Last Friday I started recording a new CD called NOVEMBERNINTH with my dear friend, Kyle Puccia, noted singer, artist, producer, teacher...he wears a lot of hats. And he's brilliant. Kyle has a state-of-the-art production studio in his home. We churned out the first song on the CD, an old standard called "It Never Entered My Mind." Now, I'm not really a singer. Yes, I can carry a tune, certainly, and I've done about forty or so musicals on the professional stage, but really, in all honesty I'm not a singer. Not like Kyle is or, say, Jimmy Barbour, or any number of friends that are real singers.
The genesis of the idea was to record a few songs for an upcoming anniversary with Angie. Just a casual thing, nothing to get too excited about. But the moment Kyle and I started working it became something cooler. Why don't we just do a whole CD, Kyle suggested. So we are. It's called NOVEMBERNINTH. That's the day I showed up in L.A., knowing only a handful of people with just a trunk full of plays to my name.
I'm very excited about this project, this little CD we're recording with nothing but a piano and a cello. Mostly because I've never done anything like this before. Can't wait to start on the second song. "Angel Eyes."
Initial read-thru today of Bachelor's Graveyard, the third of a Missouri Trilogy, of sorts. Just a stage reading is planned. Kind of get an idea of the piece in front of an audience. See whether or not it might have a production somewhere down the line.
Praying Small is finally cast. A few odd choices, but I'm pleased. I've always maintained that odd is good. I'd rather see odd any day of the week over boring. However it turns out, I suspect Praying Small will be anything but boring. That's the one and only unforgivable sin in the theatre - boring.
From the East to the West, part two of my Missouri Trilogy, is still in the hands of several theaters. I haven't officially given the play to anyone yet, although it appears a fine company here in L.A. called Open Fist will get the World Premier, under the capable hands of Bjorn Johnson, a very good actor/director here in the L.A. area. Although again, nothing is in stone yet.
I'm a happy guy. I don't think I could've written a scenario more satisfying than the one I'm living. Jimmy Barbour told me almost immediately after I got here, "Listen, L.A. theatre, for the most part, sucks. You have no idea how many people are going to be scrambling for your writing." Turns out he was right, as he often is. Jimmy is a very savvy guy when it comes to the "business" of show business.
Angie and I attended an "old home week" get-together yesterday. A bunch of people we went to school with back in the dark ages. Saw and met some people I really missed. And some I didn't. I'm still amazed at how a simple "How have you been" can turn into a list of credits. When I say, "How have you been" I really want to know. I don't want to know, "What's the last thing you did on your resume?" Ah, well. Anyway, it was really enjoyable. And although I'm not very good anymore at small talk and glad-handing, I had a good time.
Picked up a new puppy yesterday, too. Drove all the way to Bakersfield, California, which is just east of Armpit, California, I think. The new puppy is named Franny, short for Francis Albert Sinatra, his full name. And of course we already have a dog named Zooey, so now we have Franny and Zooey. And yes, it's a tip of the hat to JD Salinger, just like you might think. It is my favorite book.
Franny and Zooey are not yet comfortable with each other, but Angie and I predicted that, so we're dealing with it. Zooey has been an only dog for a long time and she's not adjusting well yet. But it'll be okay in the end, I have no doubt.
Today, before the read-thru, all sorts of mundane, domestic, chore-like events are planned: shopping for groceries, laundry, cleaning house. I'm delighted to do all of it. Life, sometimes, is just so sweet and natural. I spent a long, long time living a life that was not at all sweet. But now it is. So why dwell.
John Lennon famously wrote, "Life is what your do while you're busy making other plans." And today, and probably tomorrow, my other plans are beautiful and fulfilling. I am well pleased.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Those who can, do...those who can't...well, you know.
"Where do you get your ideas?" This is the most common question, I think, that people who write for a living get asked. Stephen King, granted, a prose writer, gets this question ad nauseum, apparently. He goes into some detail about it in his book, On Writing. Which, incidentally, I highly recommend.
Tennessee Williams said he always had the title in mind first and the actual story came later. Not surprising, I guess, from the master of titles: Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Night of the Iguana. Now those are great titles. Puts the current crop of titles to shame: Wit, Proof, Art. Come on.
John Irving has said he has no idea what's coming next when he writes. He has a very vague idea, but that's about it.
Hemingway used to say the story was fully complete by the time he put pen to paper, it was just a matter of editing it in his head.
Shakespeare, apparently, stole all of his story lines from historical incident or famous lore of the time.
Arthur Miller, not one of my favorite playwrights, wrote about whatever he happened to be mad about at the time. That shows in his work, I think. Oddly, a writer I find deadly dull for the most part, is also responsible for, to me, the best play of the twentieth century, Death of a Salesman.
Lanford Wilson, a playwright I admire a lot, is firmly in the "write what you know" camp.
David Mamet? Anyone's guess. He's a lot more versatile than people think.
For me it has always been about the elusive muse. And that muse is really unpredictable.
One thing I remember King saying in his book about writing is how happy he was when Carrie first became a financial hit for him. It meant he could stop teaching school and concentrate entirely on his writing. But then something unexpected happened for him. He realized he didn't have the stamina for writing all day, every day. He likened it to being an athlete. He simply didn't have the physical or mental resources to do it. He had to train. When he first quit teaching and sat down to write the next book, he said he only had a few hours in him before it all shut down. Like a marathon runner, he had to train himself to write for seven or so hours a day.
Some very fine playwrights I know spend their days scouring the papers and the internet and the evening news looking for their next subject. I can't imagine that.
I think my next piece of work is going to be an epic, large canvas, love story. The muse is upon me for that. The problem is I don't have time to write it right now. What with teaching, acting in Praying Small, energetically pursuing the next production of EAST/WEST, taking care of A and Z...well, I just don't have the long stretches of isolation that writing requires right now.
One thing that most writers I know have in common is the idea that the work, when they're fully on the right path, "writes itself." This is a phrase I've heard countless times. And I know exactly what it means. When I'm in the middle of something good, something that feels brutally honest, I don't expend a lot of effort, frankly. It just pours out. But when I'm forcing something, forcing all the ends to meet, forcing the characters to get from A to B, well, then...it just doesn't work. It's just academic writing. No point to it at all except maybe to make the theme and plot make sense. That's no good. Without the passion, it simply doesn't work.
There are sections of Praying Small where I remember stepping away from the screen for a few minutes to gather myself. Just too painful. Sometimes a writer can accidentally access a corridor so horrifying as to almost be un-writable. That happened a few times in Praying Small.
I remember the one and only "writing for the stage" class I took many years ago in Missouri. Typically, the instructor had never written a professional play. Yet, as often happens in humanities classes in academia, he was simply perpetuating ideas that have failed. His Ph.D. was his pedigree, not his actual work. It's a sorry state in higher education. Why don't they bring in professional, tried and true, working actors to teach instead of some schmuck who's never been on a paying stage in his life up there mindlessly droning through Uta Hagen's silly, boring, useless book? Why? Because academia applies the same rules to theatre departments as they do to all the other departments in the school. That is to say, education rules. The more degrees one has, the more qualified they are to teach. Well, obviously, theatre doesn't work that way. Degrees mean nothing. Less than nothing. When was the last time ANYONE EVER asked about a degree before hiring an actor? I'll tell you when...never. That's when.
Anyway, this instructor daily spit out worthless information. You must have a beginning, middle and end. Who says? Do not introduce a gun in the first act if you don't use it in the second. Who says? All plays should end with catharsis and tie-up. Who says? The first emotional climax should end act I. Who says? Never do this or that. Who says?
Had a friend of mine once say something cool to me. We were talking about whether Shakespeare had really written everything people said he did. I remember asking him (now remember - my MFA is in Shakespeare studies, so this subject has fascinated me for years), how could he have written on such an astonishing array of subjects with only a grammar school education? He was essentially a small town, merchant's son, after all. Certainly not of the ruling class that had access to higher learning during that time. My friend said, "give me one example when the aristocracy has written or painted or danced or acted or played something groundbreaking? All great art comes from the masses. Otherwise the entire human cycle of creating would simply be endlessly repetitive." He was talking about academia, too, of course. I mean, why would someone want to take a painting class from someone who has never sold a painting? The instructor is simply passing on more ways to fail. He is reinforcing his own pattern of failure. Therein lies the bedrock of why academia, in the instance of theatre, is built to fail. It is taught by watchers, not doers.
I have to make breakfast now for my beautiful significant other and my cute-as-the-dickens dog. See what I mean? No time to write that great love story. Only live it.
See you tomorrow.
Tennessee Williams said he always had the title in mind first and the actual story came later. Not surprising, I guess, from the master of titles: Streetcar Named Desire, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Night of the Iguana. Now those are great titles. Puts the current crop of titles to shame: Wit, Proof, Art. Come on.
John Irving has said he has no idea what's coming next when he writes. He has a very vague idea, but that's about it.
Hemingway used to say the story was fully complete by the time he put pen to paper, it was just a matter of editing it in his head.
Shakespeare, apparently, stole all of his story lines from historical incident or famous lore of the time.
Arthur Miller, not one of my favorite playwrights, wrote about whatever he happened to be mad about at the time. That shows in his work, I think. Oddly, a writer I find deadly dull for the most part, is also responsible for, to me, the best play of the twentieth century, Death of a Salesman.
Lanford Wilson, a playwright I admire a lot, is firmly in the "write what you know" camp.
David Mamet? Anyone's guess. He's a lot more versatile than people think.
For me it has always been about the elusive muse. And that muse is really unpredictable.
One thing I remember King saying in his book about writing is how happy he was when Carrie first became a financial hit for him. It meant he could stop teaching school and concentrate entirely on his writing. But then something unexpected happened for him. He realized he didn't have the stamina for writing all day, every day. He likened it to being an athlete. He simply didn't have the physical or mental resources to do it. He had to train. When he first quit teaching and sat down to write the next book, he said he only had a few hours in him before it all shut down. Like a marathon runner, he had to train himself to write for seven or so hours a day.
Some very fine playwrights I know spend their days scouring the papers and the internet and the evening news looking for their next subject. I can't imagine that.
I think my next piece of work is going to be an epic, large canvas, love story. The muse is upon me for that. The problem is I don't have time to write it right now. What with teaching, acting in Praying Small, energetically pursuing the next production of EAST/WEST, taking care of A and Z...well, I just don't have the long stretches of isolation that writing requires right now.
One thing that most writers I know have in common is the idea that the work, when they're fully on the right path, "writes itself." This is a phrase I've heard countless times. And I know exactly what it means. When I'm in the middle of something good, something that feels brutally honest, I don't expend a lot of effort, frankly. It just pours out. But when I'm forcing something, forcing all the ends to meet, forcing the characters to get from A to B, well, then...it just doesn't work. It's just academic writing. No point to it at all except maybe to make the theme and plot make sense. That's no good. Without the passion, it simply doesn't work.
There are sections of Praying Small where I remember stepping away from the screen for a few minutes to gather myself. Just too painful. Sometimes a writer can accidentally access a corridor so horrifying as to almost be un-writable. That happened a few times in Praying Small.
I remember the one and only "writing for the stage" class I took many years ago in Missouri. Typically, the instructor had never written a professional play. Yet, as often happens in humanities classes in academia, he was simply perpetuating ideas that have failed. His Ph.D. was his pedigree, not his actual work. It's a sorry state in higher education. Why don't they bring in professional, tried and true, working actors to teach instead of some schmuck who's never been on a paying stage in his life up there mindlessly droning through Uta Hagen's silly, boring, useless book? Why? Because academia applies the same rules to theatre departments as they do to all the other departments in the school. That is to say, education rules. The more degrees one has, the more qualified they are to teach. Well, obviously, theatre doesn't work that way. Degrees mean nothing. Less than nothing. When was the last time ANYONE EVER asked about a degree before hiring an actor? I'll tell you when...never. That's when.
Anyway, this instructor daily spit out worthless information. You must have a beginning, middle and end. Who says? Do not introduce a gun in the first act if you don't use it in the second. Who says? All plays should end with catharsis and tie-up. Who says? The first emotional climax should end act I. Who says? Never do this or that. Who says?
Had a friend of mine once say something cool to me. We were talking about whether Shakespeare had really written everything people said he did. I remember asking him (now remember - my MFA is in Shakespeare studies, so this subject has fascinated me for years), how could he have written on such an astonishing array of subjects with only a grammar school education? He was essentially a small town, merchant's son, after all. Certainly not of the ruling class that had access to higher learning during that time. My friend said, "give me one example when the aristocracy has written or painted or danced or acted or played something groundbreaking? All great art comes from the masses. Otherwise the entire human cycle of creating would simply be endlessly repetitive." He was talking about academia, too, of course. I mean, why would someone want to take a painting class from someone who has never sold a painting? The instructor is simply passing on more ways to fail. He is reinforcing his own pattern of failure. Therein lies the bedrock of why academia, in the instance of theatre, is built to fail. It is taught by watchers, not doers.
I have to make breakfast now for my beautiful significant other and my cute-as-the-dickens dog. See what I mean? No time to write that great love story. Only live it.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Two Horsemen of The Apocalypse...
Compromise and collaboration have never exactly been my strong suits. I'm embarrassed to admit the number of bridges I've burned over my career refusing to do either. A couple of times that has come back to haunt me. But it's who I am and what I believe and to do otherwise would make me dishonest, to say the least, about my work.
Another character flaw is a life-long inability to keep my mouth shut.
As a playwright, I'm in a unique and rather enjoyable position right now. Praying Small just finished principal auditions and is soon to go into pre-production. And an actual, honest-to-god, tried and true feature film director is patiently waiting for my screenplay treatment of it. A real, flesh and blood, "name" actor has the stage play and also is waiting for the screenplay. Not at liberty to say who that is at this point.
From the East to The West, after having been summarily dismissed by one theatre is being paraded down main street with a marching band at another. It's also about to go on the season with another prestigious theatre in Chicago. A fine director by the name of Bjorn Johnson has taken the helm (google him). And the astonishing actor, John Schuck, is chomping at the bit to play the lead role.
Bachelor's Graveyard is in rehearsal even as we speak with five really talented, blazing young actors. That will only be a preliminary reading but my friend Karesa McElheny, as director, is all over it.
I'm especially pleased (in a sly way, I blush to confess) that it appears Praying Small and From the East to the West will very likely play at the same time in Los Angeles thus competing for what passes for theatre awards out here. Not that awards have ever meant much to me, but I think EAST/WEST will get some vindication, in that regard.
But back to this compromise thing.
I really don't know how to do it. Last night at callbacks I think I chewed a hole in my tongue. I so, so much wanted to put my two cents in. But I made a promise to the director, the very shrewd Victor Warren, that I would not. So I didn't. But, Jesus Wept, it was hard. All night I was fighting the nearly explosive urge to just stand up and say, "Hey! Give me the script! This is how to do it!" A few years ago I might have even done that. But I'm getting older and, God help me, a little more wise I hope, so I didn't. Angie is teaching me the art of patience. And it is an art. If it were me directing I would have stood up a week ago and said, "Okay, I want you, you and you. That's the cast." But Victor is far more calculating than I am and he's following instincts I'm not aware of. I trust him. Bottom line. So I've kept my mouth shut (mostly, anyway).
As for collaborating, good God I'm bad at it. I see everything in my head as it ought to be. There is no reason to collaborate. But that's in a perfect world and the world is not perfect. So again, I keep my mouth shut and try to trust.
Theatre, like anything else, is a microcosm of the real world in which we live. Compromise and collaboration are simply what we have. They are the cards we're dealt. Play them accordingly.
I'm reminded of my favorite line in Scorcese's The Departed when Nicholson asks the bar patron, "How's your mother?" The guy says, "She's dying." Nicholson says, "We all are. Act accordingly."
I honestly don't know how Victor is going to cast this play that is so personal to me. I have added my two cents on the subject in private discussion. He knows where I stand and what I want. He may or may not take that into consideration. I really don't know. And furthermore, I don't know if I'm right. I always think I am, of course, but I also know I'm inclined to be stubborn about this kind of stuff.
Whatever happens, on June 11 I'll be onstage saying my words to a packed house. Playing a role so autobiographical and personal that I have no doubt it will be a watershed moment in my career. That's the hat I'm wearing now...actor. In a meeting yesterday, Victor kept saying, "Okay, I'm speaking to you now as an actor." Or, "Okay, I'm speaking to you now as the playwright." It eventually became a bit schizophrenic and silly. Should make for an interesting rehearsal process.
Compromise and collaboration. The two horsemen of the apocalypse. Two words I have feared and hated for thirty years. And now they are squarely upon my shoulders. Well, then, so be it. Make it so, Number One. Let loose the dogs of war and cry havoc. Or, more to the point, if I don't have something good to say, I'm not gonna say anything at all. Because in the end, what's the point? Why burn a bridge when I may have to turn around and drive over it very soon?
So, to paraphrase Angie, I'm shutting up and smiling. Acceptance is the key. Page 449. There are no accidents. Whether I understand it or not, things are exactly as they should be. That's a philosophy so simple and perfect as to be lunatic. But whatcha gonna do, huh?
See you tomorrow.
Another character flaw is a life-long inability to keep my mouth shut.
As a playwright, I'm in a unique and rather enjoyable position right now. Praying Small just finished principal auditions and is soon to go into pre-production. And an actual, honest-to-god, tried and true feature film director is patiently waiting for my screenplay treatment of it. A real, flesh and blood, "name" actor has the stage play and also is waiting for the screenplay. Not at liberty to say who that is at this point.
From the East to The West, after having been summarily dismissed by one theatre is being paraded down main street with a marching band at another. It's also about to go on the season with another prestigious theatre in Chicago. A fine director by the name of Bjorn Johnson has taken the helm (google him). And the astonishing actor, John Schuck, is chomping at the bit to play the lead role.
Bachelor's Graveyard is in rehearsal even as we speak with five really talented, blazing young actors. That will only be a preliminary reading but my friend Karesa McElheny, as director, is all over it.
I'm especially pleased (in a sly way, I blush to confess) that it appears Praying Small and From the East to the West will very likely play at the same time in Los Angeles thus competing for what passes for theatre awards out here. Not that awards have ever meant much to me, but I think EAST/WEST will get some vindication, in that regard.
But back to this compromise thing.
I really don't know how to do it. Last night at callbacks I think I chewed a hole in my tongue. I so, so much wanted to put my two cents in. But I made a promise to the director, the very shrewd Victor Warren, that I would not. So I didn't. But, Jesus Wept, it was hard. All night I was fighting the nearly explosive urge to just stand up and say, "Hey! Give me the script! This is how to do it!" A few years ago I might have even done that. But I'm getting older and, God help me, a little more wise I hope, so I didn't. Angie is teaching me the art of patience. And it is an art. If it were me directing I would have stood up a week ago and said, "Okay, I want you, you and you. That's the cast." But Victor is far more calculating than I am and he's following instincts I'm not aware of. I trust him. Bottom line. So I've kept my mouth shut (mostly, anyway).
As for collaborating, good God I'm bad at it. I see everything in my head as it ought to be. There is no reason to collaborate. But that's in a perfect world and the world is not perfect. So again, I keep my mouth shut and try to trust.
Theatre, like anything else, is a microcosm of the real world in which we live. Compromise and collaboration are simply what we have. They are the cards we're dealt. Play them accordingly.
I'm reminded of my favorite line in Scorcese's The Departed when Nicholson asks the bar patron, "How's your mother?" The guy says, "She's dying." Nicholson says, "We all are. Act accordingly."
I honestly don't know how Victor is going to cast this play that is so personal to me. I have added my two cents on the subject in private discussion. He knows where I stand and what I want. He may or may not take that into consideration. I really don't know. And furthermore, I don't know if I'm right. I always think I am, of course, but I also know I'm inclined to be stubborn about this kind of stuff.
Whatever happens, on June 11 I'll be onstage saying my words to a packed house. Playing a role so autobiographical and personal that I have no doubt it will be a watershed moment in my career. That's the hat I'm wearing now...actor. In a meeting yesterday, Victor kept saying, "Okay, I'm speaking to you now as an actor." Or, "Okay, I'm speaking to you now as the playwright." It eventually became a bit schizophrenic and silly. Should make for an interesting rehearsal process.
Compromise and collaboration. The two horsemen of the apocalypse. Two words I have feared and hated for thirty years. And now they are squarely upon my shoulders. Well, then, so be it. Make it so, Number One. Let loose the dogs of war and cry havoc. Or, more to the point, if I don't have something good to say, I'm not gonna say anything at all. Because in the end, what's the point? Why burn a bridge when I may have to turn around and drive over it very soon?
So, to paraphrase Angie, I'm shutting up and smiling. Acceptance is the key. Page 449. There are no accidents. Whether I understand it or not, things are exactly as they should be. That's a philosophy so simple and perfect as to be lunatic. But whatcha gonna do, huh?
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
On Aaron Sorkin...
Watched A Few Good Men last night. The movie, that is. Hadn't seen it for quite a few years. I was struck again what a fine, fine writer for actors Aaron Sorkin is. To tell you the truth, Sorkin has been an inspiration to me for a long time.
I first saw A Few Good Men on Broadway when it was playing at The Music Box, I think it was. The original cast consisted of my old friend, Tom Hulce, in the Tom Cruise role and Stephen Lang, in a remarkable performance, in the Jack Nicholson role of Col. Jessop. Tom had gotten me a couple of comps to come see it in previews. Actually, he'd told me the day before that he didn't think it would be a hit because the script was "just too complicated for theatre audiences." Fortunately, he couldn't have been more wrong. It was riveting.
Lang, an actor with eccentric sensibilities if ever there was one, did an interpretation so odd and effective as to be mesmerizing. Tom told me later that Lang had spent hours observing the alpha male gorilla at the Brooklyn Zoo in preparation. When I think back on his performance it is easy to see that. He played Jessop so Marine/gorilla-like that at first I thought the role had been woefully miscast. But then I realized what he was doing. And I suddenly realized it was brilliant. Now, a couple of years earlier, Lang had done his Hamlet in New York. It was a barking, commanding Hamlet that, again, was a dilly of an interpretation. I had a couple of friends in that production, too. They told me that Lang had it IN HIS CONTRACT that no actor on stage could "touch" him. Literally. Very odd. Nonetheless, his Hamlet was fascinating. Not the best I'd ever seen by a long shot but certainly intriguing.
But back to Sorkin.
At that time, of course, he wasn't yet THE Aaron Sorkin of West Wing fame. He was just a guy who'd written a good play. I've always been a huge fan of West Wing but I hadn't seen a whole lot of the episodes. When Angie and I finally decided to move in together it turned out she was fan, too. So for the first couple of months in L.A. while I was trying to find my footing we would watch old reruns of the show at night. Night after night I was astonished at Sorkin's writing for the show. And he was always the sole writer. No collaboration at all. Later, long about the sixth season I think, Sorkin left the show and other writers started taking a stab at it. The difference is palpable. The Sorkin episodes are breathtaking. The later shows only good.
I've told Angie a number of times I can't wait to meet him. She knows tons of people out here. Tons of actors and celebrities. She's close friends with a few: Richard Dreyfuss, Hal Holbrook, William H. Macy, some others. As a midwestern boy I'm still impressed with all this. So now and then she asks, "Who would you like to meet? I'll set it up." And my answer is always, "Aaron Sorkin."
The West Wing is, in my opinion, the finest network show ever. It's incredibly smart, adventurous, compassionate, interesting and most of all, just flat out great writing. It is cast perfectly. Martin Sheen is my idea of the perfect President of the United States in my mind. In fact, if you ever get the chance to go back and watch The West Wing all the way through it is positively uncanny how it parallels the Obama administration. Bleeding heart liberalism? Yes. But I'm a bleeding heart liberal, so I love it.
Later in my career I did the stage version of A Few Good Men twice, the first time as Dr. Stone, a smallish role that Christopher Guest did in the film, and a year later Jessop himself. Although I was sorely tempted to imitate Stephen Lang's performance I understood it was simply not for me. I instead played it very slyly and full of charm. Much closer to Nicholson's performance although by that time the film had come out and was hard pressed to find a way to handle the line, "You can't handle the truth" without making the entire audience thing of Jack. In the end I decided to throw it away, say it casually, and hit the following line hard.
As you know, Gentle Reader, I just finished a production of my play, From the East to the West, a three-day benefit performance for NoHo Arts. The play is chalk full of overlapping. That is to say, two or more actors talking at the same time. Although I didn't actually steal this device from Sorkin (actually, if anything, I stole it from Lanford Wilson), I used it quite often. In fact a few of the comments following the performance were along the lines of, "Why did they all talk at once all the time?" Because I wanted them to. And it's my play. So there.
Someday I hope to meet Mr. Sorkin. I have a lot of questions for him. All good ones, mind you. But mostly I hope to meet him and simply shake his hand and look him in the eyes and say, "You're really, really good at what you do."
See you tomorrow.
I first saw A Few Good Men on Broadway when it was playing at The Music Box, I think it was. The original cast consisted of my old friend, Tom Hulce, in the Tom Cruise role and Stephen Lang, in a remarkable performance, in the Jack Nicholson role of Col. Jessop. Tom had gotten me a couple of comps to come see it in previews. Actually, he'd told me the day before that he didn't think it would be a hit because the script was "just too complicated for theatre audiences." Fortunately, he couldn't have been more wrong. It was riveting.
Lang, an actor with eccentric sensibilities if ever there was one, did an interpretation so odd and effective as to be mesmerizing. Tom told me later that Lang had spent hours observing the alpha male gorilla at the Brooklyn Zoo in preparation. When I think back on his performance it is easy to see that. He played Jessop so Marine/gorilla-like that at first I thought the role had been woefully miscast. But then I realized what he was doing. And I suddenly realized it was brilliant. Now, a couple of years earlier, Lang had done his Hamlet in New York. It was a barking, commanding Hamlet that, again, was a dilly of an interpretation. I had a couple of friends in that production, too. They told me that Lang had it IN HIS CONTRACT that no actor on stage could "touch" him. Literally. Very odd. Nonetheless, his Hamlet was fascinating. Not the best I'd ever seen by a long shot but certainly intriguing.
But back to Sorkin.
At that time, of course, he wasn't yet THE Aaron Sorkin of West Wing fame. He was just a guy who'd written a good play. I've always been a huge fan of West Wing but I hadn't seen a whole lot of the episodes. When Angie and I finally decided to move in together it turned out she was fan, too. So for the first couple of months in L.A. while I was trying to find my footing we would watch old reruns of the show at night. Night after night I was astonished at Sorkin's writing for the show. And he was always the sole writer. No collaboration at all. Later, long about the sixth season I think, Sorkin left the show and other writers started taking a stab at it. The difference is palpable. The Sorkin episodes are breathtaking. The later shows only good.
I've told Angie a number of times I can't wait to meet him. She knows tons of people out here. Tons of actors and celebrities. She's close friends with a few: Richard Dreyfuss, Hal Holbrook, William H. Macy, some others. As a midwestern boy I'm still impressed with all this. So now and then she asks, "Who would you like to meet? I'll set it up." And my answer is always, "Aaron Sorkin."
The West Wing is, in my opinion, the finest network show ever. It's incredibly smart, adventurous, compassionate, interesting and most of all, just flat out great writing. It is cast perfectly. Martin Sheen is my idea of the perfect President of the United States in my mind. In fact, if you ever get the chance to go back and watch The West Wing all the way through it is positively uncanny how it parallels the Obama administration. Bleeding heart liberalism? Yes. But I'm a bleeding heart liberal, so I love it.
Later in my career I did the stage version of A Few Good Men twice, the first time as Dr. Stone, a smallish role that Christopher Guest did in the film, and a year later Jessop himself. Although I was sorely tempted to imitate Stephen Lang's performance I understood it was simply not for me. I instead played it very slyly and full of charm. Much closer to Nicholson's performance although by that time the film had come out and was hard pressed to find a way to handle the line, "You can't handle the truth" without making the entire audience thing of Jack. In the end I decided to throw it away, say it casually, and hit the following line hard.
As you know, Gentle Reader, I just finished a production of my play, From the East to the West, a three-day benefit performance for NoHo Arts. The play is chalk full of overlapping. That is to say, two or more actors talking at the same time. Although I didn't actually steal this device from Sorkin (actually, if anything, I stole it from Lanford Wilson), I used it quite often. In fact a few of the comments following the performance were along the lines of, "Why did they all talk at once all the time?" Because I wanted them to. And it's my play. So there.
Someday I hope to meet Mr. Sorkin. I have a lot of questions for him. All good ones, mind you. But mostly I hope to meet him and simply shake his hand and look him in the eyes and say, "You're really, really good at what you do."
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
John Lennon, Gertrude Stein and Harry Truman...
Went to see a one-person show last night on the life and music of John Lennon. The songs really reminded me of what a genius Lennon was. Really nostalgic. The script, not so good. The actor, not so good. The music, excellent.
But it reminded me of the one-person shows I'd seen and done over the years. I've done three of them. Golden Eggs, one that I wrote, seamless direction by the sly Jeff Wood, about a young man making a decision about an accidental pregnancy, Farley and Daisy, another that I wrote and again with Jeff directing, about an agoraphobic too afraid to leave his apartment after his cat dies so he substitutes his toaster for the dead pet (back then, hell, I'd write about anything) and Give Em Hell, Harry, a two and half hour marathon show about Harry Truman that I took on an Equity National Tour.
They're beasts, these one-person shows. It's all squarely on the actor's shoulders. Moriarty once told me that a play is only as good as the weakest actor in it. Well, in a one-person piece...you get my drift. If it doesn't work, no one to blame but yourself.
I've seen a few over the years. My favorite, to this day, is Pat Carroll's show...Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein. Saw it way back in the early eighties. Wonderful writing, brilliant acting. I still use it as my litmus test for one-person shows.
I saw Rosemary Harris do a one-person juggernaut about Emily Dickinson. Oy. Script bored me to tears...but Harris was, not surprisingly, great.
I saw Michael Moriarty do one that he wrote years ago, about Jack Nicholson meeting William Shakespeare. Very odd little piece. But Moriarty is, of course, always fascinating. The one thing I do remember about that was his imitation of Nicholson was awful. Sorry, Michael, if you're reading this.
Saw my buddy, Brad Greenquist, do a one-person show years ago in NY about...well, I'm not sure what it was about. But it was long. Love Brad and I think the world of his talent, but God, that night was a long one.
Give Em Hell, Harry was a great experience. Started the play in Rochester, NY, with a little theatre called DCT. Terrible people run the place, clueless about theatre in general, but they gave me a free rein on creating the show. James Whitmore, you might remember, did the piece originally in Washington DC at the Kennedy Center back in 1975.
I watched hours and hours of news footage about Truman, read everything I could get my hands on. A very good director, Dick St. George, was brought in for it. Dick is also a fine actor and, strangely, a year later, I directed Dick in another one-person show called BULLY!, about the life and times of Teddy Roosevelt.
So I'm no stranger to all of this. Last night I was reminded again how hard they are. An actor really has to have some chops to pull it off.
I'm working on a one-person show now, in fact. Not for me, but for my friend James Barbour. It's called 3 UPPER and it recounts a very difficult time James saw his way through in recent years. Very powerful stuff. James is doing the lead in The Geffen's production of a new musical called Nightmare Alley, based on an old film with Tyrone Power. I suspect once that's finished we'll start rehearsing 3 UPPER. My NYC readers should look for it Off-Broadway sometime next season. I promise it will shock and awe you. Some very gritty stuff. And James will be doing the kind of acting he's not known for but he's very good at...remember, he was classically trained, he's not just a musical theatre fluff actor. I'm excited about it.
One final thing. I grew up about an hour from where Harry Truman lived, Independence, Missouri. On tour I remember one review, I think we were in Toronto at the time. It said, "Mr. Morts never quite accomplishes the Missouri accent although his joy in playing Truman is worth the price of admission." Eh? Whatcha' gonna do.
See you tomorrow.
But it reminded me of the one-person shows I'd seen and done over the years. I've done three of them. Golden Eggs, one that I wrote, seamless direction by the sly Jeff Wood, about a young man making a decision about an accidental pregnancy, Farley and Daisy, another that I wrote and again with Jeff directing, about an agoraphobic too afraid to leave his apartment after his cat dies so he substitutes his toaster for the dead pet (back then, hell, I'd write about anything) and Give Em Hell, Harry, a two and half hour marathon show about Harry Truman that I took on an Equity National Tour.
They're beasts, these one-person shows. It's all squarely on the actor's shoulders. Moriarty once told me that a play is only as good as the weakest actor in it. Well, in a one-person piece...you get my drift. If it doesn't work, no one to blame but yourself.
I've seen a few over the years. My favorite, to this day, is Pat Carroll's show...Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein, Gertrude Stein. Saw it way back in the early eighties. Wonderful writing, brilliant acting. I still use it as my litmus test for one-person shows.
I saw Rosemary Harris do a one-person juggernaut about Emily Dickinson. Oy. Script bored me to tears...but Harris was, not surprisingly, great.
I saw Michael Moriarty do one that he wrote years ago, about Jack Nicholson meeting William Shakespeare. Very odd little piece. But Moriarty is, of course, always fascinating. The one thing I do remember about that was his imitation of Nicholson was awful. Sorry, Michael, if you're reading this.
Saw my buddy, Brad Greenquist, do a one-person show years ago in NY about...well, I'm not sure what it was about. But it was long. Love Brad and I think the world of his talent, but God, that night was a long one.
Give Em Hell, Harry was a great experience. Started the play in Rochester, NY, with a little theatre called DCT. Terrible people run the place, clueless about theatre in general, but they gave me a free rein on creating the show. James Whitmore, you might remember, did the piece originally in Washington DC at the Kennedy Center back in 1975.
I watched hours and hours of news footage about Truman, read everything I could get my hands on. A very good director, Dick St. George, was brought in for it. Dick is also a fine actor and, strangely, a year later, I directed Dick in another one-person show called BULLY!, about the life and times of Teddy Roosevelt.
So I'm no stranger to all of this. Last night I was reminded again how hard they are. An actor really has to have some chops to pull it off.
I'm working on a one-person show now, in fact. Not for me, but for my friend James Barbour. It's called 3 UPPER and it recounts a very difficult time James saw his way through in recent years. Very powerful stuff. James is doing the lead in The Geffen's production of a new musical called Nightmare Alley, based on an old film with Tyrone Power. I suspect once that's finished we'll start rehearsing 3 UPPER. My NYC readers should look for it Off-Broadway sometime next season. I promise it will shock and awe you. Some very gritty stuff. And James will be doing the kind of acting he's not known for but he's very good at...remember, he was classically trained, he's not just a musical theatre fluff actor. I'm excited about it.
One final thing. I grew up about an hour from where Harry Truman lived, Independence, Missouri. On tour I remember one review, I think we were in Toronto at the time. It said, "Mr. Morts never quite accomplishes the Missouri accent although his joy in playing Truman is worth the price of admission." Eh? Whatcha' gonna do.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Hickory, Dickory, Dock...
Long round of auditions last night for Praying Small. A lot of good actors. A little female heavy, but a few really fine male actors, too. Oddly, I am thankful I don't have these decisions to make. They are all firmly on Victor's shoulders. I will be interested to see what direction he goes. Early in this process, that is to say, a week or so ago, I told him I was taking off all my other hats and only wearing my "actor's hat." I meant it. The tough decisions are in his court.
I was reminded again why I detest auditions. Of course, they are necessary. But I don't like them. And I'll tell you why. Because the whole process is not designed to find the best actor for the job. It is designed to find the actor that can do something in thirty or forty seconds that will impress. That's like bringing in a bunch of professional singers and see who can sing a high C. Although singing a high C may be impressive, it is hardly the litmus test for a good singer.
Just watch American Idol on any given night. The contestant that can get up on stage and do something extraordinary within the time given gets all the accolades. The singer that gets up and sings a quiet, reflective, fine interpretation of a piece of music is considered sub-par. It's frustrating.
That's a microcosm of all auditions.
The trick is, and Victor, to his credit, did this a lot last night, is to see who can take direction. Even if it has nothing to do with the play itself.
I've always been annoyed with actors that give the same performance at the initial read-thru that they give on opening night. No growth.
I'm reminded of Robert DeNiro. Apparently Mr. DeNiro has a mild form of dyslexia. So his initial readings are stumbling and halting and filled with pauses. He has gone on record to say how badly his auditions were in his early days in New York.
So auditions have virtually nothing to do with finding the best actor. Again, the director's job, and it's a tough one, is to try and look past that. To find out who can really act and who is good at "impressing."
I remember working with Wilford Brimly years ago. Not a good reader. In fact, nearly illiterate. I never asked him, but I'd love to know how he ever got a break to begin with years ago in the seventies when he was doing all those films with Redford and Newman. But give him a little time to work on it, a little time to listen to the lines out loud, and as history has recorded, he gives on occasion an absolutely sublime and simple performance.
So how do we find out who's best for a role? I confess to not having a clue. What often happens is the director has to depend on what he's seen the actor do before. But what if he's never seen anything?
An actor came in last night and gave a dismal reading. Not a very good audition at all. Another actor followed him and read the same scenes. He gave a wonderful audition. But his past work has been pedestrian at best. The first actor has given some stellar performances. A really great reputation and resume. What to do? Go with the actor that gave the best audition, the one that really "impressed?" Or go with the actor with the proven track record that didn't read well? I don't know. And thankfully, I don't have to decide.
But in the end, these are great problems to have. In fact, they're really academic questions anyway. The play is going forward. Victor has a plethora of talent to choose from. I am busy working on lines and wearing my actor hat. The theatre and the company firmly behind the production. It's all good.
There's a story, possibly apocryphal, of Brando auditioning for the Lunts early in his career. He was about twenty-two or so. Hadn't yet made his name with Streetcar. Even then, of course, Brando was a renegade. The story goes that the famous Lunts were casting another tour of a frothy, bedroom comedy, the kind of fare they were known for. Brando's agent, inexplicably, had submitted him for one of the small, frothy roles. The auditions were held in one of those cavernous Broadway theaters in New York. When he walked onstage with the "side" Alfred Lunt asked him to start when he was ready. Brando looked at the script for awhile and then stared into the huge, echoing, dark theater. "Hickory Dickory Dock, The Mouse Ran Up The Clock. Don't you realize there are people fucking dying of starvation in India right now?" And he walked off. Arguably the finest actor of the twentieth century did not get the part.
See you tomorrow.
I was reminded again why I detest auditions. Of course, they are necessary. But I don't like them. And I'll tell you why. Because the whole process is not designed to find the best actor for the job. It is designed to find the actor that can do something in thirty or forty seconds that will impress. That's like bringing in a bunch of professional singers and see who can sing a high C. Although singing a high C may be impressive, it is hardly the litmus test for a good singer.
Just watch American Idol on any given night. The contestant that can get up on stage and do something extraordinary within the time given gets all the accolades. The singer that gets up and sings a quiet, reflective, fine interpretation of a piece of music is considered sub-par. It's frustrating.
That's a microcosm of all auditions.
The trick is, and Victor, to his credit, did this a lot last night, is to see who can take direction. Even if it has nothing to do with the play itself.
I've always been annoyed with actors that give the same performance at the initial read-thru that they give on opening night. No growth.
I'm reminded of Robert DeNiro. Apparently Mr. DeNiro has a mild form of dyslexia. So his initial readings are stumbling and halting and filled with pauses. He has gone on record to say how badly his auditions were in his early days in New York.
So auditions have virtually nothing to do with finding the best actor. Again, the director's job, and it's a tough one, is to try and look past that. To find out who can really act and who is good at "impressing."
I remember working with Wilford Brimly years ago. Not a good reader. In fact, nearly illiterate. I never asked him, but I'd love to know how he ever got a break to begin with years ago in the seventies when he was doing all those films with Redford and Newman. But give him a little time to work on it, a little time to listen to the lines out loud, and as history has recorded, he gives on occasion an absolutely sublime and simple performance.
So how do we find out who's best for a role? I confess to not having a clue. What often happens is the director has to depend on what he's seen the actor do before. But what if he's never seen anything?
An actor came in last night and gave a dismal reading. Not a very good audition at all. Another actor followed him and read the same scenes. He gave a wonderful audition. But his past work has been pedestrian at best. The first actor has given some stellar performances. A really great reputation and resume. What to do? Go with the actor that gave the best audition, the one that really "impressed?" Or go with the actor with the proven track record that didn't read well? I don't know. And thankfully, I don't have to decide.
But in the end, these are great problems to have. In fact, they're really academic questions anyway. The play is going forward. Victor has a plethora of talent to choose from. I am busy working on lines and wearing my actor hat. The theatre and the company firmly behind the production. It's all good.
There's a story, possibly apocryphal, of Brando auditioning for the Lunts early in his career. He was about twenty-two or so. Hadn't yet made his name with Streetcar. Even then, of course, Brando was a renegade. The story goes that the famous Lunts were casting another tour of a frothy, bedroom comedy, the kind of fare they were known for. Brando's agent, inexplicably, had submitted him for one of the small, frothy roles. The auditions were held in one of those cavernous Broadway theaters in New York. When he walked onstage with the "side" Alfred Lunt asked him to start when he was ready. Brando looked at the script for awhile and then stared into the huge, echoing, dark theater. "Hickory Dickory Dock, The Mouse Ran Up The Clock. Don't you realize there are people fucking dying of starvation in India right now?" And he walked off. Arguably the finest actor of the twentieth century did not get the part.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Auditions Tonight for Praying Small...
Auditions tonight for my play Praying Small. It opens on June 11 at NoHo Arts where I am the playwright-in-residence. I'm delighted to have found a very fine director, Victor Warren. He has a long resume, a very successful writer, actor and director through the years, a former New Yorker like myself and smart as a whip. I have high hopes.
The play has a long history of success. As I have mentioned before, it deals with recovery from addiction. And what seems to happen, in past productions anyway, is that the recovery community latches onto the play through word of mouth (it's ethically not too cool to advertise with AA and NA) and comes out in droves. It's a money-maker.
Doing the lead role myself. I didn't plan it that way, it just sort of fell in my lap. But I'm happy to do it. I almost did it once before in a Chicago production but backed out at the last second. This time is different, though. I really want to do it this time.
I've also agreed to do a role in a night of one-acts called SANITY with the theatre. Haven't read that play yet.
And another play of mine, Bachelor's Graveyard, will go up one-night-only for a stage reading.
And I'm writing a one-act play for the highest bidder at our fund raiser. A charming lady bid on the idea and after the silent auction I spoke to her. The idea is to write a short play about the night a couple met. Then, using actors in the company, we actually perform it for the couple in the theatre. They have snacks and wine and the theatre to themselves. Kind of neat, really. So I spoke to this lady and found out she had bid for not herself but her grandmother. The grandmother is in her eighties and she was a WWII bride. I can't wait to talk to her, get the story, write it, and put it up for her on her birthday which is June 19. This turned out to be not just a good idea for the theatre, but also something inherently good. I like it when things work out like that.
Plus the screenplay for Praying Small. No real deadline there, but things look quite promising on that front.
Just got the new headshots and signed up on ActorsAccess, a casting site out here in L.A.
Meeting some agents and managers out here soon, too. Angie's background as a casting director is proving invaluable in this regard.
Life is full and good. Honest and true. I'm beginning to sound like Hemingway, "And the wine was true. And the man was satisfied. The man smiled. The man was full and good."
So much on my plate. And I really am living the life I've dreamt of for nearly three decades.
I feel like a guy with twenty bucks in his pocket and has just ordered a really good ten dollar meal. I'm gonna eat well and still have ten bucks left.
See you tomorrow.
The play has a long history of success. As I have mentioned before, it deals with recovery from addiction. And what seems to happen, in past productions anyway, is that the recovery community latches onto the play through word of mouth (it's ethically not too cool to advertise with AA and NA) and comes out in droves. It's a money-maker.
Doing the lead role myself. I didn't plan it that way, it just sort of fell in my lap. But I'm happy to do it. I almost did it once before in a Chicago production but backed out at the last second. This time is different, though. I really want to do it this time.
I've also agreed to do a role in a night of one-acts called SANITY with the theatre. Haven't read that play yet.
And another play of mine, Bachelor's Graveyard, will go up one-night-only for a stage reading.
And I'm writing a one-act play for the highest bidder at our fund raiser. A charming lady bid on the idea and after the silent auction I spoke to her. The idea is to write a short play about the night a couple met. Then, using actors in the company, we actually perform it for the couple in the theatre. They have snacks and wine and the theatre to themselves. Kind of neat, really. So I spoke to this lady and found out she had bid for not herself but her grandmother. The grandmother is in her eighties and she was a WWII bride. I can't wait to talk to her, get the story, write it, and put it up for her on her birthday which is June 19. This turned out to be not just a good idea for the theatre, but also something inherently good. I like it when things work out like that.
Plus the screenplay for Praying Small. No real deadline there, but things look quite promising on that front.
Just got the new headshots and signed up on ActorsAccess, a casting site out here in L.A.
Meeting some agents and managers out here soon, too. Angie's background as a casting director is proving invaluable in this regard.
Life is full and good. Honest and true. I'm beginning to sound like Hemingway, "And the wine was true. And the man was satisfied. The man smiled. The man was full and good."
So much on my plate. And I really am living the life I've dreamt of for nearly three decades.
I feel like a guy with twenty bucks in his pocket and has just ordered a really good ten dollar meal. I'm gonna eat well and still have ten bucks left.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
My First Earthquake.
We get used to things.
Yesterday I lived through my first earthquake. Now, yes, I know it was only a 4.4 earthquake. A tiny one, by California standards. No one around here seemed too terribly disturbed by it.
I sometimes have a touch of insomnia, especially when I have something on my mind like I do now with the auditions for Praying Small coming up. So I had gotten up and was at the computer when it hit. At first I thought a really large garbage truck was driving by outside. There was a low rumbling and the house was shaking just a bit. Then I realized it was four in the morning and the garbage people couldn't possibly be here yet. That was when I knew it was an earthquake. I had just enough time to get up from my desk and start toward the bedroom where Angie and Zooey were sleeping, when it ended. Then I just stood there in the kitchen sort of processing what had just happened.
Today I spoke to a few California people (I don't think I'm one of those yet) about it. They were not too interested in it. Just another shake. Most spoke of it as though it were a slightly out of the ordinary ride on the bumper cars. Angie, for example, wasn't the least bit concerned about it. Zooey didn't even bother to get out of bed. Even the pets out here are used to earthquakes.
Started me into thinking how all of us get used to things.
When I was a drug and alcohol counselor for the wretched Salvation Army, I would get to my office around seven in the morning and have a chance to chat a little with the "beneficiaries" (a euphemism in the Salvation Army for slave labor) as they came downstairs from their cots to have a cold, hard breakfast before they were put to work for 14 hours a day in the warehouse. They were cheerful, mostly. Just another day. Just another back-breaking, unfair, sweaty, endless day of work. I couldn't believe they were cheerful about this. But most were. The were used to it.
Sometimes I try to imagine other people's lives. I guess that's why I do what I do. Some years back I drove through my hometown. Didn't tell anyone I was in town. Just drove around and looked at old spots that I remembered. After a few hours I drove back to Columbia, where I had a hotel room, and then on to where I was going. But I had driven by the house where I grew up. Other people, whom I don't know, live there now. It was dusk and the light was on in the bedroom where I had slept for 18 years.
I remembered being in that bedroom, laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, while my father screamed downstairs in yet another drunken rage. Calling us all names, being demonic. And not being the least concerned by it. I was used to it.
I remember being in Chicago, horrible place that it is, in the depth of winter. I was walking to the library to order something (the public library is the highest place of learning on the planet, in my opinion) and a guy suddenly got out of an abandoned car right in front of me. It must have been about 20 below with the wind chill. He was obviously homeless. I stopped and stared for a second. He did the same when he saw me. No one else on the street. It was really cold. He smiled at me and said, "Want a cigarette?" He had some roles with him. I said, no, thanks anyway, and walked on. He was happy. Being homeless in a mortal winter was not out of his comfort zone. He was used to it.
For many years I would trudge to my studio, teach actors all day, trudge home late at night, fix myself a hot chocolate, watch the news and go to bed. So lonely as to be wooden. Not even knowing I was lonely because I was so far in the middle of it. Get up early and do the same again. An endless cycle of days interrupted by nothing. I was used to it.
Lonely, single people do this everywhere.
I remember driving to a theatre gig some years back. The work was in Dallas, as I recall. As I topped a hill in South Carolina, twilight, Springsteen blaring from my rental car speakers, suddenly I saw a huge backup, cars stopped, pulled over, highway patrol lights swirling, people standing around. I pulled over, turned down my CD and got out and walked up to where the action was. A terrible accident had just occurred. One of the patrolmen was standing and staring at a body of a young man. Maybe twenty years old. Maybe less. Ambulance hadn't gotten there yet. Saw me standing too close. Said, "Step back a little, would you, sir." Then, in reference to the dead young man, "Drivin' too fast, I guess." I turned and threw up. He walked past me and patted me casually on the side of my arm. I walked back to my car and sat there astonished at his lack of concern and stunned at just seeing a dead person. He saw dead young men all the time, I guess. Drivin' too fast. He was used to it.
Just a few minutes earlier, irony of ironies, I had been listening to Bruce Springsteen sing the song, Wreck on the Highway.
So I'm trying to process the idea of people living in this area of the country completely casual about the entire earth shaking beneath them. Millions of people simply stopping for a moment and allowing the universe itself to tremble for a few moments and then return to normal. An acknowledgment, briefly, that something awesome had taken place, but quickly forgotten. They had places to go, bills to pay, people to smile at.
And then there's me. Standing in a dark kitchen at four in the morning, scared and shocked. Not at all used to this. I don't want to ever get used to this. I don't want to ever be that boy again, staring at the ceiling, listening to a savage drunk scream obscenities only yards away, thinking off-handedly about what he might do tomorrow, the brutality barely registering.
I don't want to get used to earthquakes.
See you tomorrow.
Yesterday I lived through my first earthquake. Now, yes, I know it was only a 4.4 earthquake. A tiny one, by California standards. No one around here seemed too terribly disturbed by it.
I sometimes have a touch of insomnia, especially when I have something on my mind like I do now with the auditions for Praying Small coming up. So I had gotten up and was at the computer when it hit. At first I thought a really large garbage truck was driving by outside. There was a low rumbling and the house was shaking just a bit. Then I realized it was four in the morning and the garbage people couldn't possibly be here yet. That was when I knew it was an earthquake. I had just enough time to get up from my desk and start toward the bedroom where Angie and Zooey were sleeping, when it ended. Then I just stood there in the kitchen sort of processing what had just happened.
Today I spoke to a few California people (I don't think I'm one of those yet) about it. They were not too interested in it. Just another shake. Most spoke of it as though it were a slightly out of the ordinary ride on the bumper cars. Angie, for example, wasn't the least bit concerned about it. Zooey didn't even bother to get out of bed. Even the pets out here are used to earthquakes.
Started me into thinking how all of us get used to things.
When I was a drug and alcohol counselor for the wretched Salvation Army, I would get to my office around seven in the morning and have a chance to chat a little with the "beneficiaries" (a euphemism in the Salvation Army for slave labor) as they came downstairs from their cots to have a cold, hard breakfast before they were put to work for 14 hours a day in the warehouse. They were cheerful, mostly. Just another day. Just another back-breaking, unfair, sweaty, endless day of work. I couldn't believe they were cheerful about this. But most were. The were used to it.
Sometimes I try to imagine other people's lives. I guess that's why I do what I do. Some years back I drove through my hometown. Didn't tell anyone I was in town. Just drove around and looked at old spots that I remembered. After a few hours I drove back to Columbia, where I had a hotel room, and then on to where I was going. But I had driven by the house where I grew up. Other people, whom I don't know, live there now. It was dusk and the light was on in the bedroom where I had slept for 18 years.
I remembered being in that bedroom, laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, while my father screamed downstairs in yet another drunken rage. Calling us all names, being demonic. And not being the least concerned by it. I was used to it.
I remember being in Chicago, horrible place that it is, in the depth of winter. I was walking to the library to order something (the public library is the highest place of learning on the planet, in my opinion) and a guy suddenly got out of an abandoned car right in front of me. It must have been about 20 below with the wind chill. He was obviously homeless. I stopped and stared for a second. He did the same when he saw me. No one else on the street. It was really cold. He smiled at me and said, "Want a cigarette?" He had some roles with him. I said, no, thanks anyway, and walked on. He was happy. Being homeless in a mortal winter was not out of his comfort zone. He was used to it.
For many years I would trudge to my studio, teach actors all day, trudge home late at night, fix myself a hot chocolate, watch the news and go to bed. So lonely as to be wooden. Not even knowing I was lonely because I was so far in the middle of it. Get up early and do the same again. An endless cycle of days interrupted by nothing. I was used to it.
Lonely, single people do this everywhere.
I remember driving to a theatre gig some years back. The work was in Dallas, as I recall. As I topped a hill in South Carolina, twilight, Springsteen blaring from my rental car speakers, suddenly I saw a huge backup, cars stopped, pulled over, highway patrol lights swirling, people standing around. I pulled over, turned down my CD and got out and walked up to where the action was. A terrible accident had just occurred. One of the patrolmen was standing and staring at a body of a young man. Maybe twenty years old. Maybe less. Ambulance hadn't gotten there yet. Saw me standing too close. Said, "Step back a little, would you, sir." Then, in reference to the dead young man, "Drivin' too fast, I guess." I turned and threw up. He walked past me and patted me casually on the side of my arm. I walked back to my car and sat there astonished at his lack of concern and stunned at just seeing a dead person. He saw dead young men all the time, I guess. Drivin' too fast. He was used to it.
Just a few minutes earlier, irony of ironies, I had been listening to Bruce Springsteen sing the song, Wreck on the Highway.
So I'm trying to process the idea of people living in this area of the country completely casual about the entire earth shaking beneath them. Millions of people simply stopping for a moment and allowing the universe itself to tremble for a few moments and then return to normal. An acknowledgment, briefly, that something awesome had taken place, but quickly forgotten. They had places to go, bills to pay, people to smile at.
And then there's me. Standing in a dark kitchen at four in the morning, scared and shocked. Not at all used to this. I don't want to ever get used to this. I don't want to ever be that boy again, staring at the ceiling, listening to a savage drunk scream obscenities only yards away, thinking off-handedly about what he might do tomorrow, the brutality barely registering.
I don't want to get used to earthquakes.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, March 15, 2010
O How a Rose 'Er Blooming...
Auditions this Thursday for Praying Small. I'll be going in to read opposite people. I've always thought auditions to be a necessary evil in this business. I dislike them. On both sides of the table. And yet, like democracy itself, they are the best way to do it when compared to other ways.
I don't think we'll be seeing monologues like in a cattle call or anything. The scripts have been sent out to the company members, some 60 strong. Sides will be available at the audition (a "side" is a small portion of the script for the actor to read from). The director has some people in mind for certain roles, I believe, but he's open to changing that, I think, if someone really wows him.
I"m sure as the playwright I'll have some input, especially since I'm also playing the leading role, but ultimately it's up to the director. I suspect he'll have a great deal from which to choose.
Like most actors, I've had approximately ten thousand auditions, it seems. One in particular comes to mind.
I remember auditioning for 1940's Radio Hour years ago for a production in Connecticut. I had already done the show four times by then (eventually ended up doing six different versions of it). I knew the producers were interested in having me do Clifton Feddington in it. That's the sort of M.C. lead role, the character holding the whole thing together. I had just finished doing the role at Mill Mountain Theatre in Virginia. So, understandably, we were all asked to bring in sixteen bars of swing music. I think I brought in Under My Skin. Anyway, it was one of those auditions where they bring in ten actors at a time and then call us up to the stage one by one, the other nine sitting in the audience listening. Not uncommon. So one by one we would get up and sing our best sixteen. About five or six actors into the audition, a kind of frumpy girl got up, never seen her before, she had on a sun dress, no make-up, really very out of place. She was nervous beyond belief. Her hands and legs were visibly shaking. Her voice, when she introduced herself and her song, had a tremble to it. I was a little concerned for her. But that was just the beginning. Her song choice was "O' How a Rose 'Er Blooming," a nineteenth century parlor song. The kind you might hear accompanied by a harpsichord. She sang it with trembling voice, trembling arms and legs, nervous to the point of collapse. Unbelievably, no one cut her off. They let her finish. We, in the audience, were very uncomfortable. Clearly she was out of her league. And then, even more unbelievably, the music director said to her, "Listen, everyone's nervous today. Don't be. We want to hear the best you can do. We're on your side. Start from the beginning again, please, move a little closer to the mike, shut your eyes and pretend we're not here, and sing it again." What? What the Hell?
So she gratefully began again. (Stop reading right now if you have a weak heart.) Same thing. Trembling, embarrassingly nervous. This time they didn't even cut her off after sixteen bars. The let her sing the WHOLE SONG!
She finished, they thanked her from the dim audience seats and we all moved on...next singer up.
I thought it was tremendously odd, but in time I sort of forgot about it. I got the role of Clifton Feddington, went into rehearsals and after four weeks or so opening night came around. We had a really good show. Killed 'em on opening night. Standing ovations, the works. Big opening night party planned at one of the producer's homes in Connecticut.
So there I am standing in the kitchen, drinking my beer, talking to someone, it's about two in the morning, everyone is kinda tipsy, both from drink and our success, when all of a sudden, VERY loud over the stereo speakers, comes "O, How a Rose 'Er Blooming" in all its nervous majesty. THEY HAD ASKED HER TO DO IT AGAIN SO THEY COULD TAPE IT FOR THE OPENING NIGHT PARTY!
Okay, okay, okay, really cruel. Really mean. Just a terrible thing to do.
God help me, I was laughing so hard I had to sit down.
See you tomorrow.
I don't think we'll be seeing monologues like in a cattle call or anything. The scripts have been sent out to the company members, some 60 strong. Sides will be available at the audition (a "side" is a small portion of the script for the actor to read from). The director has some people in mind for certain roles, I believe, but he's open to changing that, I think, if someone really wows him.
I"m sure as the playwright I'll have some input, especially since I'm also playing the leading role, but ultimately it's up to the director. I suspect he'll have a great deal from which to choose.
Like most actors, I've had approximately ten thousand auditions, it seems. One in particular comes to mind.
I remember auditioning for 1940's Radio Hour years ago for a production in Connecticut. I had already done the show four times by then (eventually ended up doing six different versions of it). I knew the producers were interested in having me do Clifton Feddington in it. That's the sort of M.C. lead role, the character holding the whole thing together. I had just finished doing the role at Mill Mountain Theatre in Virginia. So, understandably, we were all asked to bring in sixteen bars of swing music. I think I brought in Under My Skin. Anyway, it was one of those auditions where they bring in ten actors at a time and then call us up to the stage one by one, the other nine sitting in the audience listening. Not uncommon. So one by one we would get up and sing our best sixteen. About five or six actors into the audition, a kind of frumpy girl got up, never seen her before, she had on a sun dress, no make-up, really very out of place. She was nervous beyond belief. Her hands and legs were visibly shaking. Her voice, when she introduced herself and her song, had a tremble to it. I was a little concerned for her. But that was just the beginning. Her song choice was "O' How a Rose 'Er Blooming," a nineteenth century parlor song. The kind you might hear accompanied by a harpsichord. She sang it with trembling voice, trembling arms and legs, nervous to the point of collapse. Unbelievably, no one cut her off. They let her finish. We, in the audience, were very uncomfortable. Clearly she was out of her league. And then, even more unbelievably, the music director said to her, "Listen, everyone's nervous today. Don't be. We want to hear the best you can do. We're on your side. Start from the beginning again, please, move a little closer to the mike, shut your eyes and pretend we're not here, and sing it again." What? What the Hell?
So she gratefully began again. (Stop reading right now if you have a weak heart.) Same thing. Trembling, embarrassingly nervous. This time they didn't even cut her off after sixteen bars. The let her sing the WHOLE SONG!
She finished, they thanked her from the dim audience seats and we all moved on...next singer up.
I thought it was tremendously odd, but in time I sort of forgot about it. I got the role of Clifton Feddington, went into rehearsals and after four weeks or so opening night came around. We had a really good show. Killed 'em on opening night. Standing ovations, the works. Big opening night party planned at one of the producer's homes in Connecticut.
So there I am standing in the kitchen, drinking my beer, talking to someone, it's about two in the morning, everyone is kinda tipsy, both from drink and our success, when all of a sudden, VERY loud over the stereo speakers, comes "O, How a Rose 'Er Blooming" in all its nervous majesty. THEY HAD ASKED HER TO DO IT AGAIN SO THEY COULD TAPE IT FOR THE OPENING NIGHT PARTY!
Okay, okay, okay, really cruel. Really mean. Just a terrible thing to do.
God help me, I was laughing so hard I had to sit down.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Excerpt from Praying Small
Sam
They say it’s impossible to dream your own death. Or to even imagine it. Because we have no
reference. Nothing to compare what it might be like. And, I think, it’s the same with your life.
It’s a crap shoot. It is truly beyond my comprehension when I try and understand the millions,
the billions of casual, random, haphazard choices that make up my presence. Thousands of
years of flipping life’s coin. Heads and then tails and tails again and then heads and heads and
then tails and another tails and a heads and then a tails and on and on and on. Thousands of
years of that. And at the end stands me and my choices, my coin flipping, my random, casual,
haphazard selections. And they all intersect every so often. And then there’s another person.
Another human being, with the same coin flipping and the same casual, random, savage choices
before them. And they have an intersection, too. And then, even more impossible, the
intersections intersect. And before you know it and with hardly a snowball’s chance in Hell of
doing anything about it you’re suddenly in love and married and a father, maybe, and scared
and a drunk and completely, completely, completely clueless. We cannot save ourselves from
this arbitrary, capricious existence. So we pray. And we beg God, the big crossing guard in the
sky, to make our intersections as painless as possible. Please, God, we say, no more. No more.
Please. That’s enough. Just slow me down, God. Slow me down and let me breathe. You don’t
have to help me, God, I’m not asking that—just please, please don’t hinder me. And if we have
any sense left in our heads at all after a lifetime of casual atrocities, accidental monsters and
incidental happiness we scale everything back. We learn to pray small. We understand,
however minutely, what only the very, very wise and enlightened understand: just give me a
few seconds, no, less—a moment, a heartbeat, a blink of peace. Just long enough to know it
exists, just long enough to smile about it. Please. Can you just do that for me today. (Beat.) The
rest I think I can carry a little longer.
See you tomorrow.
They say it’s impossible to dream your own death. Or to even imagine it. Because we have no
reference. Nothing to compare what it might be like. And, I think, it’s the same with your life.
It’s a crap shoot. It is truly beyond my comprehension when I try and understand the millions,
the billions of casual, random, haphazard choices that make up my presence. Thousands of
years of flipping life’s coin. Heads and then tails and tails again and then heads and heads and
then tails and another tails and a heads and then a tails and on and on and on. Thousands of
years of that. And at the end stands me and my choices, my coin flipping, my random, casual,
haphazard selections. And they all intersect every so often. And then there’s another person.
Another human being, with the same coin flipping and the same casual, random, savage choices
before them. And they have an intersection, too. And then, even more impossible, the
intersections intersect. And before you know it and with hardly a snowball’s chance in Hell of
doing anything about it you’re suddenly in love and married and a father, maybe, and scared
and a drunk and completely, completely, completely clueless. We cannot save ourselves from
this arbitrary, capricious existence. So we pray. And we beg God, the big crossing guard in the
sky, to make our intersections as painless as possible. Please, God, we say, no more. No more.
Please. That’s enough. Just slow me down, God. Slow me down and let me breathe. You don’t
have to help me, God, I’m not asking that—just please, please don’t hinder me. And if we have
any sense left in our heads at all after a lifetime of casual atrocities, accidental monsters and
incidental happiness we scale everything back. We learn to pray small. We understand,
however minutely, what only the very, very wise and enlightened understand: just give me a
few seconds, no, less—a moment, a heartbeat, a blink of peace. Just long enough to know it
exists, just long enough to smile about it. Please. Can you just do that for me today. (Beat.) The
rest I think I can carry a little longer.
See you tomorrow.
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