Dave is enthralled now.) Nine, ten. And Ali raises his hands high above
him. Fists clenched. And walks leisurely around his fallen foe, the fallen despot, all the fallen ghosts,
a fallen decade. (Whispers.) Ding . . . ding. And it was finished. (Pause.) And nobody knew it, not
then, not right then anyway, that it was ALL finished, everything: the sixties, Vietnam, Watergate,
Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Nixon, Kent State, The Beatles, Wounded Knee,
Bobby Seales, Civil Rights, Truth, Justice and the American way. It was finished. The end of a fixed
race. And for a few moments, a few days maybe, a few happy, happy moments, everything was as
it should be. The crown had been returned to the king and we were a few and a happy band of brothers,
the Holy Grail was close and God’s Grace was upon us. (Beat.) October 30, 1974. Three in the
morning. (Beat.) And yes, sometimes, sometimes things worked out okay.
See you tomorrow.
very near future at NoHo Center for the arts under the direction of Karesa McElheny. Here's a teaser.
Chip (Overlapped.)
And so he comes for him. Stomps, step by step, toward Ali leaning on the ropes. Big, heavy, awkward
steps. Like an executioner wearily trudging up the steps of the gallows. Ali peaking through his gloves,
staring at George like a rabbit stares at a hawk, like a mouse stares at a cat, like old, homeless, black men
stare at cops. And George goes to work. This is his house, now. He’s home. (Mimes the body punches
again.) And Ali, twitching like the last kid on a dodge ball team, swaying and twisting on the ropes,
taking those cannon shots on his arms, his elbows, his chest, his shoulders, everywhere but his head.
Twisting like a corpse hanging from a tree branch in the wind. It’s all over. An entire STADIUM of
people gone quiet, an entire WORLD of underdogs watching the last car wreck they ever wanna see,
can’t turn away, can’t stop the pictures, can’t make sense of it all anymore. (Beat. Quietly:) Ding, ding.
(Beat.) Ali walks slowly to his corner. Refuses to sit on his stool. Head down. Looks up. Worry on his
face. Sweat dripping off his chin. Eyes focused on George less than twenty feet away. And . . .
and . . . smiles. And in that heartbeat, that eye blink, that moment of clarity, he knows. He KNOWS. And
for Ali, it’s the best-kept secret on the earth. He’s the ONLY one that knows. He’s smiling ‘cause he
knows, deep in his heart, deep in his soul, so deep in himself only a handful of men have ever been there,
he knows . . . it’s over. He knows the long fight is his. And like a book that repeats itself, paragraph after
paragraph, chapter after chapter, so predictable, so mind-numbing, so sad, and so the fight plays itself out.
Ding, ding. Ali leans on the ropes. Foreman follows. Ali protects his head. Foreman swings. And swings.
And swings. And . . . Jesus Christ, swings. And Ali talks to Foreman, explaining things, teaches school,
lessons of life, talks, pours out his philosophy, makes Foreman understand, recites, demands, scolds,
pontificates, talks to him, puts his mouth right up to his ear, drags him into clinch after clinch and lectures
quietly into his ear. He says, "My name is Muhammad Ali. You’ve been hearin’ about me since you
was a scared, little boy. My name is Muhammad Ali. I been walkin’ in your dreams for years. My name
is Muhammad Ali and, listen good, boy, I want it all BACK." Round five, round six, round seven. Ding,
ding. Big George can’t even walk to his corner without staggering. He’s so tired of hittin’ on Ali. No man
can hit something all night long. Doesn’t matter what it is: a pillow, a tree, a wall. Why won’t he go down?
Why won’t he fall? Why won’t he lay down, goddamnit. Who IS this man? And Big George is praying,
oh, yes he is. Not big prayers, not even to win anymore. George is praying small now, just get me through
another round. Oh, God, I’m so tired. (Beat.) Ding, ding. George pushes himself off his stool. God, I just
want this to be over. I’m just so . . . so tired. Ali. To the ropes. Waves George in. C’mon. This is not over
yet. You gotta finish me. If you want me to lay down, you gotta kill me, George. Can you do that? You
got that in you? Can you kill me? Don’t you know that might isn’t always right? Don’t you KNOW that?
(Beat.) On the ropes. Always on the ropes. He looks like a man leaning out his bedroom window to see
if there’s a cat on the roof. Big George stumbles toward him. This is all cosmically written. God’s puppets.
There’s nothing else for him to do. Just swing. Put his head down and swing. Just swing. (Beat.) And
then. Like a flash of heat lighting in the middle of the blackest night in the middle of the loneliest field in
the middle of nowhere. Ali starts punching. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight perfect shots
to the face. Like a sniper, patient and blindingly fast, firing round after round of ammo. Each punch whips
George’s head from left to right, from right to left, from east to west. Each punch hard enough to knock
out most men alive. Each punch so fast George can only feel them, not see them. And he starts a slow
spin, downward, arms twirling, like a man on a tightrope. He can’t feel his legs. All he can see are lights
in his eyes. He’s in the queer room now. Where alligators play trombones and bats sing choruses of
hallelujia and time slows to nothing. Stay down, George. Stay down. It never really belonged to you
anyway. (Beat. Quiet. Even Dave is enthralled now.) Nine, ten. And Ali raises his hands high above
him. Fists clenched. And walks leisurely around his fallen foe, the fallen despot, all the fallen ghosts,
a fallen decade. (Whispers.) Ding . . . ding. And it was finished. (Pause.) And nobody knew it, not
then, not right then anyway, that it was ALL finished, everything: the sixties, Vietnam, Watergate,
Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Nixon, Kent State, The Beatles, Wounded Knee,
Bobby Seales, Civil Rights, Truth, Justice and the American way. It was finished. The end of a fixed
race. And for a few moments, a few days maybe, a few happy, happy moments, everything was as
it should be. The crown had been returned to the king and we were a few and a happy band of brothers,
the Holy Grail was close and God’s Grace was upon us. (Beat.) October 30, 1974. Three in the
morning. (Beat.) And yes, sometimes, sometimes things worked out okay.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
On Robert Klein and the Craft of Comedy...
I went to see Robert Klein last night at The Ice House in Pasadena with Angie and my friends, John Bader and Jim Petersmith. He was brilliant. Sixty eight years old and at the very top of his game. An absolutely seamless performance. I found myself at one point pounding the table with my fist and laughing. This is saying something, too, folks, cause I'm a tough audience when it comes to comedy.
A couple of things about Klein. First, I didn't see one single segue in the entire set. I never once noticed him moving to a different subject. You know what I mean, "Speaking of airline food..." Nothing like that. We were practically on the stage with him. Johnny B. had gotten us VIP seats and Klein was literally on top of us all night. The other thing about Mr. Klein, of course, was his razor sharp timing. Fifty years of doing stand-up will do that, I suppose, but still I wasn't quite prepared for it. This guy can take a comic pause better than anyone in the business. Jack Benny was known for his laugh filled pauses. He had nothing on Klein last night.
All of this got me to thinking about comedy in general. Playing it, rehearsing it, understanding it.
I am always surprised when other actors don't "hear" the comic beats while onstage. I have never been very good at trying to describe it. Once, years back, I was doing a silly farce called Run for your Wife down in Florida. During the run another actor in the play came to me and asked how I was nailing all the laughs. Not boasting here, just recounting. In any event, I found that I couldn't make him understand it. The closest I could come was likening comedy onstage to playing a trap set. Drums. I have always been able to hear it. And after lots of thinking about it, that's still the best way I can describe it. One has to hear that in one's head.
Sometimes it's easy. I was doing Guys and Dolls, playing Nathan, in Pennsylvania some time back. Another actor came to me and said, "Why can't I get this laugh on such and such line? I know it's there." I said, "Say the line louder." He tried it that night and had to hold about ten seconds for the huge laugh that followed. Sometimes it's easy.
When I was teaching in Chicago, I always sort of groaned inwardly when a couple of actors would bring a comic scene into class. Because I knew, short of actually getting up there with them and READING the lines myself, I would be very hard-pressed to make them understand how to get the laughs. Plus even when I DID that, it was MY timing that was getting the laugh, not theirs, so often it didn't work anyway.
An old adage: there are people that say funny things and then there are people that say things funny. Onstage, of course, always best to go with the latter.
Case in point: Gene Wilder. It's almost impossible to imitate him. He could get laughs on lines that no other actor alive could. He just said things FUNNY.
Another truism: Just because someone is funny offstage does not mean they will be funny onstage. I've seen this happen again and again throughout my career. "Oh, Bob is SO funny in real life, he'd be PERFECT for this funny role onstage." Hardly ever works. In fact, if I'm at an opening read-thru of a play and one particular actor is getting huge laughs from the company, I can almost bet my entire salary that that actor will not get very many laughs on opening night.
I was doing a show called The Show-Off with Elaine Stritch in New York once and she said something really great about comedy. She said, "I don't care if it's Neil Simon or Billy Shakespeare (she could call him that because I think they dated), it ALL comes down to BA-dump...BUMP." She's right. It always does...UNLESS one has the innate ability to say things funny. Then all the rules go out the window.
I did another show with Nathan Lane in New York. We have since become pretty good friends. Nathan was once telling me that his instinctive comic timing was sometimes a curse. No matter WHAT he said, people laughed. He said he used to get angry about that but now just takes it in stride. He's right. I used to be immobile with laughter hanging out with him. I can't adequately describe it...he's just funny.
I have thought about it many times, this comic timing thing. And reluctantly I have to say, it probably can't be taught. One is either funny onstage or not. Sometimes, an actor has a writer like Neil Simon under him. Big laughs all night long. The actor probably starts to think he's pretty funny. And indeed he may be. But more often than not, it is Simon getting the laughs, not the actor. It's pretty hard to fuck up Simon.
Another interesting thing is this: Comic actors usually make pretty good dramatic actors but dramatic actors RARELY make good comic actors. And of course this brings to mind the old Edmond Keane quote on his deathbed: Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.
Twain said humor is based on exposition and comedy is based on surprise. I think that's true. And it's almost impossible to teach surprise.
If you get a chance to see the incomparable Robert Klein live sometime, do yourself a huge favor and do so. He's a very funny, smart, perceptive man. And the man can wail on that harmonica.
See you tomorrow.
A couple of things about Klein. First, I didn't see one single segue in the entire set. I never once noticed him moving to a different subject. You know what I mean, "Speaking of airline food..." Nothing like that. We were practically on the stage with him. Johnny B. had gotten us VIP seats and Klein was literally on top of us all night. The other thing about Mr. Klein, of course, was his razor sharp timing. Fifty years of doing stand-up will do that, I suppose, but still I wasn't quite prepared for it. This guy can take a comic pause better than anyone in the business. Jack Benny was known for his laugh filled pauses. He had nothing on Klein last night.
All of this got me to thinking about comedy in general. Playing it, rehearsing it, understanding it.
I am always surprised when other actors don't "hear" the comic beats while onstage. I have never been very good at trying to describe it. Once, years back, I was doing a silly farce called Run for your Wife down in Florida. During the run another actor in the play came to me and asked how I was nailing all the laughs. Not boasting here, just recounting. In any event, I found that I couldn't make him understand it. The closest I could come was likening comedy onstage to playing a trap set. Drums. I have always been able to hear it. And after lots of thinking about it, that's still the best way I can describe it. One has to hear that in one's head.
Sometimes it's easy. I was doing Guys and Dolls, playing Nathan, in Pennsylvania some time back. Another actor came to me and said, "Why can't I get this laugh on such and such line? I know it's there." I said, "Say the line louder." He tried it that night and had to hold about ten seconds for the huge laugh that followed. Sometimes it's easy.
When I was teaching in Chicago, I always sort of groaned inwardly when a couple of actors would bring a comic scene into class. Because I knew, short of actually getting up there with them and READING the lines myself, I would be very hard-pressed to make them understand how to get the laughs. Plus even when I DID that, it was MY timing that was getting the laugh, not theirs, so often it didn't work anyway.
An old adage: there are people that say funny things and then there are people that say things funny. Onstage, of course, always best to go with the latter.
Case in point: Gene Wilder. It's almost impossible to imitate him. He could get laughs on lines that no other actor alive could. He just said things FUNNY.
Another truism: Just because someone is funny offstage does not mean they will be funny onstage. I've seen this happen again and again throughout my career. "Oh, Bob is SO funny in real life, he'd be PERFECT for this funny role onstage." Hardly ever works. In fact, if I'm at an opening read-thru of a play and one particular actor is getting huge laughs from the company, I can almost bet my entire salary that that actor will not get very many laughs on opening night.
I was doing a show called The Show-Off with Elaine Stritch in New York once and she said something really great about comedy. She said, "I don't care if it's Neil Simon or Billy Shakespeare (she could call him that because I think they dated), it ALL comes down to BA-dump...BUMP." She's right. It always does...UNLESS one has the innate ability to say things funny. Then all the rules go out the window.
I did another show with Nathan Lane in New York. We have since become pretty good friends. Nathan was once telling me that his instinctive comic timing was sometimes a curse. No matter WHAT he said, people laughed. He said he used to get angry about that but now just takes it in stride. He's right. I used to be immobile with laughter hanging out with him. I can't adequately describe it...he's just funny.
I have thought about it many times, this comic timing thing. And reluctantly I have to say, it probably can't be taught. One is either funny onstage or not. Sometimes, an actor has a writer like Neil Simon under him. Big laughs all night long. The actor probably starts to think he's pretty funny. And indeed he may be. But more often than not, it is Simon getting the laughs, not the actor. It's pretty hard to fuck up Simon.
Another interesting thing is this: Comic actors usually make pretty good dramatic actors but dramatic actors RARELY make good comic actors. And of course this brings to mind the old Edmond Keane quote on his deathbed: Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.
Twain said humor is based on exposition and comedy is based on surprise. I think that's true. And it's almost impossible to teach surprise.
If you get a chance to see the incomparable Robert Klein live sometime, do yourself a huge favor and do so. He's a very funny, smart, perceptive man. And the man can wail on that harmonica.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
On What the Director Actually Does...
Finally have an opening date for Praying Small. The West Coast Premier will be June 11, 2010. The play will run until July 18. I will be playing the lead role as we had planned. The original director, James Mellon, will not be able to do it because of some rather hefty scheduling conflicts. So...I've got to find a director. There are three in the company I'm drawn to, unfortunately one is on a world cruise, one is making a feature film and the last is in Denver.
The ideal candidate, and my first choice, is out of the business and teaching high school english classes in Colorado.
In other news, I'm putting up one of my red-headed step children, a quirky little play called Bachelor's Graveyard, for a reading in the very near future. Gentle Readers of this blog from my hometown of Fulton will readily recognize the title reference.
Also will be playing a role in a one-act for the next mainstage mounting of SANITY, a night of short plays at NoHo.
And for the month of April, I'll be teaching acting classes at the theatre...it is Shakespeare month and the entire company will be working on pieces written by The Bard.
All good things. I'm pleased. But back to this finding a director business.
What exactly is a director supposed to do? What are his duties, his job? It is sometimes a nebulous position. The layman doesn't really understand the role of the director. They don't understand that his vision, his concept, is the driving force behind any play, even more so, I dare say, than the playwright.
Some directors think their job is to block the play. Of course, that's balderdash. Blocking has about as much to do with directing as memorizing lines has to do with acting. It's such a tiny, almost casual, part of the job. Now, yes, if a director is doing The Passion Play on a stage the size of a football field, then yes, it's a pretty important part of the job. But generally speaking, no, it's just not that important.
I once attended a seminar with Mike Nichols, the legendary stage director. He said this, "If you cast the show exactly right, 95 percent of your job is done." Hm.
I recently asked a friend of mine, a very good actor, to think about possibly taking the reins to Praying Small. He gave me a really great, really candid response. He said, "You know, I'd love to work with you as an actor and playwright. I'd probably even have a little fun. But the truth is, I'm an actor. I just don't enjoy being a director that much." I really appreciated his honesty. Most actors leap at the opportunity to direct.
I also don't want to choose someone that doesn't act to direct this piece. A director that doesn't have an understanding of what it is actually like to BE ON STAGE, under fire, in combat itself, does not have my trust. I trust other actors, other stage warriors that have been out there, suffering the slings and arrows. I don't trust administrators who spend half their day behind a desk and another half of their day moving actors around onstage. A director must be filled to the brim with passion for the piece.
Having said that, I recognize that I am not an especially good director myself. I don't like the first two weeks, if that makes any sense. The readthru, the blocking, the finding the beats, the one-on-one actor/director relationship. As an actor, I just wanna skip all that and start working on the acting. I don't have the patience for all of that other stuff. I just naturally assume that other actors understand the play as I do and I always want to skip all the talking and yammering about the "meaning of the piece." I want to just get on with it.
I used to be intensely interested in the process. As I get older, it just bores me. I always have to stifle my desire to say, "Let's stop talking about it and just DO IT."
I'm meeting this morning with a potential director for the play. One of the things that came out of my long meeting yesterday with NoHo was directing approval. I'm really happy about that. Praying Small has had a pretty good professional life both in the midwest (Chicago) and on the East Coast. I have seen quite a few productions of it. Only one director, out of dozens, has "gotten it." I have reluctantly handed the play over to a gaggle of pedestrian directors. I don't want that to happen to this production, especially since I'm playing the lead role myself.
I've got a little time to think about all this and choose the right man or woman for the job.
But you know what? When all is said and done, these are GREAT problems to have.
See you tomorrow.
The ideal candidate, and my first choice, is out of the business and teaching high school english classes in Colorado.
In other news, I'm putting up one of my red-headed step children, a quirky little play called Bachelor's Graveyard, for a reading in the very near future. Gentle Readers of this blog from my hometown of Fulton will readily recognize the title reference.
Also will be playing a role in a one-act for the next mainstage mounting of SANITY, a night of short plays at NoHo.
And for the month of April, I'll be teaching acting classes at the theatre...it is Shakespeare month and the entire company will be working on pieces written by The Bard.
All good things. I'm pleased. But back to this finding a director business.
What exactly is a director supposed to do? What are his duties, his job? It is sometimes a nebulous position. The layman doesn't really understand the role of the director. They don't understand that his vision, his concept, is the driving force behind any play, even more so, I dare say, than the playwright.
Some directors think their job is to block the play. Of course, that's balderdash. Blocking has about as much to do with directing as memorizing lines has to do with acting. It's such a tiny, almost casual, part of the job. Now, yes, if a director is doing The Passion Play on a stage the size of a football field, then yes, it's a pretty important part of the job. But generally speaking, no, it's just not that important.
I once attended a seminar with Mike Nichols, the legendary stage director. He said this, "If you cast the show exactly right, 95 percent of your job is done." Hm.
I recently asked a friend of mine, a very good actor, to think about possibly taking the reins to Praying Small. He gave me a really great, really candid response. He said, "You know, I'd love to work with you as an actor and playwright. I'd probably even have a little fun. But the truth is, I'm an actor. I just don't enjoy being a director that much." I really appreciated his honesty. Most actors leap at the opportunity to direct.
I also don't want to choose someone that doesn't act to direct this piece. A director that doesn't have an understanding of what it is actually like to BE ON STAGE, under fire, in combat itself, does not have my trust. I trust other actors, other stage warriors that have been out there, suffering the slings and arrows. I don't trust administrators who spend half their day behind a desk and another half of their day moving actors around onstage. A director must be filled to the brim with passion for the piece.
Having said that, I recognize that I am not an especially good director myself. I don't like the first two weeks, if that makes any sense. The readthru, the blocking, the finding the beats, the one-on-one actor/director relationship. As an actor, I just wanna skip all that and start working on the acting. I don't have the patience for all of that other stuff. I just naturally assume that other actors understand the play as I do and I always want to skip all the talking and yammering about the "meaning of the piece." I want to just get on with it.
I used to be intensely interested in the process. As I get older, it just bores me. I always have to stifle my desire to say, "Let's stop talking about it and just DO IT."
I'm meeting this morning with a potential director for the play. One of the things that came out of my long meeting yesterday with NoHo was directing approval. I'm really happy about that. Praying Small has had a pretty good professional life both in the midwest (Chicago) and on the East Coast. I have seen quite a few productions of it. Only one director, out of dozens, has "gotten it." I have reluctantly handed the play over to a gaggle of pedestrian directors. I don't want that to happen to this production, especially since I'm playing the lead role myself.
I've got a little time to think about all this and choose the right man or woman for the job.
But you know what? When all is said and done, these are GREAT problems to have.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, March 8, 2010
On the Oscars and Chili...
Well, had a host of people over last night for The Oscars. Fun time. Had ballots at the door, everyone keeping track of their picks throughout the evening. My buddy, John Bader, won first prize with the most correct picks. Fortunate for him, he happened to be a big Hurt Locker fan. I cheated and went on the internet to see what the critics were picking. I was near the bottom of the pack in points at the end of the evening. Serves me right.
The presentation held few surprises for me. I'm so glad Jeff Bridges finally won. He has long been a favorite actor of mine. My favorite Bridges performance is one few people remember: he played The President of the United States in a movie called The Contender. Loved him in that. And of course there's always The Dude.
Even though Meryl Streep didn't win, I liked the fact that nearly every actor there gave her a tip of the hat.
I remember years ago I won an acting award. Chicago. When my name was announced I got onstage and got my award and said, "I refuse to accept this award because of the way the musical theatre community has treated the American Indian throughout the years." Some laughed, some didn't get it.
And the secret to my famous chili? Three kinds of meat: Ground beef, chorozo and smoked sausage. Three kinds of beans. Very thick. The spoon must stand by itself in the middle of the pot when it is finished.
Great time, great friends, great chili.
See you tomorrow.
The presentation held few surprises for me. I'm so glad Jeff Bridges finally won. He has long been a favorite actor of mine. My favorite Bridges performance is one few people remember: he played The President of the United States in a movie called The Contender. Loved him in that. And of course there's always The Dude.
Even though Meryl Streep didn't win, I liked the fact that nearly every actor there gave her a tip of the hat.
I remember years ago I won an acting award. Chicago. When my name was announced I got onstage and got my award and said, "I refuse to accept this award because of the way the musical theatre community has treated the American Indian throughout the years." Some laughed, some didn't get it.
And the secret to my famous chili? Three kinds of meat: Ground beef, chorozo and smoked sausage. Three kinds of beans. Very thick. The spoon must stand by itself in the middle of the pot when it is finished.
Great time, great friends, great chili.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
The Great Equalizer.
I'm not exactly sure when, but soon, Praying Small will go into rehearsal at NoHo Arts. I've covered all of this to some extent. There have been some casting setbacks, theatre availability, that sort of thing, nothing to be concerned about, really. James Mellon, an exceptionally talented director with a long and impressive resume, will be the captain of the piece. The play is a rough and tumble ride through the first year of sobriety of a charismatic and intelligent man crippled with the disease of addiction. Alcoholism is the disease of More. Always wanting more. More booze, more excitement, more laughs, more high, more life. It is the only fatal disease known to man that says to its victim - you don't have a disease. It respects no one and nothing, not education, not intelligence, not common sense, not affluence, not even genius. It is the great equalizer.
I have asked my dear friend, Kyle Puccia, quite possibly the single most talented musician I have ever had the privilege to know, to write the score for Praying Small. He has been diligently doing so. He has sent me three songs to be used; two covers and an original. They are breathtaking.
I have begun, as an artist, to sort of resent my own play, Praying Small. Because it is the one that everyone wants to produce. I have written reams upon reams of other work. I feel a bit like Jimmy Buffet. He once said that no matter what, no matter how many songs he does, no matter the brilliance of his other creations, everyone always wants to hear Margaritaville. Ha.
So I have been sitting here all morning listening to Mr. Puccia sing. I am aghast. He reminds me so much of another genius friend of mine, James Barbour. Last December, Jim did a Christmas Concert at the Colony Theatre. Angie and I attended and sat back and prepared to be lightly entertained by a few Let It Snow-type numbers. Well. Out comes tall, handsome Jimmy who immediately sets about rocking our world. I actually thought that theatre was TOO SMALL to handle his voice once he got cranked up. Kyle is like that. His talent is so enormous I forget, I FORGET, how good he is.
I wrote Praying Small in the basement of a recovery home in Chicago where I was working as drug and alcohol counselor. I would work all day hearing stories about the ravages of this disease, waiting until my clients had left my office, and then quietly lay my head on my desk and weep. Not very professional of me. As an actor and writer, I was simply too empathetic for the job. It destroyed me. I would be so emotionally drained at the end of some days I could barely walk. I had seen and heard the horrors of evil itself. If ever I doubted the existence of pure evil in the world, I don't now. It is addiction. Alcoholism is the physical embodiment of Satin himself.
Once, a few years ago, a director in Pennsylvania called me. His company was producing Praying Small. He had a press conference to attend the following day. He wanted to tell them something the playwright himself had said. He asked, "If you could summarize the play in one line FROM the play itself, what would it be?" I thought about that for awhile. I called him back and gave him a line from the play. Sam, the struggling alcoholic lead character in the play, says one drunken night to his helpless wife:
"I can't wait for you to see the man I'm going to be tomorrow."
See you tomorrow.
I have asked my dear friend, Kyle Puccia, quite possibly the single most talented musician I have ever had the privilege to know, to write the score for Praying Small. He has been diligently doing so. He has sent me three songs to be used; two covers and an original. They are breathtaking.
I have begun, as an artist, to sort of resent my own play, Praying Small. Because it is the one that everyone wants to produce. I have written reams upon reams of other work. I feel a bit like Jimmy Buffet. He once said that no matter what, no matter how many songs he does, no matter the brilliance of his other creations, everyone always wants to hear Margaritaville. Ha.
So I have been sitting here all morning listening to Mr. Puccia sing. I am aghast. He reminds me so much of another genius friend of mine, James Barbour. Last December, Jim did a Christmas Concert at the Colony Theatre. Angie and I attended and sat back and prepared to be lightly entertained by a few Let It Snow-type numbers. Well. Out comes tall, handsome Jimmy who immediately sets about rocking our world. I actually thought that theatre was TOO SMALL to handle his voice once he got cranked up. Kyle is like that. His talent is so enormous I forget, I FORGET, how good he is.
I wrote Praying Small in the basement of a recovery home in Chicago where I was working as drug and alcohol counselor. I would work all day hearing stories about the ravages of this disease, waiting until my clients had left my office, and then quietly lay my head on my desk and weep. Not very professional of me. As an actor and writer, I was simply too empathetic for the job. It destroyed me. I would be so emotionally drained at the end of some days I could barely walk. I had seen and heard the horrors of evil itself. If ever I doubted the existence of pure evil in the world, I don't now. It is addiction. Alcoholism is the physical embodiment of Satin himself.
Once, a few years ago, a director in Pennsylvania called me. His company was producing Praying Small. He had a press conference to attend the following day. He wanted to tell them something the playwright himself had said. He asked, "If you could summarize the play in one line FROM the play itself, what would it be?" I thought about that for awhile. I called him back and gave him a line from the play. Sam, the struggling alcoholic lead character in the play, says one drunken night to his helpless wife:
"I can't wait for you to see the man I'm going to be tomorrow."
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
On Playing Tennis...
As the Oscars approach, acknowledging actors for their superior work on film (allegedly), I'm thinking back on some people I've worked with over the years that exhibited superior work. People you will never see at the Oscars or for that matter any other awards ceremony. Just working actors, schlepping from one job to another, that have, on occasion done truly superior work. Actors that have pushed my game up a notch. There are only a few. But they deserve mentioning.
The first time it happened was in college. My good friend, now deceased, Robert Feidler, did the role of Brian in Shadowbox, a finely written play about a group of people dealing with Cancer. It was the first time in my young life that I had seen what I considered "real" acting. There were plays being done everywhere when I went to college - one-acts, mainstage shows, musicals, serious drama, scenework in acting classes - just everywhere. But deep down I knew it was all just pretty bad academic-level work. Then I saw Robert in Shadowbox. And I knew it was great work. He was much, much better than anyone with him onstage. Real, honest, amusing, cynical, gritty work. Sometimes acting teachers will say, "Acting is like tennis. If you play with someone better than you are, YOU become better." I wanted to play tennis with this guy.
A few years later I was doing a rather pedestrian farce called Playing Doctor. One of my first professional plays. The two leads were an actor by the name of Steve Schaefer and myself. He was funnier than I was. Up to that point, in my youthful arrogance, I didn't think that was possible. I couldn't figure it out. How could he be funnier than I was? Steve was in his late thirties at that time and I was twenty three, I think. He had mastered the art of wrapping an audience around his finger and making them wait for the next laugh. I learned TONS of comic "tricks" from working with Mr. Shaefer. I have used them for the length of my career.
Some years later I worked with an amazing actress named Katherine Kelly in The Glass Menagerie. In fact, she is the actress pictured to the right. The single most honest actor I had encountered up to that point. I think I was thirty one. I had gathered a lot of tricks in my work by that time. But with her, for the first time, none of them worked. I was forced to go back to the basics: say the lines, be honest, react accordingly, don't do too much, be real. She made me do all that because to do otherwise made me look like Jerry Lewis next to Meryl Streep. That dog just didn't hunt.
And of course then there was working with Michael Moriarty and Jane Alexander. Two actors so good it made me wanna slap my grandma. I worked hard on that one. I remember standing off-stage, in the wings, watching Michael work in front of an audience. I remember turning to a stagehand standing next to me and saying, "That guy does more with an eyebrow than most actors do with a career."
And recently I had the opportunity to work next to an actress in one of my own plays, From the East to the West. Nickella Moschetti. Again, like Katherine Kelly so many years before, I was forced to abandon my bag of tricks and play it straight out. No eccentric diversions. No little tricks. No pretending. She's that good. In fact, I have a new play, a big one, called Heavyweights of the Twentieth Century, that I will begin peddling later this year. It's a massive piece of writing and I honestly think my very best writing. I want Nickella to do it. To play one of the leads.
There are a few others, but not many. The truth is, this business doesn't HAVE that many good actors. I remember the later Howard Orms, my first acting teacher, saying in class one day, "90 percent of the actors in this country are unemployed. And 90 percent of THAT 90 percent DESERVE TO BE." How right he was.
I love playing tennis with people better than I am.
See you tomorrow.
The first time it happened was in college. My good friend, now deceased, Robert Feidler, did the role of Brian in Shadowbox, a finely written play about a group of people dealing with Cancer. It was the first time in my young life that I had seen what I considered "real" acting. There were plays being done everywhere when I went to college - one-acts, mainstage shows, musicals, serious drama, scenework in acting classes - just everywhere. But deep down I knew it was all just pretty bad academic-level work. Then I saw Robert in Shadowbox. And I knew it was great work. He was much, much better than anyone with him onstage. Real, honest, amusing, cynical, gritty work. Sometimes acting teachers will say, "Acting is like tennis. If you play with someone better than you are, YOU become better." I wanted to play tennis with this guy.
A few years later I was doing a rather pedestrian farce called Playing Doctor. One of my first professional plays. The two leads were an actor by the name of Steve Schaefer and myself. He was funnier than I was. Up to that point, in my youthful arrogance, I didn't think that was possible. I couldn't figure it out. How could he be funnier than I was? Steve was in his late thirties at that time and I was twenty three, I think. He had mastered the art of wrapping an audience around his finger and making them wait for the next laugh. I learned TONS of comic "tricks" from working with Mr. Shaefer. I have used them for the length of my career.
Some years later I worked with an amazing actress named Katherine Kelly in The Glass Menagerie. In fact, she is the actress pictured to the right. The single most honest actor I had encountered up to that point. I think I was thirty one. I had gathered a lot of tricks in my work by that time. But with her, for the first time, none of them worked. I was forced to go back to the basics: say the lines, be honest, react accordingly, don't do too much, be real. She made me do all that because to do otherwise made me look like Jerry Lewis next to Meryl Streep. That dog just didn't hunt.
And of course then there was working with Michael Moriarty and Jane Alexander. Two actors so good it made me wanna slap my grandma. I worked hard on that one. I remember standing off-stage, in the wings, watching Michael work in front of an audience. I remember turning to a stagehand standing next to me and saying, "That guy does more with an eyebrow than most actors do with a career."
And recently I had the opportunity to work next to an actress in one of my own plays, From the East to the West. Nickella Moschetti. Again, like Katherine Kelly so many years before, I was forced to abandon my bag of tricks and play it straight out. No eccentric diversions. No little tricks. No pretending. She's that good. In fact, I have a new play, a big one, called Heavyweights of the Twentieth Century, that I will begin peddling later this year. It's a massive piece of writing and I honestly think my very best writing. I want Nickella to do it. To play one of the leads.
There are a few others, but not many. The truth is, this business doesn't HAVE that many good actors. I remember the later Howard Orms, my first acting teacher, saying in class one day, "90 percent of the actors in this country are unemployed. And 90 percent of THAT 90 percent DESERVE TO BE." How right he was.
I love playing tennis with people better than I am.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Theatre Stories...
As most of you know, gentle readers, I have long exhibited a dark and quirky sense of humor. Fortunately for me I have chosen a career that allows that. A life in the theatre (thank you, Mr. Mamet) has allowed me to continue a seemingly endless existence of dysfunction. Having grown up in the prototype of a family in dysfunction (awful and overwhelming alcoholism - completely ignored, I might add) I was completely prepared for the lifestyle of the theatre.
As such, I have a thousand stories about the darkly humorous moments of being an actor.
I was doing a play in Virginia, Mill Mt. Theatre in Roanoke, called You Can't Take it with You. As I remember it, there is a role in that play for a drunken countess, or something like that. The actors all came together from various points in the country, some from New York, some from Chicago, a couple of locals. So we start the first read-thru of the play. This lady that's been hired from NY to play that role is, well, horrible. She can't seem to read with any honesty. Sounds like she's just reading it out loud. We all raise eyebrows but let it pass. Next day, on our feet, blocking. She's incapable of doing this. Doesn't understand stage directions. Has no idea where to go when the director says, "Why don't you cross down left on that line."
I happened to be good buddies with the director, Jere Hodgins, and the next day I wander over to his office to find out what's what. He says, "I don't understand it. She was brilliant in the audition. Absolutely brilliant."
A few more days go by and finally he has to let her go. She just can't do it. She's not an actress. She's replaced and the show goes on. End of story.
Not quite.
About a year later, Jere calls me one night. He's laughing hysterically. Finally he says, "Remember that actress that I had to let go last year?" I say, "Yes, so?" He says, "I finally figured out what happened. I just came from a round of auditions and she showed up again. And again, she was brilliant. So I cleared the room and got to the bottom of it. She started crying and admitted it was her identical twin sister who wanted to be an actress. She would go and get the role and then send the sister to the job!"
Funny stuff.
I remember acting and directing a Lanford Wilson play called Redwood Curtain in Rochester, NY. I had become close with one of the Equity Interns there and she was working in the shop one day. Her name was Sheila. So, I'm strolling through the shop, seeing how the set was coming along, and Sheila is there building flats. I stop and talk to her. Now Sheila was from a very rich family, was getting her theatre degree at U. of Rochester, a REALLY expensive school. Some girl walked by and said, "Hey, Sheila, what are you doing?" Without missing a beat, she said, "I'm building FLAPS." She then turned to me and said, "She wouldn't know a flap if it hit her in the face."
I was onstage once with an actor in Texas. Dallas Theatre Center. We're doing a new play and it's opening night. He's playing the lead, I'm the supporting actor guy. Middle of the play. I say my line to him. Pause. I paraphrase and say it another way. Silence. I say the line in such a way that HIS line is included in it. Deafening silence. After about twenty seconds he says, "I have a LIFE, goddamnit. I don't need this constant pestering!" And walks off stage. After a moment of being stunned, I just looked out at the audience, equally stunned, and said, "So you wanna be an actor?" And walked off stage. One of the biggest laughs of my career. The frozen actor had already walked out of the theatre and was heading back to his hotel.
Many more.
See you tomorrow.
As such, I have a thousand stories about the darkly humorous moments of being an actor.
I was doing a play in Virginia, Mill Mt. Theatre in Roanoke, called You Can't Take it with You. As I remember it, there is a role in that play for a drunken countess, or something like that. The actors all came together from various points in the country, some from New York, some from Chicago, a couple of locals. So we start the first read-thru of the play. This lady that's been hired from NY to play that role is, well, horrible. She can't seem to read with any honesty. Sounds like she's just reading it out loud. We all raise eyebrows but let it pass. Next day, on our feet, blocking. She's incapable of doing this. Doesn't understand stage directions. Has no idea where to go when the director says, "Why don't you cross down left on that line."
I happened to be good buddies with the director, Jere Hodgins, and the next day I wander over to his office to find out what's what. He says, "I don't understand it. She was brilliant in the audition. Absolutely brilliant."
A few more days go by and finally he has to let her go. She just can't do it. She's not an actress. She's replaced and the show goes on. End of story.
Not quite.
About a year later, Jere calls me one night. He's laughing hysterically. Finally he says, "Remember that actress that I had to let go last year?" I say, "Yes, so?" He says, "I finally figured out what happened. I just came from a round of auditions and she showed up again. And again, she was brilliant. So I cleared the room and got to the bottom of it. She started crying and admitted it was her identical twin sister who wanted to be an actress. She would go and get the role and then send the sister to the job!"
Funny stuff.
I remember acting and directing a Lanford Wilson play called Redwood Curtain in Rochester, NY. I had become close with one of the Equity Interns there and she was working in the shop one day. Her name was Sheila. So, I'm strolling through the shop, seeing how the set was coming along, and Sheila is there building flats. I stop and talk to her. Now Sheila was from a very rich family, was getting her theatre degree at U. of Rochester, a REALLY expensive school. Some girl walked by and said, "Hey, Sheila, what are you doing?" Without missing a beat, she said, "I'm building FLAPS." She then turned to me and said, "She wouldn't know a flap if it hit her in the face."
I was onstage once with an actor in Texas. Dallas Theatre Center. We're doing a new play and it's opening night. He's playing the lead, I'm the supporting actor guy. Middle of the play. I say my line to him. Pause. I paraphrase and say it another way. Silence. I say the line in such a way that HIS line is included in it. Deafening silence. After about twenty seconds he says, "I have a LIFE, goddamnit. I don't need this constant pestering!" And walks off stage. After a moment of being stunned, I just looked out at the audience, equally stunned, and said, "So you wanna be an actor?" And walked off stage. One of the biggest laughs of my career. The frozen actor had already walked out of the theatre and was heading back to his hotel.
Many more.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
"Would you just do my damn play, already?"
I have had a long history of chaos trying to get my work done here and there throughout my writing career. Back in the day, in New York, it was much easier. When I first moved there, in May of 85. I got hooked up with a crew of very good actors and directors. Quite by accident.
We formed a little ragamuffin band of roving artists and ended up doing a gaggle of my plays: Changing it to Brando, Eulogy, Golden Eggs, DAD/SONS, Our Generation, Death in Des Moines and Farley and Daisy. I was very lucky to have fallen in with that dedicated group of artists, most of which have gone on to be people you would recognize immediately from film and television work.
But now, it's a little different.
I blogged earlier about how Praying Small was first discovered in a small, storefront theatre in Chicago. That, too, was a stroke of luck. From there it played all across the country and, I think. will play next at NoHo Arts. Although recent developments, which I am not at liberty to go into at this time, may put that on hold for awhile. Distressing, but out of my hands.
From the East to the West is being shopped around now. There is a very prestigious theatre here in L.A. that wants to do it. Problem is, it won't be till 2011. Naturally, I'm impatient and want it done now. Not sure I have the clout to get that done, however.
I'm sending the DVD and the final draft of the script to a theatre in Chicago tomorrow. That may come to something, but again, who knows. My old buddy, Bob Koch, is AD with Writer's Theatre in NYC in the East Village. He'll get the DVD and the script next week. They have long been supporters of my work and every time I talk to Bob his first question is, "What have you got for me?"
Moriarty wants to produce it in Vancouver. So he'll get the same package next week, too.
And I think there's a better than average chance Steppenwolf will wanna take a swing at it, too. We'll see.
Despite some recent artistic setbacks, I am convinced it is a wonderful play, multi-leveled, honestly written and engaging. A lot of people agree with me. But a couple, just my luck the "deciders," in George W.'s words, did not. I don't mind people not liking my work. It comes with the territory. They have the right to not to like my work.
So today is all about getting EAST/WEST into the hands it needs to be. People with the authority to "greenlight" it, in Hollywood terms.
Meanwhile, I continue to write the screenplay to Praying Small. And that, strangely, is turning out to be more fun than I ever thought possible.
See you tomorrow.
We formed a little ragamuffin band of roving artists and ended up doing a gaggle of my plays: Changing it to Brando, Eulogy, Golden Eggs, DAD/SONS, Our Generation, Death in Des Moines and Farley and Daisy. I was very lucky to have fallen in with that dedicated group of artists, most of which have gone on to be people you would recognize immediately from film and television work.
But now, it's a little different.
I blogged earlier about how Praying Small was first discovered in a small, storefront theatre in Chicago. That, too, was a stroke of luck. From there it played all across the country and, I think. will play next at NoHo Arts. Although recent developments, which I am not at liberty to go into at this time, may put that on hold for awhile. Distressing, but out of my hands.
From the East to the West is being shopped around now. There is a very prestigious theatre here in L.A. that wants to do it. Problem is, it won't be till 2011. Naturally, I'm impatient and want it done now. Not sure I have the clout to get that done, however.
I'm sending the DVD and the final draft of the script to a theatre in Chicago tomorrow. That may come to something, but again, who knows. My old buddy, Bob Koch, is AD with Writer's Theatre in NYC in the East Village. He'll get the DVD and the script next week. They have long been supporters of my work and every time I talk to Bob his first question is, "What have you got for me?"
Moriarty wants to produce it in Vancouver. So he'll get the same package next week, too.
And I think there's a better than average chance Steppenwolf will wanna take a swing at it, too. We'll see.
Despite some recent artistic setbacks, I am convinced it is a wonderful play, multi-leveled, honestly written and engaging. A lot of people agree with me. But a couple, just my luck the "deciders," in George W.'s words, did not. I don't mind people not liking my work. It comes with the territory. They have the right to not to like my work.
So today is all about getting EAST/WEST into the hands it needs to be. People with the authority to "greenlight" it, in Hollywood terms.
Meanwhile, I continue to write the screenplay to Praying Small. And that, strangely, is turning out to be more fun than I ever thought possible.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
On The Oscars...
The Oscar Ceremony has been a staple in my life for many years. Others have The Super Bowl or The World Series or some other event they never miss. I, generally speaking, couldn't care less about all that. On Super Bowl Sunday, I was sitting at this computer trying to get some writing done while Angie whooped and hollered like a godless heathen at the game between the Saints and the Possums, or whoever the hell it was.
I do remember once being a baseball fan of sorts and watching the Mets in The World Series back in 1986. I was in a small pub in midtown east watching game six with my buddy, the late Robert Fiedler, when some enormous woman leapt upon his back as some ball rolled between someone's legs unexpectedly. All I remember is Robert uncharacteristically calling for help, laying on the floor, with this behemoth of a woman on top of him.
I remember being excited the same year when the Bears won the Super Bowl and betting my buddy, John Bader, ten bucks that they would go undefeated the following year.
But on the whole, the sports stuff bores me. Not counting heavyweight fights, of course. As a former Golden Glover and amateur boxing historian, I have always geared up for the big fights.
But the Oscars have always been another story.
Seeing Jack Nicholson sitting in the front row with his Ray Bans has been a perennial image for me.
A while back, Angie and I were at The Kodak Theatre where the Oscars take place. The front door, that is.
Even after all these years in the business and having known and worked with so many celebrities, I still turn into a kid sometimes about all that. I can't seem to get my mind around the fact that the guy I'm talking to is the same guy up on that big screen. Celebrities seem like the creatures in Avatar to me. They just aren't quite real. Now, I know this is a very midwestern kind of view to have. The kid from small-town Missouri still thinks of all celebrities as Clark Gable, not human, not flesh and blood, not worthy of actual concern. Just this icon towering above me saying iconic lines that someone else has written.
And then I meet someone. A real celebrity. Paul Newman, standing outside Chelsea Center for the Arts in 1987. He had a band aid on his cheek. A little smudge of dried blood next to it. No idea what happened. But, as pedestrian as this sounds, I remember thinking, "Oh, he bleeds."
Woody Allen, grabbing a cab at the exact same moment, on 44th and Lex in 1990. It was raining and when I realized who it was, I deferred the cab..."you take it, Mr. Allen." He said, no, let's share it. He would pick up the tab. But we were going in opposite directions, so he took it alone. But here's what I remember about that. His hair had been dyed. And the roots were grey, almost white. I remember thinking, "Oh, he's vain."
Many others. I have since actually been onstage with celebrities of sorts. I have become good friends with some. I won't list them. But later when I see them on film or TV, I never think of them as people I know personally. I think of them as Clark Gables.
So this Sunday, Angie and I are having about 12 or 15 people over for the Oscars. Gonna put out a huge vat of my chili, some chips and dip, some soft drinks, and watch the big show. Gonna root and cheer and sigh and curse just like it was a sporting event between the Saints and the Possums. Gonna get catty and sarcastic about the fashion design. Gonna make fun of the predictably bad musical numbers. In short, gonna have fun. But I'll be thinking this the entire time: "See that floor they're walking on now? I was on that floor a week ago with Angie. That's the same floor. We shared that floor."
I like being in awe of celebrities. I don't want to ever not be in awe of celebrities. Reminds me who I am.
See you tomorrow.
I do remember once being a baseball fan of sorts and watching the Mets in The World Series back in 1986. I was in a small pub in midtown east watching game six with my buddy, the late Robert Fiedler, when some enormous woman leapt upon his back as some ball rolled between someone's legs unexpectedly. All I remember is Robert uncharacteristically calling for help, laying on the floor, with this behemoth of a woman on top of him.
I remember being excited the same year when the Bears won the Super Bowl and betting my buddy, John Bader, ten bucks that they would go undefeated the following year.
But on the whole, the sports stuff bores me. Not counting heavyweight fights, of course. As a former Golden Glover and amateur boxing historian, I have always geared up for the big fights.
But the Oscars have always been another story.
Seeing Jack Nicholson sitting in the front row with his Ray Bans has been a perennial image for me.
A while back, Angie and I were at The Kodak Theatre where the Oscars take place. The front door, that is.
Even after all these years in the business and having known and worked with so many celebrities, I still turn into a kid sometimes about all that. I can't seem to get my mind around the fact that the guy I'm talking to is the same guy up on that big screen. Celebrities seem like the creatures in Avatar to me. They just aren't quite real. Now, I know this is a very midwestern kind of view to have. The kid from small-town Missouri still thinks of all celebrities as Clark Gable, not human, not flesh and blood, not worthy of actual concern. Just this icon towering above me saying iconic lines that someone else has written.
And then I meet someone. A real celebrity. Paul Newman, standing outside Chelsea Center for the Arts in 1987. He had a band aid on his cheek. A little smudge of dried blood next to it. No idea what happened. But, as pedestrian as this sounds, I remember thinking, "Oh, he bleeds."
Woody Allen, grabbing a cab at the exact same moment, on 44th and Lex in 1990. It was raining and when I realized who it was, I deferred the cab..."you take it, Mr. Allen." He said, no, let's share it. He would pick up the tab. But we were going in opposite directions, so he took it alone. But here's what I remember about that. His hair had been dyed. And the roots were grey, almost white. I remember thinking, "Oh, he's vain."
Many others. I have since actually been onstage with celebrities of sorts. I have become good friends with some. I won't list them. But later when I see them on film or TV, I never think of them as people I know personally. I think of them as Clark Gables.
So this Sunday, Angie and I are having about 12 or 15 people over for the Oscars. Gonna put out a huge vat of my chili, some chips and dip, some soft drinks, and watch the big show. Gonna root and cheer and sigh and curse just like it was a sporting event between the Saints and the Possums. Gonna get catty and sarcastic about the fashion design. Gonna make fun of the predictably bad musical numbers. In short, gonna have fun. But I'll be thinking this the entire time: "See that floor they're walking on now? I was on that floor a week ago with Angie. That's the same floor. We shared that floor."
I like being in awe of celebrities. I don't want to ever not be in awe of celebrities. Reminds me who I am.
See you tomorrow.
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