An eye-opening rehearsal last night, to say the least. This is my 112th professional, Equity production as an actor. And over the course of those shows I'd like to think (although sometimes I'm not so sure) I've learned some things. One thing I always wait for in the rehearsal process, and it nearly always happens, is what I like to call the 'first plateau.' It usually happens about two weeks into rehearsal (for non-musicals, usually a little earlier). This is when the cast has a rehearsal that finally gives everyone a glimpse of what is possible. It's a heady feeling. This is what happened last night.
One of my co-stars in this piece is a remarkably talented actress named Kelly Lester. She, like myself I'm surmising, has a long history in this silly little business. And in this play, she, too, has a brutally long and complicated song. Her major song comes at the top of the show, right out of the gate. Mine is about halfway through. So when the curtain metaphorically goes up, the first thing the audience will see and hear is Kelly. And as anyone who's done musical theater can tell you, it's crucial, absolutely crucial, to knock 'em out immediately.
Kelly's song, even more so than mine, I dare say, is a combination of impossible range, intensely complicated rhythms and complex counting on the part of the actor. Kelly came in last night and hit it out of the park on the first swing. During the break I told her, completely sincerely, "You've just set the bar impossibly high for the rest of us." I meant it. It was a dazzling display of virtuoso talent. Even Alan (Alan Patrick Kenny, our encyclopedic musical director, himself unbelievably talented) normally somewhat subdued during rehearsal, was whooping with excitement. I am not, at least vocally, involved in the first number, so I only had to sit and listen to it. Our ensemble nailed it right along with her. Alan has said a couple of times in this process thus far, "Musical theater at it's very best must appear as though the actor is composing the score 'on the spot.'" Well, that's what it looked like. It is, and will be, a tour de force for her. I often tell my students that a play is only as good as its weakest actor. I hope I'm not getting ahead of myself here, but I honestly don't think we need worry about that with this piece. There simply are no 'weak' actors.
The next 'plateau' will probably occur during the sitzprobe, which is German for 'sit and sing.' That has been my experience, anyway. We'll continue along on this current path, working at this high level of expectation, that is to say, and I suspect the next time we all jump to a higher plane will be when the orchestra is present and we all hear the fullness of the score underneath us. That day is always tremendously exciting. I remember the second time I did Camelot I did it with an orchestra of about twenty-five musicians. We were all in an acoustically perfect rehearsal hall in Pennsylvania and when the music (remember, we had been used to working with simply a piano) and the strings swelled beneath us, it was a little bit of magic. Always works that way. I've done a play called 1940's Radio Hour a total of six times around the country. That play, as the title would suggest, is all about jazz/swing music from the forties. The first time the cast works with the onstage full orchestra, complete with swinging brass, it's electric. Every single time.
So, we're finally off and running. Off and flying, actually. The rest of the evening went well, too. I was even a little happy with my massive number, Zero's Confession. There are still spots in the song that concern me deeply (there are two moments in which I'm compelled to sing high Fs...and by the time I get to them they are, well, just not there) but I have some ideas. I mentioned to Alan last night that I'd like to 'negotiate' with him about the spots in the song that I can emotionally express without actually singing. He smiled and said, "Okay." I think it will be up to me to demonstrate whether they can work or not.
So, finally, a rehearsal yesterday I didn't walk away from in angst. I knew it would happen, I just didn't know when.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Attacking the Script.
Last Tango in Los Angeles: Attacking the Script.: "There are fleeting, secret moments during the rehearsal of this play in which I think to myself, 'This play is not do-able. At least not p..."
Attacking the Script.
There are fleeting, secret moments during the rehearsal of this play in which I think to myself, "This play is not do-able. At least not professionally." Now, of course, that's just silliness, but I still think it. I was privately thinking it last night in rehearsal. The music, so dense, so exacting, that to envision taking it to the next step, that is, memorizing it and making dramatic choices and being comfortable enough with it to play inside the music itself, just seems incomprehensively distant. Again, I know this to not be true. But knowing something and feeling something are two different things.
Years ago I played 'The Chairman' in a musical called 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood' based on the Charles Dickens' unfinished novel. Later, I believe, the actual name was shortened to simply DROOD! (with the exclamation point). I remember thinking the same thing about that piece. In fact, the author of that piece, Rupert Holmes, astonishingly, even writes in the notes for the play that The Chairman will, in fact, 'go up' on his lines at some point during the run and it would serve everyone well, if a 'handsomely bound' manuscript be kept within easy reach on stage so that he might grab it when he 'goes up.' I have seen that unlikely notation in no other play I've ever done, before or since. And yes, that character certainly has a massive amount of lines. I was doing the musical with some real powerhouse musical-theater actors: James Barbour, Mitch Kantor, Jennifer Piech, Paige Davis, and I believe, if I remember correctly, we had a ridiculously short amount of time to mount it, something like three weeks. We took the advice of Mr. Holmes and did, in fact, make a script available on stage. And sure enough, about three or four weeks into the run, I 'went up.' There is another character onstage at all times along with The Chairman, ambiguously named The Stage Manager. He had the 'handsomely bound' manuscript in front of him. I remember just going blank at one point, adlibbing a bit, furiously searching my brain-files for the next moment, finding nothing and then simply turning to the actor playing The Stage Manager and saying, "Yes, well. Pray, tell me, what, exactly, er, did Mr. Dickens have in store for us next?" He quickly fed me my line and we were off again. A few years later I actually met Rupert Holmes in New York and had the opportunity to thank him for that piece of written advice. He said, "Yes, well, we learned it the hard way ourselves when George Rose did it on Broadway. Strangely, he always went up in the exact same place as you."
In any event, this is how I feel about 'The Adding Machine' at times. I can't quite comprehend how we're going to do this. We're two weeks into rehearsal at this point and I'm not only still on book, I'm still struggling with the notes. It seems no matter how prepared I think I am for rehearsal I'm still caught off-guard.
This is not your father's oldsmobile. Not by a long shot.
Every night on my way home from rehearsal I tell myself emphatically, 'I will NOT be caught off-guard again.' And the next day I am. Oy. Very frustrating.
All I can say is 'The Odd Couple' looks very inviting right about now.
Got a call from Chad Coe yesterday, the wonderful actor that played the lead in my play, From the East to the West. We're going ahead with the filming of that piece. The budget is in place, finally, the equipment gathered (Chad has a lot of connections in town), the location scouting done, and now I have to do some re-writes on the script. The play, incidentally, has been nominated for a Broadway World 'Best New Work' award. It contains some of my favorite writing. I'm still not satisfied with the second act, but I like it better now than I did this time last year. When read in Chicago a few years ago, somehow the press got wind of the reading and a week later this blurb was seen in the theater section of The Reader: "The long-awaited new play from Clifford Morts is called From the East to the West. This reporter attended a reading of it recently and can only say WOW." Very nice blurb, but the 'wow' never took place in Chicago, much to my chagrin. The 'wow' had to wait for Los Angeles.
Today, it's back to the music before our next rehearsal later on. We're attacking a huge, nine minute song I have about halfway through the show. It's called Zero's Confession and to be blunt, it's a bitch. It's giving me nightmares. It's also one of the most dramatic and unsettling pieces of music I've ever heard. I'll listen to the piano part about 100 times before I take it on tonight. And no doubt, I'll still be surprised. I'll still be caught off-guard. I'll still be delighted and frightened all at once. I'll still wonder what in hell I was thinking when I took this part. And I'll still think this very well may be the best thing I've done in decades.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Christie Hargrove. Rest in Peace, Old Friend.
A few days ago, my friend and college chum, Christie Hargrove, died unexpectedly on Thanksgiving eve in Nevada, Missouri, a small town in the southern part of the state. Evidently there was a fire in her small apartment and she died of smoke inhalation. Her beloved dog died, too.
Christie was a little younger than I am so we didn't really mingle in the same circles in college. But I often saw her in 'the green room' in the theater building and on opening night parties of various plays I was doing. She was always in poor health, later in life wheelchair-bound. We always exchanged pleasantries and she always seemed delighted to tell me what she thought of whatever play I happened to be doing. She had a discerning eye when it came to the stage. She never once talked about her condition or showed any sign of self-pity. I remember her laughing a great deal.
We reconnected on 'Facebook' many years later (last year, in fact). Facebook is good for that.
Her last post on Facebook, a few hours before she died, was this, "I want to be kissed. Not a peck on the cheek, but a full-fledged kiss."
She has been sending me private messages on Facebook for quite awhile now, commenting on whatever project I happened to be involved in at the time. She wrote to me a few months ago, "Of all the people I knew back then when we were in college, I always thought you'd be the one that was going to become a star. You were the guy everyone always talked about. People spent hours discussing your work on stage and how different and better it was than anyone else. I always couldn't wait to see what you would do next."
I messaged her back the following day. "Thank you, Christy (sic). I had my own demons to battle first, as it turns out, but things look good now. As they do for you, it seems."
She messaged back, "I saw you once on TV and a friend of mine saw you in a play in New York. She said you were really good."
I messaged back, "Thanks. I was probably too drunk at the time to remember."
A little while later, she posted that she'd be directing a comedy for her local community theater group in Nevada, Missouri. She wrote that she was off to auditions one night and then later posted that no men had shown up for the audition and she didn't know what she was going to do about that. I told Angie that night I wish I was in a position to drop everything here in Los Angeles and fly to Missouri and just do that role for her myself. She had come so far and was so excited about directing this little community theatre gig. But apparently, a few days later, she found an actor and they rehearsed the play and it was a big success, lots of laughs. She was beside herself with pride and joy. And then, a little later, she posted she would directing the wonderful play, 'Harvey,' next year at the same theater.
And to make it all even sweeter, she was scheduled to have a new surgery which would eventually allow her to have more mobility and get out of her apartment more. By now, her health had all but made her a shut-in. She posted on Facebook all the time, telling the world about her new laptop, the movies she was watching, the food she was making, the hi-jinx of her dog, the hope she had for the future, her frustrations with the doctors she was seeing. I read them all. And now and then I would even hit the 'like' button next to her posts.
Angie came into the bedroom the day after Thanksgiving. I was laying in bed reading. She was crying and told me that Christie had died in the night. I put my book aside and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Christie Hargrove.
I'm not going to even begin to write about injustices and irony and cosmic, black humor. Suffice to say I, like everyone else, don't understand why good people are taken and bad people left behind. An hour or so later I saw on the news that a man had kidnapped a little girl, raped her repeatedly, and kept her prisoner for weeks. He was caught, subsequently, and now apparently is in jail awaiting a trial. I thought, "Why not him, Big Guy? If You needed one more, why not him? Why Christie, a woman who never said a bad thing in her life about someone else, a woman who played the hand you gave her with grace and dignity? If You just had to have another soul, why her?"
Now, I'm fully aware of how sophomoric my line of thought here is, theologically speaking. Fine. I don't give a fuck. I'll ask again today. Why her?
Death and loss has been an unwelcome recurring theme in my life. My mother in 1987, dozens of friends in New York throughout the 80s to the great plague, AIDS, even more, including one of my closest friends, Robert Fiedler, to alcohol abuse and drug addiction over the years. At the risk of cliche', I am certainly no stranger to death.
And while I'm on the subject, why not me? God knows I spent decades putting myself repeatedly in harm's way. For a long time, I wanted to die. I prayed for release. I just didn't have the cojones to do it. So I took the coward's long, slow method and drank enough over the years to kill a score of men. And yet, nothing happened. Just more misery. More life.
I think it goes without saying that that part of my life is long over. And yet...and yet. Every time I try to make sense of this great poker game we're in, I just get angry. I'm angry right now. I'm incensed over this apparently random and senseless loss.
I've decided to dedicate my performance in this new play, The Adding Machine, to Christie in my bio in the program. I suspect she would have loved it. The play, that is. 'Tis a small thing, to be sure. But it will make me feel better.
Angie knew Christie better than I did. She is devastated by this. She is, if possible, even angrier than I am about it.
This morning I scrolled down and looked at Christie's last post again. "I want to be kissed." I wish I could kiss her right now. Not a peck on the cheek, but a full-fledged kiss. I wish I could do that right now.
See you tomorrow.
Christie was a little younger than I am so we didn't really mingle in the same circles in college. But I often saw her in 'the green room' in the theater building and on opening night parties of various plays I was doing. She was always in poor health, later in life wheelchair-bound. We always exchanged pleasantries and she always seemed delighted to tell me what she thought of whatever play I happened to be doing. She had a discerning eye when it came to the stage. She never once talked about her condition or showed any sign of self-pity. I remember her laughing a great deal.
We reconnected on 'Facebook' many years later (last year, in fact). Facebook is good for that.
Her last post on Facebook, a few hours before she died, was this, "I want to be kissed. Not a peck on the cheek, but a full-fledged kiss."
She has been sending me private messages on Facebook for quite awhile now, commenting on whatever project I happened to be involved in at the time. She wrote to me a few months ago, "Of all the people I knew back then when we were in college, I always thought you'd be the one that was going to become a star. You were the guy everyone always talked about. People spent hours discussing your work on stage and how different and better it was than anyone else. I always couldn't wait to see what you would do next."
I messaged her back the following day. "Thank you, Christy (sic). I had my own demons to battle first, as it turns out, but things look good now. As they do for you, it seems."
She messaged back, "I saw you once on TV and a friend of mine saw you in a play in New York. She said you were really good."
I messaged back, "Thanks. I was probably too drunk at the time to remember."
A little while later, she posted that she'd be directing a comedy for her local community theater group in Nevada, Missouri. She wrote that she was off to auditions one night and then later posted that no men had shown up for the audition and she didn't know what she was going to do about that. I told Angie that night I wish I was in a position to drop everything here in Los Angeles and fly to Missouri and just do that role for her myself. She had come so far and was so excited about directing this little community theatre gig. But apparently, a few days later, she found an actor and they rehearsed the play and it was a big success, lots of laughs. She was beside herself with pride and joy. And then, a little later, she posted she would directing the wonderful play, 'Harvey,' next year at the same theater.
And to make it all even sweeter, she was scheduled to have a new surgery which would eventually allow her to have more mobility and get out of her apartment more. By now, her health had all but made her a shut-in. She posted on Facebook all the time, telling the world about her new laptop, the movies she was watching, the food she was making, the hi-jinx of her dog, the hope she had for the future, her frustrations with the doctors she was seeing. I read them all. And now and then I would even hit the 'like' button next to her posts.
Angie came into the bedroom the day after Thanksgiving. I was laying in bed reading. She was crying and told me that Christie had died in the night. I put my book aside and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Christie Hargrove.
I'm not going to even begin to write about injustices and irony and cosmic, black humor. Suffice to say I, like everyone else, don't understand why good people are taken and bad people left behind. An hour or so later I saw on the news that a man had kidnapped a little girl, raped her repeatedly, and kept her prisoner for weeks. He was caught, subsequently, and now apparently is in jail awaiting a trial. I thought, "Why not him, Big Guy? If You needed one more, why not him? Why Christie, a woman who never said a bad thing in her life about someone else, a woman who played the hand you gave her with grace and dignity? If You just had to have another soul, why her?"
Now, I'm fully aware of how sophomoric my line of thought here is, theologically speaking. Fine. I don't give a fuck. I'll ask again today. Why her?
Death and loss has been an unwelcome recurring theme in my life. My mother in 1987, dozens of friends in New York throughout the 80s to the great plague, AIDS, even more, including one of my closest friends, Robert Fiedler, to alcohol abuse and drug addiction over the years. At the risk of cliche', I am certainly no stranger to death.
And while I'm on the subject, why not me? God knows I spent decades putting myself repeatedly in harm's way. For a long time, I wanted to die. I prayed for release. I just didn't have the cojones to do it. So I took the coward's long, slow method and drank enough over the years to kill a score of men. And yet, nothing happened. Just more misery. More life.
I think it goes without saying that that part of my life is long over. And yet...and yet. Every time I try to make sense of this great poker game we're in, I just get angry. I'm angry right now. I'm incensed over this apparently random and senseless loss.
I've decided to dedicate my performance in this new play, The Adding Machine, to Christie in my bio in the program. I suspect she would have loved it. The play, that is. 'Tis a small thing, to be sure. But it will make me feel better.
Angie knew Christie better than I did. She is devastated by this. She is, if possible, even angrier than I am about it.
This morning I scrolled down and looked at Christie's last post again. "I want to be kissed." I wish I could kiss her right now. Not a peck on the cheek, but a full-fledged kiss. I wish I could do that right now.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Christmas Lights and Boxing Matches.
Today, like many others around the country I suspect, is 'take the Christmas stuff out of the garage and put it up' day. I like this day. I like the process. I like the whole feeling to it. We might have to buy some new lights because Angie thinks some of our strings are burnt out. I don't rememeber that they have, but we'll take a look. I feel very domestic on this day, swaying precariously up on my ladder as I string the lights around the house. Very Ward Cleaver.
We're cooking up a massive kettle of chili to enhance the day's Christmas spirit. Not that chili has anything to do with Christmas, although I suppose it might if you lived in Mexico City. Angie has a lot of ornaments, etc., from 'olden days' so I always get little anecdotes and family stories as we unpack the Christmas boxes. I've already heard them all, of course, but I listen again patiently. Part of her 'take the Christmas stuff out of the garage and put it up' day is repeating the stories attached to the various ornaments.
Yesterday I had a very productive day with our musical director, Alan Patrick Kenny. This mammoth song I have in the middle of the show called 'Zero's Confession' is the hardest piece of music I've ever had to learn. It went well although it's still light years away from performance. The song, as I've mentioned before, is about ten minutes long and by the time I'm halfway through I feel like I've been singing for an hour. But we keep plugging away at it. One measure at a time.
We also worked on two of my 'ballads' with Mrs. Zero (played by a wonderful singer/actress, Kelly Lester). Kelly is a 'real' singer, as opposed to me, a 'pretend' singer. She's got an astonishing soprano voice that appears to cover something like seven or eight octaves. The result is something akin to Beverly Sills singing a duet with Tom Waits. Nonetheless, strange as it sounds, the outcome is really quite beautiful.
Oddly, I'm off today. No rehearsal. I'm tempted to simply put the score out of my mind and attend to the Christmas stuff. Of course, I can't do that, and long about 3:00 I suspect I'll plug this music in and start warbling along with it.
Last night I watched one of my new Netflix DVDs...it's called "ALI versus Chuvalo, The Last Round." As any longtime reader of this blog knows, I'm an amateur boxing historian and revel in DVD footage of old heavyweight fights. I won't dwell on this because I know that hardly anyone else is a boxing enthusiast but the DVD changed my mind about George Chuvalo, a tough, journeyman contender in the 60s and 70s. Chuvalo, I think, was a better fighter than I ever gave him credit for. He, like so many others - Oscar Bonevena, Jerry Quarry, Ron Lyle, Cleveland Williams, Buster Mathis - had the great misfortune to come along at the same time as Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier and George Foreman. If that had not been the case I think there was a very good chance Chuvalo would have been a champion. At least for a little while. But, as fate would have it, he reached his peak as a fighter at the exact same time as arguably the greatest fighter in the history of the game, Muhammad Ali. They fought in Toronto in 1966, before Ali's layoff, and Chuvalo didn't stand a chance, although he put up a good showing. Fighting Ali at that point in his career was like fighting a shadow. He simply couldn't be hit. The one interesting thing about the fight, however, was that it sort of served as a precurser to Ali's later all-out wars in the 70s with Frazier and Foreman. Up to that point no one had any idea if Ali could take a shot because, well, he was simply too fast to hit. But at one point during this fight, Ali comes down off his toes, stops dancing, and goes toe to toe with Chuvalo. And in the process took a few cannon shots to the head. To everyone's surprise he was completely unfazed. Remember, Ali was, at that point, quite possibly the most hated man in America. Nearly everyone wanted someone to finally and forever shut his mouth. So here it is, round 11 in a tough 15 round brawl, and Ali stops moving and slugs it out for a little while. Unheard of. And lo and behold, as sportswriters shook their heads in confusion, Ali outslugged a slugger. As Chuvalo himself said, "I realized early on that I couldn't outbox him. And then about halfway through the fight I realized I couldn't outslug him, either." He was the first of many fighters to discover this uncomfortable fact.
Many consider Ali's fight against Cleveland Williams in the Houston Astrodome in 1967 to be Ali's greatest moment as a fighter. And it probably was. But this fight, a year earlier, was when Ali unwrapped perhaps his greatest gift to a shocked public: his ability to take a punch. To the observant, five years later when he fought Joe Frazier in Madison Square Garden and took Joe's best shots right on the chin without flinching, it came as no surprise. As the very fine boxing writer, the late Red Smith, wrote after the Frazier fight, "He proved he not only could take a punch, he could take one better than anyone in the history of the game."
And now, if you'll excuse me, my dogs, Franny and Zooey, are staring at me. I'm trying to ignore them but they're relentless. It's time for a walk.
See you tomorrow.
We're cooking up a massive kettle of chili to enhance the day's Christmas spirit. Not that chili has anything to do with Christmas, although I suppose it might if you lived in Mexico City. Angie has a lot of ornaments, etc., from 'olden days' so I always get little anecdotes and family stories as we unpack the Christmas boxes. I've already heard them all, of course, but I listen again patiently. Part of her 'take the Christmas stuff out of the garage and put it up' day is repeating the stories attached to the various ornaments.
Yesterday I had a very productive day with our musical director, Alan Patrick Kenny. This mammoth song I have in the middle of the show called 'Zero's Confession' is the hardest piece of music I've ever had to learn. It went well although it's still light years away from performance. The song, as I've mentioned before, is about ten minutes long and by the time I'm halfway through I feel like I've been singing for an hour. But we keep plugging away at it. One measure at a time.
We also worked on two of my 'ballads' with Mrs. Zero (played by a wonderful singer/actress, Kelly Lester). Kelly is a 'real' singer, as opposed to me, a 'pretend' singer. She's got an astonishing soprano voice that appears to cover something like seven or eight octaves. The result is something akin to Beverly Sills singing a duet with Tom Waits. Nonetheless, strange as it sounds, the outcome is really quite beautiful.
Oddly, I'm off today. No rehearsal. I'm tempted to simply put the score out of my mind and attend to the Christmas stuff. Of course, I can't do that, and long about 3:00 I suspect I'll plug this music in and start warbling along with it.
Last night I watched one of my new Netflix DVDs...it's called "ALI versus Chuvalo, The Last Round." As any longtime reader of this blog knows, I'm an amateur boxing historian and revel in DVD footage of old heavyweight fights. I won't dwell on this because I know that hardly anyone else is a boxing enthusiast but the DVD changed my mind about George Chuvalo, a tough, journeyman contender in the 60s and 70s. Chuvalo, I think, was a better fighter than I ever gave him credit for. He, like so many others - Oscar Bonevena, Jerry Quarry, Ron Lyle, Cleveland Williams, Buster Mathis - had the great misfortune to come along at the same time as Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier and George Foreman. If that had not been the case I think there was a very good chance Chuvalo would have been a champion. At least for a little while. But, as fate would have it, he reached his peak as a fighter at the exact same time as arguably the greatest fighter in the history of the game, Muhammad Ali. They fought in Toronto in 1966, before Ali's layoff, and Chuvalo didn't stand a chance, although he put up a good showing. Fighting Ali at that point in his career was like fighting a shadow. He simply couldn't be hit. The one interesting thing about the fight, however, was that it sort of served as a precurser to Ali's later all-out wars in the 70s with Frazier and Foreman. Up to that point no one had any idea if Ali could take a shot because, well, he was simply too fast to hit. But at one point during this fight, Ali comes down off his toes, stops dancing, and goes toe to toe with Chuvalo. And in the process took a few cannon shots to the head. To everyone's surprise he was completely unfazed. Remember, Ali was, at that point, quite possibly the most hated man in America. Nearly everyone wanted someone to finally and forever shut his mouth. So here it is, round 11 in a tough 15 round brawl, and Ali stops moving and slugs it out for a little while. Unheard of. And lo and behold, as sportswriters shook their heads in confusion, Ali outslugged a slugger. As Chuvalo himself said, "I realized early on that I couldn't outbox him. And then about halfway through the fight I realized I couldn't outslug him, either." He was the first of many fighters to discover this uncomfortable fact.
Many consider Ali's fight against Cleveland Williams in the Houston Astrodome in 1967 to be Ali's greatest moment as a fighter. And it probably was. But this fight, a year earlier, was when Ali unwrapped perhaps his greatest gift to a shocked public: his ability to take a punch. To the observant, five years later when he fought Joe Frazier in Madison Square Garden and took Joe's best shots right on the chin without flinching, it came as no surprise. As the very fine boxing writer, the late Red Smith, wrote after the Frazier fight, "He proved he not only could take a punch, he could take one better than anyone in the history of the game."
And now, if you'll excuse me, my dogs, Franny and Zooey, are staring at me. I'm trying to ignore them but they're relentless. It's time for a walk.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Stephen Sondheim's 80th Birthday Celebration.
I ended up finally watching 'Sondheim's 80th Birthday Party' on PBS last night. I missed it the first time it was on a few nights back but I TiVo'd it and watched it last night. I have to say, I liked it so much I actually went back and watched parts of it again. It is literally a 'Who's Who' of the people working at the very top of their game in the musical theatre world.
Patti Lupone has been belting it out since the mid 70s. She sings 'Ladies Who Lunch' in the celebration and I was thinking there just aren't too many people that can sing that song right in front of Elaine Stritch and still make it all their own. Lupone can. And she does. I have always wondered how Ethel Merman became such a huge presence in the theatre...yes, she could certainly belt. But she couldn't act much and she couldn't dance and she wasn't good looking. I answered my own question last night as I watched Lupone. Although there is really no comparison when it comes to talent, I realized as I watched her last night how powerful it is when a personality like that is melded with a talent like that. She is our latter day Merman. I couldn't take my eyes from her. Sheer force of nature. Merman must have been something like that in her heyday.
And of course, Patinkin sang from 'Sunday in the Park with George.' I saw he and Bernadette Peters do it in NYC way, WAY back in 1985. It was the second musical on Broadway I ever saw (the first being 'Dreamgirls). Along with the Steppenwolf production of 'Orphans' at West Side Arts (I was later to play on that very same stage), 'Sunday in the Park' is the most influential piece of theatre I've ever seen. Mandy Patinkin is one of those performers you either love or hate. I love him. I love his intensity, I love his 'over the top' mannerisms, I love his narcissistic presence, I love his crazy-good voice. Mr. Patinkin has a questionable reputation in the theatre world. Any one in this business has no doubt heard stories of how 'difficult' he can be to work with. But I have a close friend who has done two shows with Mandy. He tells me that he never saw that side of him. He told me that yes, Patinkin is rather stand-offish to his co-workers, but he says it's not because he has any sort of chip on his shoulder but rather that he finally realized that Patinkin is simply acutely shy. I understand and identify with that completely. I, too, have now and again gotten bad report cards from fellow performers. And I, too, have trouble opening up to actors I'm working with on stage sometimes. Again, I adore Mandy Patinkin and his talent. A rather over used phrase in this business is 'he has a gift.' In Mr. Patinkin's case it is overwhelmingly true. He has a gift. His work always astounds me.
And, of course, Bernadette Peters. There is a moment in the show where six or seven top leading ladies in the theatre today all sit on stage and one by one rise and sing an amazing Sondheim song. Each seems to top the last. Elaine Stritch ends the segment by singing/talking/belting 'I'm Still Here,' a song that has become her signature tune. But before her, Ms. Peters sings, simply and powerfully, 'Day After Day After Day.' She is mesmerizing.
The special ended with what appears to be every current singer on Broadway filing to the stage and singing, en masse, 'Sunday' from 'Sunday in the Park.' The stage is filled with performers. It's an awesome sight. And beautiful. Sunday in the Park with George is my favorite musical of all time, even more so than 'Sweeny Todd,' which many today consider his masterpiece. I disagree. As fond as I am of 'Sweeny,' it is 'Sunday' that still raises my arm hairs today. I did the show myself many years ago in Virginia. It is one of my fondest memories in the theatre.
It is very fitting that I should see this special at this time because I'm smack dab in the middle of rehearsals for 'The Adding Machine,' by Josh Schmidt and Jason Leuwith. I have described it recently to friends as 'Sondheim Squared.' Interestingly, I was chatting with another friend the other day and he said, much to my surprise, that 'Sondheim had ruined musical theatre. He destroyed the beautiful melodies of Broadway. Well, after watching this piece of genius last night I agree with him even less than I did before. I used to say to people that Stephen Sondheim was our Mozart and Andrew Webber our Salieri. I believe it more than ever now.
So...Happy Birthday, Stephen Sondheim. There is Sondheim and then there is everyone else. When he dies, every other composer in the world moves up a notch.
See you tomorrow.
Patti Lupone has been belting it out since the mid 70s. She sings 'Ladies Who Lunch' in the celebration and I was thinking there just aren't too many people that can sing that song right in front of Elaine Stritch and still make it all their own. Lupone can. And she does. I have always wondered how Ethel Merman became such a huge presence in the theatre...yes, she could certainly belt. But she couldn't act much and she couldn't dance and she wasn't good looking. I answered my own question last night as I watched Lupone. Although there is really no comparison when it comes to talent, I realized as I watched her last night how powerful it is when a personality like that is melded with a talent like that. She is our latter day Merman. I couldn't take my eyes from her. Sheer force of nature. Merman must have been something like that in her heyday.
And of course, Patinkin sang from 'Sunday in the Park with George.' I saw he and Bernadette Peters do it in NYC way, WAY back in 1985. It was the second musical on Broadway I ever saw (the first being 'Dreamgirls). Along with the Steppenwolf production of 'Orphans' at West Side Arts (I was later to play on that very same stage), 'Sunday in the Park' is the most influential piece of theatre I've ever seen. Mandy Patinkin is one of those performers you either love or hate. I love him. I love his intensity, I love his 'over the top' mannerisms, I love his narcissistic presence, I love his crazy-good voice. Mr. Patinkin has a questionable reputation in the theatre world. Any one in this business has no doubt heard stories of how 'difficult' he can be to work with. But I have a close friend who has done two shows with Mandy. He tells me that he never saw that side of him. He told me that yes, Patinkin is rather stand-offish to his co-workers, but he says it's not because he has any sort of chip on his shoulder but rather that he finally realized that Patinkin is simply acutely shy. I understand and identify with that completely. I, too, have now and again gotten bad report cards from fellow performers. And I, too, have trouble opening up to actors I'm working with on stage sometimes. Again, I adore Mandy Patinkin and his talent. A rather over used phrase in this business is 'he has a gift.' In Mr. Patinkin's case it is overwhelmingly true. He has a gift. His work always astounds me.
And, of course, Bernadette Peters. There is a moment in the show where six or seven top leading ladies in the theatre today all sit on stage and one by one rise and sing an amazing Sondheim song. Each seems to top the last. Elaine Stritch ends the segment by singing/talking/belting 'I'm Still Here,' a song that has become her signature tune. But before her, Ms. Peters sings, simply and powerfully, 'Day After Day After Day.' She is mesmerizing.
The special ended with what appears to be every current singer on Broadway filing to the stage and singing, en masse, 'Sunday' from 'Sunday in the Park.' The stage is filled with performers. It's an awesome sight. And beautiful. Sunday in the Park with George is my favorite musical of all time, even more so than 'Sweeny Todd,' which many today consider his masterpiece. I disagree. As fond as I am of 'Sweeny,' it is 'Sunday' that still raises my arm hairs today. I did the show myself many years ago in Virginia. It is one of my fondest memories in the theatre.
It is very fitting that I should see this special at this time because I'm smack dab in the middle of rehearsals for 'The Adding Machine,' by Josh Schmidt and Jason Leuwith. I have described it recently to friends as 'Sondheim Squared.' Interestingly, I was chatting with another friend the other day and he said, much to my surprise, that 'Sondheim had ruined musical theatre. He destroyed the beautiful melodies of Broadway. Well, after watching this piece of genius last night I agree with him even less than I did before. I used to say to people that Stephen Sondheim was our Mozart and Andrew Webber our Salieri. I believe it more than ever now.
So...Happy Birthday, Stephen Sondheim. There is Sondheim and then there is everyone else. When he dies, every other composer in the world moves up a notch.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, November 26, 2010
A Great Day on the Beach.
What a wonderful Thanksgiving Angie and I had. We took our yearly trek over to beautiful Manhattan Beach to our friends Tammy and Mark Lipps. Tammy and Mark have a jaw-droppingly spectacular home over there, a few blocks from the beach. The morning is filled with a trip to the beach for a competitive game of touch footbal ala' the Kennedy family and then appetizers, wine and beer and chit-chat. Finally around four the massive spread is put out, buffet style. Following that a spirited game of 'Celebrity' which I'm proud to say I introduced to the proceedings last Thanksgiving. It has become a yearly event now. Two years running, Angie and I have won. It's a great way to end the holiday. At one point I looked around and the entire table (there were about 20 of us for the day) was literally weeping with laughter. Don and Donna Dieckens, our very close friends, were there as well, and I have to say Donna (who's partner was Tammy Lipps) very nearly made me pee my pants a few times. Funny stuff.
We are so very grateful to have friends like Mark and Tammy and Don and Donna. Smart, amusing, ironic, involved, perceptive people. My favorite kind. Mark, playing with his youngest son Graham and Angie's daughter Lauren, very nearly toppled our defending champion status.
I'm not sure who brought them, but there was a tin of super-exclusive, European cookies there that I very nearly single-handedly finished myself. Not especially healthy for a diabetically-challenged guy like myself but it was, obviously, a day of splurging.
Today I'm back in an all-day rehearsal for the show. I played a couple of the songs on the CD for Tammy and Donna, both amazing vocalists and musicians themselves, and they were both suitably awed by the music. Donna kept saying, "Oh, my God, this role is written for you, Clif." She's right. Hence, my involvement. I completely agree with her.
Wednesday night I had a long rehearsal with the musical director concentrating solely on my work in the play. Accomplished a great deal. I am learning to sing the piece without tensing up. This is common sense for trained singers (which I am not) but tough to assimilate for someone like me. For me, 99 percent of the time, the acting and singing are learned in tandem. That is to say, I learn and incorporate both at the same time. This role, however, which requires so much singing, can't be learned that way. I have to, for necessity's sake, learn one and then the other. It's a departure from my usual approach and consequently a bit daunting.
Thanksgiving is a purely American holiday, ostensibly dating back to the pilgrims. It was undoubtedly concieved for an entire nation to reflect on gratitude. Naturally, it's morphed into a very commercial driven holiday. Nonetheless, the iniitial concept is still observed. Angie and I have so very, very much to be thankful for this year. Although we, like nearly everyone else, struggle daily with all of the issues one might think; finances, careers, day to day setbacks and victories, kindnesses small and large, we live lives we both adore. Our days are filled with unconditional love and lots and lots of laughter. That, in and of itself, is quite literally priceless. Our weeks and months are overflowing with close friends, hopes and plans, goals and accomplishments. We have enough to eat, we are warm and we are always, always very gentle with each other. We instinctively realize and understand how fragile and rare our relationship is, how very rare our good fortunes are. We have both been through the fire and we deeply appreciate the lack of it. We have lived in the valleys and, consequently, revel in the views from the mountaintop. We have a God in our lives that is nebulous, personal, kind and uncomplicated all at once. He or She, for whatever reason, has chosen to watch over us benignly. We go to sleep smiling and we wake up smiling. And that's just not too shabby.
Happy Holidays, Gentle Reader. I wish for you what I myself finally have: peace and love in your life. 'Tis a nearly uncomprehesively beautiful thing.
See you tomorrow.
We are so very grateful to have friends like Mark and Tammy and Don and Donna. Smart, amusing, ironic, involved, perceptive people. My favorite kind. Mark, playing with his youngest son Graham and Angie's daughter Lauren, very nearly toppled our defending champion status.
I'm not sure who brought them, but there was a tin of super-exclusive, European cookies there that I very nearly single-handedly finished myself. Not especially healthy for a diabetically-challenged guy like myself but it was, obviously, a day of splurging.
Today I'm back in an all-day rehearsal for the show. I played a couple of the songs on the CD for Tammy and Donna, both amazing vocalists and musicians themselves, and they were both suitably awed by the music. Donna kept saying, "Oh, my God, this role is written for you, Clif." She's right. Hence, my involvement. I completely agree with her.
Wednesday night I had a long rehearsal with the musical director concentrating solely on my work in the play. Accomplished a great deal. I am learning to sing the piece without tensing up. This is common sense for trained singers (which I am not) but tough to assimilate for someone like me. For me, 99 percent of the time, the acting and singing are learned in tandem. That is to say, I learn and incorporate both at the same time. This role, however, which requires so much singing, can't be learned that way. I have to, for necessity's sake, learn one and then the other. It's a departure from my usual approach and consequently a bit daunting.
Thanksgiving is a purely American holiday, ostensibly dating back to the pilgrims. It was undoubtedly concieved for an entire nation to reflect on gratitude. Naturally, it's morphed into a very commercial driven holiday. Nonetheless, the iniitial concept is still observed. Angie and I have so very, very much to be thankful for this year. Although we, like nearly everyone else, struggle daily with all of the issues one might think; finances, careers, day to day setbacks and victories, kindnesses small and large, we live lives we both adore. Our days are filled with unconditional love and lots and lots of laughter. That, in and of itself, is quite literally priceless. Our weeks and months are overflowing with close friends, hopes and plans, goals and accomplishments. We have enough to eat, we are warm and we are always, always very gentle with each other. We instinctively realize and understand how fragile and rare our relationship is, how very rare our good fortunes are. We have both been through the fire and we deeply appreciate the lack of it. We have lived in the valleys and, consequently, revel in the views from the mountaintop. We have a God in our lives that is nebulous, personal, kind and uncomplicated all at once. He or She, for whatever reason, has chosen to watch over us benignly. We go to sleep smiling and we wake up smiling. And that's just not too shabby.
Happy Holidays, Gentle Reader. I wish for you what I myself finally have: peace and love in your life. 'Tis a nearly uncomprehesively beautiful thing.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving is all but upon us. Angie and I are heading over to beautiful Manhattan Beach to share the holiday with a group of friends at the Lipps household, Tammy and Mark. Tammy is responisible for our amazing wedding reception dinner (we still have, believe it or not, a log of filet mignon frozen in our fridge). She's an astonishing chef and afterwards we always play parlor games...I'm hoping to get a spirited game of 'Celebrity' going again. I first came upon this game on Sanibel Island many years ago while doing theatre down there at a horribly named yet high quality joint called 'Pirate Playhouse.' I did about 15 plays down there back in the 90s, everything from Two by Two to Boys Next Door to Run For Your Wife. Great place to work; wonderful, beachfront accomodations, beautiful surroundings, good actors (for the most part), sassy place to be around the holidays if you live in NYC as I did at the time. I always worked it so I could be down there around November, December and January. I had some really great holidays on that tropical island...I specifically remember laying on the secluded nude beach on Christmas Day. Great memories.
Like a lot of professional actors, I spent a number of holidays in the company of other actors away from home. We nomads would gather at someone's place and make our own family holiday. I remember one Thanksgiving on Sanibel, getting up at dawn and cooking the turkey, drinking tons of wine all day, having a great feast and then playing a five-hour bridge tournament. I think we were doing Wait Until Dark at the time and, strangely, all of us played bridge. Not a lot of bridge players left in the world.
Another time, I was in Chicago (although at that time I was still living in New York) and I was doing 'Carousel' at the famous but now defunct Candlelight Dinner Theater. We had a show Thanksgiving night and all of us gathered at my place for the turkey lunch/dinner. I was cooking and I misjudged the time it would take to cook the turkey so we all had to eat in about ten minutes and then rush to the show.
Another time in Connecticut doing '1940's Radio Hour.' We had a double header that day and between shows the entire cast went out for Indian food.
Another time in Virginia doing 'To Kill a Mockingbird' and we cooked the huge Thanksgiving dinner and then walked up a big hill and went sleigh riding all afternoon.
So most of my holidays are marked not by family memories but rather by what play I happened to be doing in what state.
One of the memories that I think about often is a Thanksgiving I had in Little Rock, Arkansas. I was doing 'Lost in Yonkers' at Arkansas Rep. The cast gathered in my small, one bedroom apartment the theater had provided for me (again, I was living in NYC at the time) and again, I was cooking the turkey. There were about eight or nine of us. One of the people there was a slight, shortish young man, very quiet, very polite. I'm ashamed to say I don't remember his name. I think he was the lighting designer for the show. In any event, the rule that year was that after everything was on the table and before we could eat, each person was asked to write a short (two or three pages) essay on what they were thankful for. It was terribly emotional. When I outlined the rules for the day, I didn't realize how moving some of the essays would be. When it came time around the table for this young man to read his essay, all was very quiet. Again, no one knew this guy very well, he kept to himself during rehearsals. As he began to read we heard his story. His parents had died early in his life and he had been shuffled from one foster home to another. His sister was developmentally challenged and living in a state run 'home.' He had worked his way through college, getting his degree in light design at the University of West Virginia. Aside from his temporary foster living, he'd never spent Thanksgiving with another person. Always alone. He adored actors because he was so very shy himself and was amazed that people could get on a stage in front of other people. A year earlier he had been diagnosed with Cancer. He'd lost a lot of weight but was now in remission. As he spoke, the silence in the small dining room was palpable. He ended by quietly reading that this was the best holiday he'd ever had. There was no self-pity in his reading, no whining, no self-indulgence. He was just happy to be around other people on Thanksgiving. I got a phone call about six months later that he had passed away.
Tomorrow I spend Thanksgiving with my beautiful and loving wife, a group of very close friends, in an astonishing house in one of the most elegant neighborhoods in the country. Before I take my first bite tomorrow I shall think of this young man. It has been about fifteen years since he died. Every year before I eat I take a few seconds to think of him. And the hope he represented. I take the time to be thankful. Since that day many years ago, I've spent many Thanksgiving dinners alone myself, resigned to the idea that it would always be that way.
Of course, he is only one of millions that persevere in the face of great cosmic injustice. And his small and thankful essay that year will stay with me all of my life.
I cannot begin to write about all I am thankful for. The list this year, 2010, is so long and filled it would simply be impossible. I had, over the past decade or so, come to despise the holidays. Christmas music and lights and all the trappings of the holidays made me indescribably sad. I began volunteering in Chicago for homeless shelters on Thanksgiving. And when the food was all doled out I would sit with strangers, the addicted, the hopeless, the bottom rung of society, and eat and talk and pretend I wasn't lonely. And each and every time I would take a few moments to remember that doomed young man in Virginia all those years ago. I shall do the same tomorrow.
See you then.
Like a lot of professional actors, I spent a number of holidays in the company of other actors away from home. We nomads would gather at someone's place and make our own family holiday. I remember one Thanksgiving on Sanibel, getting up at dawn and cooking the turkey, drinking tons of wine all day, having a great feast and then playing a five-hour bridge tournament. I think we were doing Wait Until Dark at the time and, strangely, all of us played bridge. Not a lot of bridge players left in the world.
Another time, I was in Chicago (although at that time I was still living in New York) and I was doing 'Carousel' at the famous but now defunct Candlelight Dinner Theater. We had a show Thanksgiving night and all of us gathered at my place for the turkey lunch/dinner. I was cooking and I misjudged the time it would take to cook the turkey so we all had to eat in about ten minutes and then rush to the show.
Another time in Connecticut doing '1940's Radio Hour.' We had a double header that day and between shows the entire cast went out for Indian food.
Another time in Virginia doing 'To Kill a Mockingbird' and we cooked the huge Thanksgiving dinner and then walked up a big hill and went sleigh riding all afternoon.
So most of my holidays are marked not by family memories but rather by what play I happened to be doing in what state.
One of the memories that I think about often is a Thanksgiving I had in Little Rock, Arkansas. I was doing 'Lost in Yonkers' at Arkansas Rep. The cast gathered in my small, one bedroom apartment the theater had provided for me (again, I was living in NYC at the time) and again, I was cooking the turkey. There were about eight or nine of us. One of the people there was a slight, shortish young man, very quiet, very polite. I'm ashamed to say I don't remember his name. I think he was the lighting designer for the show. In any event, the rule that year was that after everything was on the table and before we could eat, each person was asked to write a short (two or three pages) essay on what they were thankful for. It was terribly emotional. When I outlined the rules for the day, I didn't realize how moving some of the essays would be. When it came time around the table for this young man to read his essay, all was very quiet. Again, no one knew this guy very well, he kept to himself during rehearsals. As he began to read we heard his story. His parents had died early in his life and he had been shuffled from one foster home to another. His sister was developmentally challenged and living in a state run 'home.' He had worked his way through college, getting his degree in light design at the University of West Virginia. Aside from his temporary foster living, he'd never spent Thanksgiving with another person. Always alone. He adored actors because he was so very shy himself and was amazed that people could get on a stage in front of other people. A year earlier he had been diagnosed with Cancer. He'd lost a lot of weight but was now in remission. As he spoke, the silence in the small dining room was palpable. He ended by quietly reading that this was the best holiday he'd ever had. There was no self-pity in his reading, no whining, no self-indulgence. He was just happy to be around other people on Thanksgiving. I got a phone call about six months later that he had passed away.
Tomorrow I spend Thanksgiving with my beautiful and loving wife, a group of very close friends, in an astonishing house in one of the most elegant neighborhoods in the country. Before I take my first bite tomorrow I shall think of this young man. It has been about fifteen years since he died. Every year before I eat I take a few seconds to think of him. And the hope he represented. I take the time to be thankful. Since that day many years ago, I've spent many Thanksgiving dinners alone myself, resigned to the idea that it would always be that way.
Of course, he is only one of millions that persevere in the face of great cosmic injustice. And his small and thankful essay that year will stay with me all of my life.
I cannot begin to write about all I am thankful for. The list this year, 2010, is so long and filled it would simply be impossible. I had, over the past decade or so, come to despise the holidays. Christmas music and lights and all the trappings of the holidays made me indescribably sad. I began volunteering in Chicago for homeless shelters on Thanksgiving. And when the food was all doled out I would sit with strangers, the addicted, the hopeless, the bottom rung of society, and eat and talk and pretend I wasn't lonely. And each and every time I would take a few moments to remember that doomed young man in Virginia all those years ago. I shall do the same tomorrow.
See you then.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Never Show them the High C...
A day off from rehearsal yesterday. Badly needed, actually, because my voice was a bit on the raspy side after five hours of music rehearsal on Sunday. Back in the saddle today, however, so I need to start working on the music again.
The ensemble in this piece does a lot of singing. As of Sunday, they had just finally found a really good tenor (the music in the piece is incredibly difficult for the ensemble) and then the next day the baritone had to leave the cast for personal reasons. So now a search is underway for his replacement. Oy.
Hopefully, all of that will be dealt with today.
I was thinking yesterday that I've heard Ron (our director) say out loud on several occasions that we need to 'serve the play.' I'm terribly pleased to hear comments like that. He also said the major job, in his opinion, of a director is to simply correct any mistakes made in the casting. I liked that comment, too. The last play I did involved a director that was intent upon making the entire evening about his directing, text be damned. Consequently the entire rehearsal process turned into a battle to maintain the integrity of the text rather than move forward and try and present a fascinating story. Every rehearsal became about trying to keep the director's 'improvements' out of the play. It was exhausting.
Angie and I had my buddy, John Bader, over for dinner last night and I played a couple of the songs from the show for him. Although John is not really a musical theater kind of guy, he immediately realized what a monster this piece is. He also concurred with me in that he thought this was a play I had to do.
So today I put the blinders back on and start on the music again. Today my goal is to find a way to make it through a long song I sing about a third of the way through the play without peaking too soon. I'm remembering a rare piece of advice from Marlon Brando in his book, Songs My Mother Taught Me. I, like many actors, picked the book up thinking Brando would break his decades-long silence about actually talking about his process. He really doesn't in the book. But he does, now and again, offer a little tidbit. One of them is, '...never show the high C. If you've got a high C, only show them the B.' Good advice. In essence he's saying always keep something in reserve. It's especially apt advice for this show I'm doing now. It would be so easy to blow out the engines early and show the audience all I've got. Can't do that, though. That's a rookie mistake and one I've been in danger of committing lately.
I just finished reading Tennessee Williams' Memoirs and there are several interesting things in it. One is his assessment of the great Laurette Taylor as she was working on 'The Glass Menagerie.' He reports that in rehearsal in Chicago for the play, all of the actors were, very early in the rehearsal process, weeping and gnashing their teeth and going for broke throughout the play. Except Taylor. She carried the script with her right up to the end, although it became clear she wasn't referring to it. She kept her voice neutral, her emotions in check and was carefully observing what the other actors were doing. In fact, he was concerned that her performance would be flat because of it. But suddenly, as opening night neared, she put the script down and blossomed. There was a late rehearsal that he recalled, about three nights before the first preview, in which Taylor said, rather off-handedly, 'I'm going to act tonight.' What happened next, of course, was theater history.
The same happened in rehearsal for 'Death of a Salesman.' In Elia Kazan's book he writes of his concern for Lee J. Cobb in the role of Willy Loman. "We couldn't hear him, for one thing," Kazan writes. "And when we could hear him, it was timid and weak." But, like Taylor, the veteran Cobb was simply biding his time. He, apparently, held off even longer than Taylor. Opening night, of course, he was incredible. I can't say that I'm a fan of this approach although there's no arguing with success. I've always been of the mind that what you do in rehearsal you will do in performance. It's a valuable lesson for young actors to learn, in fact. However, having said that, I think there's something to holding off on the emotion inherent in this play, The Adding Machine. In film it's called 'saving it for the close-up.' In the live theatre, it's just common sense.
So starting today, I hold back. I mark the 'high C.' Never show them everything you've got. The difference is, unlike Cobb and Laurette Taylor, I'll let Alan and Ron (the musical director and director, respectively) know what I'm doing. I can only hope they'll trust me.
See you tomorrow.
The ensemble in this piece does a lot of singing. As of Sunday, they had just finally found a really good tenor (the music in the piece is incredibly difficult for the ensemble) and then the next day the baritone had to leave the cast for personal reasons. So now a search is underway for his replacement. Oy.
Hopefully, all of that will be dealt with today.
I was thinking yesterday that I've heard Ron (our director) say out loud on several occasions that we need to 'serve the play.' I'm terribly pleased to hear comments like that. He also said the major job, in his opinion, of a director is to simply correct any mistakes made in the casting. I liked that comment, too. The last play I did involved a director that was intent upon making the entire evening about his directing, text be damned. Consequently the entire rehearsal process turned into a battle to maintain the integrity of the text rather than move forward and try and present a fascinating story. Every rehearsal became about trying to keep the director's 'improvements' out of the play. It was exhausting.
Angie and I had my buddy, John Bader, over for dinner last night and I played a couple of the songs from the show for him. Although John is not really a musical theater kind of guy, he immediately realized what a monster this piece is. He also concurred with me in that he thought this was a play I had to do.
So today I put the blinders back on and start on the music again. Today my goal is to find a way to make it through a long song I sing about a third of the way through the play without peaking too soon. I'm remembering a rare piece of advice from Marlon Brando in his book, Songs My Mother Taught Me. I, like many actors, picked the book up thinking Brando would break his decades-long silence about actually talking about his process. He really doesn't in the book. But he does, now and again, offer a little tidbit. One of them is, '...never show the high C. If you've got a high C, only show them the B.' Good advice. In essence he's saying always keep something in reserve. It's especially apt advice for this show I'm doing now. It would be so easy to blow out the engines early and show the audience all I've got. Can't do that, though. That's a rookie mistake and one I've been in danger of committing lately.
I just finished reading Tennessee Williams' Memoirs and there are several interesting things in it. One is his assessment of the great Laurette Taylor as she was working on 'The Glass Menagerie.' He reports that in rehearsal in Chicago for the play, all of the actors were, very early in the rehearsal process, weeping and gnashing their teeth and going for broke throughout the play. Except Taylor. She carried the script with her right up to the end, although it became clear she wasn't referring to it. She kept her voice neutral, her emotions in check and was carefully observing what the other actors were doing. In fact, he was concerned that her performance would be flat because of it. But suddenly, as opening night neared, she put the script down and blossomed. There was a late rehearsal that he recalled, about three nights before the first preview, in which Taylor said, rather off-handedly, 'I'm going to act tonight.' What happened next, of course, was theater history.
The same happened in rehearsal for 'Death of a Salesman.' In Elia Kazan's book he writes of his concern for Lee J. Cobb in the role of Willy Loman. "We couldn't hear him, for one thing," Kazan writes. "And when we could hear him, it was timid and weak." But, like Taylor, the veteran Cobb was simply biding his time. He, apparently, held off even longer than Taylor. Opening night, of course, he was incredible. I can't say that I'm a fan of this approach although there's no arguing with success. I've always been of the mind that what you do in rehearsal you will do in performance. It's a valuable lesson for young actors to learn, in fact. However, having said that, I think there's something to holding off on the emotion inherent in this play, The Adding Machine. In film it's called 'saving it for the close-up.' In the live theatre, it's just common sense.
So starting today, I hold back. I mark the 'high C.' Never show them everything you've got. The difference is, unlike Cobb and Laurette Taylor, I'll let Alan and Ron (the musical director and director, respectively) know what I'm doing. I can only hope they'll trust me.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Angie's Birthday Weekend.
Angie and I traveled down to San Diego for the weekend to attend her niece's 15th birthday party. Angie's brother's wife is Mexican and apparently the 15th birthday, in that culture, is a big deal, much like the 13th birthday is a big deal in the Jewish tradition. There's actually a name for it (starts with a Q) but I can't remember what it is. In any event, Kenny (Angie's brother) went all out and rented space at the The Hampton Inn, catered it, tons of food and deserts, a DJ playing music that was incomprehensible to me, lots of 15 year old boys and girls dancing the night away. It was actually a pretty cool thing.
And as the evening progressed I felt older and older and older. Usually, Angie and I are considered the hippest of all the adults by our friend's kids. I suspect this is because Angie has the amazing ability to make anyone she's talking to feel like they're her best friend of all time and I'm always good-naturedly grumpy and tend to cuss a lot. Kids like that. But as we sat there in the convention room, all decorated and looking very 15 year old chic, we both felt terribly, terribly grown-up. We were on the 'suit and tie' side of the room with all the other parents and, like everyone else on that side of the room, were clearly considered the interlopers.
Kenny showed a slide show to get the evening rolling, a sort of 'this is your life' kinda thing of Sophie (the 15 year old), complete with really wonderful music. And much to my surprise, right in the middle of it, I sort of got quietly choked up. It was just so clear how much Kenny, usually a mildly acerbic but hail-fellow-well-met kind of guy, adored and loved his daughter. I was grateful he didn't play 'Butterfly Kisses' underneath the slide show. I would have wept out loud.
Rosemary, Angie and Kenny's mom, traveled all the way from Missouri for the party. She'd just come back from Columbia (she and her husband Rex are always jet-setting it all over the world, bless their hearts) and is going in for major back surgery in January, so it was a big deal that she'd made the trip. And if Angie and I felt old, I'm sure Rosemary, who's as cosmopolitan as one can get, must've felt old right along with us. Even Angie's daughter, Lauren, and her long-time boyfriend, Nate, both in their early twenties, were relegated to the 'grown-up' table. At least they seemed to recognize some of the music, which is more than I can say of me.
So we had to scoot out of San Diego early Sunday morning because I had a marathon music rehearsal for The Adding Machine at noon.
I came into the rehearsal, once again, highly prepared. I'd been working on one of my songs that was scheduled for the day like a maniac. It didn't help. I was quickly overwhelmed with the music. About halfway through this particular song are a few high Fs. I found that as I 'acted' the song, I tend to get a little keyed up physically and I'm not really a trained singer so my throat had tightened up as the song progresses. It's a long and comprehensive and emotionally draining song, kind of along the lines of 'My Boy Bill' or 'Molasses to Slavery to Rum' and I musjudged my ability to pull it off. I have to learn how to sing it and show great consternation without letting my throat tighten up. Real singers do this with ease. Not me. Consequently I have to re-think the whole thing. The troubling part of it all is that it caught me off guard. I don't like being caught off guard in rehearsal.
Also, the librettist, Jason Loewith, was there for the first hour or so to answer questions and explain the genesis of the piece, the trials and errors of its first production, etc. Jason is clearly a tremendously talented guy and very, very smart. He impressed me. He's been in Chicago for a long time now and we know a lot of the same people, although we'd never personally met there.
The funny and cool thing about this show is that I'm surrounded by world-class singers and musicians. I was astonished at how quickly they picked up this really complicated, difficult music. It was the first time we had all been together in the same room and it quickly became clear that I would have to work twice as hard to keep up with them. So be it. When it comes to theatre I don't believe in excuses. Whatever it takes, even if I have to hire a private vocal coach, I'll keep up. Allen, our musical director, is quite possibly one of the best I've ever worked with and I'm guessing I've worked with about 30 or 40 musical directors in my time. He's kind and encouraging and yet it is abundantly clear he will settle for nothing less than perfection. I like that in him.
I leave every rehearsal a little overwhelmed. Actually, a lot overwhelmed. Good. It's been a long, long time that I haven't felt completely in command of the material at hand. It's good for me. Keeps me humble. I have a great deal of work on it ahead of me today before our next rehearsal later on in the afternoon.
Angie's birthday was yesterday. She turned #%$@*&^. (Okay, I'll say it, 48.) Angie, aside from a lifelong fondness for very good wine, has lived a ridiculously healthy lifestyle and consequently looks far younger than that. Good for her. Me, I've lived like a nihilist with a death wish and look about ten years older than I am.
This Thursday, Thanksgiving, we're heading over for our annual get-together at the Lipps household, Tammy and Mark. Tammy turns out a spread as though cooking for the King of Siam every year and it promises to be a culinary event. Maybe, like last year, I can get a spirited game of 'Celebrity' going after the turkey.
So...a little more coffee and then I'll don the headphones and start on the music again. Oy.
See you tomorrow.
And as the evening progressed I felt older and older and older. Usually, Angie and I are considered the hippest of all the adults by our friend's kids. I suspect this is because Angie has the amazing ability to make anyone she's talking to feel like they're her best friend of all time and I'm always good-naturedly grumpy and tend to cuss a lot. Kids like that. But as we sat there in the convention room, all decorated and looking very 15 year old chic, we both felt terribly, terribly grown-up. We were on the 'suit and tie' side of the room with all the other parents and, like everyone else on that side of the room, were clearly considered the interlopers.
Kenny showed a slide show to get the evening rolling, a sort of 'this is your life' kinda thing of Sophie (the 15 year old), complete with really wonderful music. And much to my surprise, right in the middle of it, I sort of got quietly choked up. It was just so clear how much Kenny, usually a mildly acerbic but hail-fellow-well-met kind of guy, adored and loved his daughter. I was grateful he didn't play 'Butterfly Kisses' underneath the slide show. I would have wept out loud.
Rosemary, Angie and Kenny's mom, traveled all the way from Missouri for the party. She'd just come back from Columbia (she and her husband Rex are always jet-setting it all over the world, bless their hearts) and is going in for major back surgery in January, so it was a big deal that she'd made the trip. And if Angie and I felt old, I'm sure Rosemary, who's as cosmopolitan as one can get, must've felt old right along with us. Even Angie's daughter, Lauren, and her long-time boyfriend, Nate, both in their early twenties, were relegated to the 'grown-up' table. At least they seemed to recognize some of the music, which is more than I can say of me.
So we had to scoot out of San Diego early Sunday morning because I had a marathon music rehearsal for The Adding Machine at noon.
I came into the rehearsal, once again, highly prepared. I'd been working on one of my songs that was scheduled for the day like a maniac. It didn't help. I was quickly overwhelmed with the music. About halfway through this particular song are a few high Fs. I found that as I 'acted' the song, I tend to get a little keyed up physically and I'm not really a trained singer so my throat had tightened up as the song progresses. It's a long and comprehensive and emotionally draining song, kind of along the lines of 'My Boy Bill' or 'Molasses to Slavery to Rum' and I musjudged my ability to pull it off. I have to learn how to sing it and show great consternation without letting my throat tighten up. Real singers do this with ease. Not me. Consequently I have to re-think the whole thing. The troubling part of it all is that it caught me off guard. I don't like being caught off guard in rehearsal.
Also, the librettist, Jason Loewith, was there for the first hour or so to answer questions and explain the genesis of the piece, the trials and errors of its first production, etc. Jason is clearly a tremendously talented guy and very, very smart. He impressed me. He's been in Chicago for a long time now and we know a lot of the same people, although we'd never personally met there.
The funny and cool thing about this show is that I'm surrounded by world-class singers and musicians. I was astonished at how quickly they picked up this really complicated, difficult music. It was the first time we had all been together in the same room and it quickly became clear that I would have to work twice as hard to keep up with them. So be it. When it comes to theatre I don't believe in excuses. Whatever it takes, even if I have to hire a private vocal coach, I'll keep up. Allen, our musical director, is quite possibly one of the best I've ever worked with and I'm guessing I've worked with about 30 or 40 musical directors in my time. He's kind and encouraging and yet it is abundantly clear he will settle for nothing less than perfection. I like that in him.
I leave every rehearsal a little overwhelmed. Actually, a lot overwhelmed. Good. It's been a long, long time that I haven't felt completely in command of the material at hand. It's good for me. Keeps me humble. I have a great deal of work on it ahead of me today before our next rehearsal later on in the afternoon.
Angie's birthday was yesterday. She turned #%$@*&^. (Okay, I'll say it, 48.) Angie, aside from a lifelong fondness for very good wine, has lived a ridiculously healthy lifestyle and consequently looks far younger than that. Good for her. Me, I've lived like a nihilist with a death wish and look about ten years older than I am.
This Thursday, Thanksgiving, we're heading over for our annual get-together at the Lipps household, Tammy and Mark. Tammy turns out a spread as though cooking for the King of Siam every year and it promises to be a culinary event. Maybe, like last year, I can get a spirited game of 'Celebrity' going after the turkey.
So...a little more coffee and then I'll don the headphones and start on the music again. Oy.
See you tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)