We trudged through the first third of the play last night without stopping. Well, sort of without stopping. Actually, we stopped a lot. But the point is, theoretically, we could have done the first third of the play without stopping.
I came home utterly exhausted, constantly re-doing certain moments in my head that could have been better, clearer, more interesting. I've reached the point now where I'm always applying my own personal litmus test to each moment I'm onstage, which is, if I were in the audience, would I find this moment fascinating? If this were a TV show, would I find the clicker and move on to something else? Or would I stay on this channel and see what happens next?
There is a song, of sorts, early in the show that's more like precise, timed, perfectly counted dialogue. It's enormously difficult, thank you Mr. Schmidt. Actually, my part in the song/exercise is relatively simple compared to the others, but I'm still screwing it up. What's more, I don't know how to fix it. This is the thing that drives me batshit: I don't know how to do it better.
Stuff like this keeps me up at nights. Almost every conceivable obstacle I encounter onstage while I'm doing a role is usually not something I concern myself with too much. That is to say, if the director puts me behind a pole to say my lines, I'll find a way to make the pole work for me. I'll find a way to make the pole interesting. But if it's just me, standing naked onstage, figuratively speaking, without the slightest idea when to say my line, well, that's an altogether different scenario.
Stuff that doesn't bother me is interpretive stuff. Even if I'm given a direct order, as it were, to say a line or shade a thought differently from what I envisioned, well, that's just the way the game's played. Doesn't bother me. And I'm certainly not one of those actors that simply waits until an audience is present to do it another way. That's just being unprofessional. Not to say any of that is happening in this play. It's not. The two problems that stretch out before me are 1) memorization (which will happen, so there's nothing I can do about it) and 2) counting. Yes, counting. Getting to the point that I can sing this stuff at the drop of a hat without thinking about it. Making it second nature. Making it so much a part of me that I don't have to waste time and energy on the execution part of it.
Frankly, it's been a long while since I encountered problem number 2.
On the other hand, after so many years of doing this, I can sense when something is going to work. And there are dozens of moments, maybe more, in the first twenty minutes alone that are breathtaking.
One is the opening number. At some point in every piece we, the actors and creative team, find ourselves through sheer repetition, unable to remember how shockingly good something is. I've seen this happen before. And then opening night rolls around and we're all somewhat dismayed at the reaction to something. Well, in this piece, my co-star, Kelly Lester, has to sing an impossible solo number right out of the gate. It really is sort of stunning. She soars to improbable heights vocally and then a measure later grunts and growls and screams like a keening peasant. A few seconds later, once again, she's singing up and down the scale like Beverly Sills. It's a funny, gruff, moving, empathy-filled number and Kelly attacks it like a pro. The thing is, we've seen her do it so much. We're no longer awed by the work. But it will be dazzling. It's astonishingly good stuff. And months ago, the first time she did it for us all in the confines of our little, cramped, claustrophobic rehearsal space, we ourselves were dazzled and awed. It's important we remember this.
There are lots of segments in the play like this. Rob Herring and Christine Horn both have the same sort of jaw-dropping moments. I don't really hand out compliments too often, but the truth is these guys are as good as it gets. I simply can't imagine two actors more suited to these roles.
It would be easy to start negatively reinforcing the execution of this piece at this point. This is the time when tempers become frayed, expectations heightened, demands become critical. Of course, our director, Ron Sossi, has been in this business a long, long time. He's been here many times before. He's learned, I'm sure, over the years that the whip never works with creative actor types. This is the precise moment in a play that one must fight one's initial instinct. That is to say, rather than despair over near-perfection, one must delight in how close we are to the goal, the finished process, the mountain top within view. In short, more than any other time in the rehearsal process, now is the time for nurturing. For unsolicited pats on the back.
I once had a long talk with one of the finest stage directors in the universe in my opinion, Mike Nichols, about this very thing. His entire directing approach is based on positive reinforcement. And he says it's something he learned from Elia Kazan, also not a bad director to say the least.
Personally, I saw this particularly gentle approach while working with the brilliant actor and acting teacher Michael Moriarty. Michael's way to get more from an actor in class was very surpentine. Following a piece of work he would start with a long explanation of what he found wonderful. And then, almost as an afterthought, he would steer the actor toward the areas that weren't so wonderful and offer intensely specific ways to improve. One always walked away from one of Michael's classes thinking he or she was just a hair away from brilliance and that it was most definitely within reach.
It's a tricky thing, this working with actors business. Fortunately for those of us involved with this particular piece, Adding Machine, the creative team is tremendously positive. Our music director and our director all but leap with joy when a specific piece of work is nailed. I love that about them. As odd as it may sound, it's not terribly common in professional theatre.
Off to an audition today for a video game. Yes, a video game. Something about two planets fighting each other. Or two planets quibbling over the sun. Or maybe it's two planets trying to lose weight. I don't know. All I know is I have the lines in front of me and for a few minutes this afternoon I'll take the idea of playing a talking planet very seriously.
As an old buddy of mine used to say, "So...you wanna be an actor, huh?"
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Lines
I despise memorizing lines. If one did not have to memorize lines, being a professional actor would be the best job in the world (with the possible exception of Postmaster General).
I've tried everything to cut corners, to find a softer, easier way to do it. I've tried writing them. I've tried taping them and listening to them while I sleep. I've even tried sleeping with the script under my pillow (osmosis, you know). None of that works for me. The only thing that works, after years of experimenting with daring new approaches, is pacing and saying them over and over and over and over until I hate them.
I'm at the point now that I hate them.
At the risk of cliche, it's getting harder as I get older. Some years back I did a national tour of a play called 'Give 'em Hell Harry.' It's a one-person show about Harry Truman. I traveled with a make-up guru, a stage manager, a lighting guy and a tour manager. Like all national tours, after the first month or so, I usually had no idea where I was half the time.
The play was two and half hours of me as Harry Truman. Fortunately, I had about six months to learn that one. And I learned something about myself, too. I learned that I have exactly five hours of memorization in me. After that, say, at five hours and one minute, my mind shuts down. I can't stuff, push or squeeze one more sentence into my brain. These days it's probably more like three hours.
Olivier was legendary for coming into rehearsals with the script memorized. Geoffrey Marshall, a fine British stage actor who worked with Olivier on his famous Othello at The National in the mid-sixties, recalls Sir Larry acting the role full-out without opening the book at the first read-thru of that play in London. Admirable. Especially considering Olivier at never assayed this particular role before.
On the other had, Brando probably stopped memorizing lines around 1970. Of course that's film, a different animal altogether, but Brando claimed knowing the line beforehand destroyed the actor's 'spontaneous instinct.' So Brando would write his lines all over the set, sometimes even on the actor he was playing opposite. Probably best not discount the possibility that Brando was just lazy, too.
In his book, 'Songs My Mother Taught Me,' he writes about the thousands of actors that have lamented his not going back to the stage and doing 'the classics,' the Brandophiles that claim he was the best actor of the century and he sold out by not fulfilling his destiny on the stage. He says he knew his limitions as an actor even though others did not. He says, "I did not have the vocal equipment or the mental discipline to become a great stage actor." He may have been right. He is our great American film actor of the twentieth century. I think he knew that film was his medium. Frankly, I don't blame him for not going back to the stage.
But back to this memorizing lines business.
Whenever I've done the 'big' roles, the ones that require heavy and substantial memorization, I always have a moment of panic the instant before I step onstage. "You don't know the whole play," my brain tells me. Of course, I do, but I don't have it on a computer screen right in front of me. One says the first line, stays in the moment, and before one knows it, one is saying the last line. That's the long and short of it. Now, of course, it's an enormously complicated thing to describe to non-actors, but actors understand exactly what I mean. The trick is to not allow yourself to get one second behind or one second ahead. This is what the often misunderstood Uta Hagen always wrote about. 'Staying in the moment.'
In one of those 'Actors on Acting' books out there Kevin Kline is the focus of one of the segments. He recalls working on his first film, 'Sophie's Choice,' and Meryl Streep asking him privately if he'd memorized the entire script. Kline said, somewhat surprised, "of course." She said, and I'm quoting from the book, "Kevin, you don't have to do that in film. Just get the 'idea' of what the script says." Hm. That's from Meryl Streep, one of the finest actors alive today. But, as I said, film is the apple to the stage's orange.
So today it's back to the drawing board, memorizing lines. Angie helps me as much as possible, but it's such a mind-numbing experience I hesitate to ask her to help too much although she doesn't seem to mind.
Last night's rehearsal held some pleasant surprises. I was very encouraged. Although at one point I had some serious music issues (my own), the early part of the rehearsal went a long ways to set my mind at ease.
It's going to get tricky from here on out because it's soon going to be all about the tech. The actors are going to be let loose to fly on their own. The 10 out of 12s are soon to start, the lighting and sound and design people are about to take over. For better or worse, the inmates have now been given the keys.
See you tomorrow.
I've tried everything to cut corners, to find a softer, easier way to do it. I've tried writing them. I've tried taping them and listening to them while I sleep. I've even tried sleeping with the script under my pillow (osmosis, you know). None of that works for me. The only thing that works, after years of experimenting with daring new approaches, is pacing and saying them over and over and over and over until I hate them.
I'm at the point now that I hate them.
At the risk of cliche, it's getting harder as I get older. Some years back I did a national tour of a play called 'Give 'em Hell Harry.' It's a one-person show about Harry Truman. I traveled with a make-up guru, a stage manager, a lighting guy and a tour manager. Like all national tours, after the first month or so, I usually had no idea where I was half the time.
The play was two and half hours of me as Harry Truman. Fortunately, I had about six months to learn that one. And I learned something about myself, too. I learned that I have exactly five hours of memorization in me. After that, say, at five hours and one minute, my mind shuts down. I can't stuff, push or squeeze one more sentence into my brain. These days it's probably more like three hours.
Olivier was legendary for coming into rehearsals with the script memorized. Geoffrey Marshall, a fine British stage actor who worked with Olivier on his famous Othello at The National in the mid-sixties, recalls Sir Larry acting the role full-out without opening the book at the first read-thru of that play in London. Admirable. Especially considering Olivier at never assayed this particular role before.
On the other had, Brando probably stopped memorizing lines around 1970. Of course that's film, a different animal altogether, but Brando claimed knowing the line beforehand destroyed the actor's 'spontaneous instinct.' So Brando would write his lines all over the set, sometimes even on the actor he was playing opposite. Probably best not discount the possibility that Brando was just lazy, too.
In his book, 'Songs My Mother Taught Me,' he writes about the thousands of actors that have lamented his not going back to the stage and doing 'the classics,' the Brandophiles that claim he was the best actor of the century and he sold out by not fulfilling his destiny on the stage. He says he knew his limitions as an actor even though others did not. He says, "I did not have the vocal equipment or the mental discipline to become a great stage actor." He may have been right. He is our great American film actor of the twentieth century. I think he knew that film was his medium. Frankly, I don't blame him for not going back to the stage.
But back to this memorizing lines business.
Whenever I've done the 'big' roles, the ones that require heavy and substantial memorization, I always have a moment of panic the instant before I step onstage. "You don't know the whole play," my brain tells me. Of course, I do, but I don't have it on a computer screen right in front of me. One says the first line, stays in the moment, and before one knows it, one is saying the last line. That's the long and short of it. Now, of course, it's an enormously complicated thing to describe to non-actors, but actors understand exactly what I mean. The trick is to not allow yourself to get one second behind or one second ahead. This is what the often misunderstood Uta Hagen always wrote about. 'Staying in the moment.'
In one of those 'Actors on Acting' books out there Kevin Kline is the focus of one of the segments. He recalls working on his first film, 'Sophie's Choice,' and Meryl Streep asking him privately if he'd memorized the entire script. Kline said, somewhat surprised, "of course." She said, and I'm quoting from the book, "Kevin, you don't have to do that in film. Just get the 'idea' of what the script says." Hm. That's from Meryl Streep, one of the finest actors alive today. But, as I said, film is the apple to the stage's orange.
So today it's back to the drawing board, memorizing lines. Angie helps me as much as possible, but it's such a mind-numbing experience I hesitate to ask her to help too much although she doesn't seem to mind.
Last night's rehearsal held some pleasant surprises. I was very encouraged. Although at one point I had some serious music issues (my own), the early part of the rehearsal went a long ways to set my mind at ease.
It's going to get tricky from here on out because it's soon going to be all about the tech. The actors are going to be let loose to fly on their own. The 10 out of 12s are soon to start, the lighting and sound and design people are about to take over. For better or worse, the inmates have now been given the keys.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Grocery Shopping in the Fernando Valley.
Good rehearsal last night...particularly the music portion of the evening. I worked very hard on the music over our break. Even though I kept the score in front of me last night, I rarely looked at it. To non-performers this may not seem like such a big thing, but to performers it is a massive thing...the day you don't need the script. An auspicious day, indeed.
We did a bit of the non-musical stuff last night, too. Suffice to say I'm not nearly as optimistic about those. But I'll leave that alone for a few days. It might fix itself.
Angie and I are off to do our grocery shopping. Grocery shopping is a battle royal in this house. A day of high duress. The Waterloo of our marriage. The moment I enter a grocery store I instantly become eight years old. I want Twinkies, pie, eclairs and candy. I also argue vigorously for chips and dip. Angie, much to her chagrin, must don her drill instructor persona and deny me everything. I can't help myself. I try and be an adult about food purchases but I don't have it in me. Grocery stores bring out my inner nihilist.
There's a place up the street from us that we call 'The Armenian Market.' That's not really the name of the place, in fact I don't know the actual name of the place, but that's where we go to get meat and fresh produce. It's much less expensive than, say, Von's or Ralph's, and they have really good stuff. That's the upside. The downside is it's like entering the DMZ everytime we go there. It seems to me the Armenians, an otherwise proud and noble people, I'm sure, become domestic terrorists in a shopping environment. The last time we were there a near fist-fight had errupted in the coffee section of the store. Medium dark roast was on sale and the Armenian women were pushing, shoving, sassing and threatening each other at frightening volume. Security had been called. Women were being held apart. The coffee guy behind the counter had a look of terror and fear on his face. At first I thought perhaps a gun-waving lunatic was lurking somewhere (everyone was yelling in the 'mother tongue, so I couldn't understand all the brew-ha-ha). But no, it was simply a typical 'sale day' at the Armenian Market. This also happens when chicken is on sale. The dogs of war are let loose. I can't help thinking if they'd shown this level of ferocity in WWI, the Ottoman Empire would have taken Europe.
So it's our usual shopping trek. After the horrors of the Armenian Market, our nerves shot, our faces twisted in shock and awe, trembling uncontrollably, we head over to Pavillions. It's a bit of an upscale grocery place and it is here that my real psychological troubles begin. I immediately break ranks and do a quick-step to the frozen pizza aisle. Angie goes about getting healthy products. She catches up to me in the frozen pizza aisle where I'm standing stock-still and gazing worshipfully at the mind-boggling selection of pizzas: Hawaiin pizzas, spinach and goat cheese pizzas, barbeque pizzas, Mexican pizzas, Supreme pizzas, five-cheese pizzas, Tombstone, Tony's, Red Baron, California Kitchen...it's simply overwhelming. By the time she catches up to me in that aisle I can't speak. I've gone into a sort of halcyon overload. The most I can do is point and salivate. I grunt prehistorically. Angie ignores me. She pretends not to know me. She carries a Canadian Mounted Police baton and pokes me hard in the ribs. This is usually all that pulls me out of it. Sometimes this goes on for up to an hour. When I finally snap out of my fugue state I quickly jog to the chips aisle. The chips aisle in Pavallions is long. About a half mile, I'd say. I stare at the chips for awhile, bouncing from one leg to another. I quietly beg innocent passersby to purchase a bag for me. Any bag. Doesn't matter. They run from me. I don't care. I descend on the next one. My pride and self-respect evaporate. Sometimes I take a hand-written sign. "Will work for chips." I just want chips. My mind won't focus on anything else.
Eventually Angie catches me in this aisle. We repeat the baton routine. My ribs are sore and bruised but I don't care. Out of respect for the play I'm doing, she doesn't strike me in the face. After a bit, I'm beaten back to normalcy.
Once we leave Pavillions sometimes, very rarely, we head over to Trader Joe's.
'Trader Joe's' has become Angie's code word for 'No.' I'll say, "Let's get those frozen burritos." She'll say, "We'll get those at Trader Joe's." This way she avoids a scene in the grocery store. She used to just say, "No." But she discovered that simply makes me fall to the floor and throw a fit. I kick and cry for about an hour. I sometimes do coffee grinders. She's wily, Angie is, so she finally started saying, "Let's get those at Trader Joe's." I fell for that line about 173 times before I realized that we never go to Trader Joe's.
So we head out soon for the grocery shopping. It's an ordeal but necessary. Angie has tried leaving me behind for these trips but I only run after the car until she stops and lets me in.
It's hope that keeps me going. The hope of the damned. The slim, almost impossible chance that one day she'll give up. I'll exhaust her into saying, "Oh, for God's sakes, just get the damned frozen pizza." It's never happened. But I hold out hope that it might one day.
I don't sleep much on the nights before we go. I discard my agnostic beliefs and pray to a kind and benevolent Christian god. One day a month I become Oral Roberts. It hasn't helped.
See you tomorrow.
We did a bit of the non-musical stuff last night, too. Suffice to say I'm not nearly as optimistic about those. But I'll leave that alone for a few days. It might fix itself.
Angie and I are off to do our grocery shopping. Grocery shopping is a battle royal in this house. A day of high duress. The Waterloo of our marriage. The moment I enter a grocery store I instantly become eight years old. I want Twinkies, pie, eclairs and candy. I also argue vigorously for chips and dip. Angie, much to her chagrin, must don her drill instructor persona and deny me everything. I can't help myself. I try and be an adult about food purchases but I don't have it in me. Grocery stores bring out my inner nihilist.
There's a place up the street from us that we call 'The Armenian Market.' That's not really the name of the place, in fact I don't know the actual name of the place, but that's where we go to get meat and fresh produce. It's much less expensive than, say, Von's or Ralph's, and they have really good stuff. That's the upside. The downside is it's like entering the DMZ everytime we go there. It seems to me the Armenians, an otherwise proud and noble people, I'm sure, become domestic terrorists in a shopping environment. The last time we were there a near fist-fight had errupted in the coffee section of the store. Medium dark roast was on sale and the Armenian women were pushing, shoving, sassing and threatening each other at frightening volume. Security had been called. Women were being held apart. The coffee guy behind the counter had a look of terror and fear on his face. At first I thought perhaps a gun-waving lunatic was lurking somewhere (everyone was yelling in the 'mother tongue, so I couldn't understand all the brew-ha-ha). But no, it was simply a typical 'sale day' at the Armenian Market. This also happens when chicken is on sale. The dogs of war are let loose. I can't help thinking if they'd shown this level of ferocity in WWI, the Ottoman Empire would have taken Europe.
So it's our usual shopping trek. After the horrors of the Armenian Market, our nerves shot, our faces twisted in shock and awe, trembling uncontrollably, we head over to Pavillions. It's a bit of an upscale grocery place and it is here that my real psychological troubles begin. I immediately break ranks and do a quick-step to the frozen pizza aisle. Angie goes about getting healthy products. She catches up to me in the frozen pizza aisle where I'm standing stock-still and gazing worshipfully at the mind-boggling selection of pizzas: Hawaiin pizzas, spinach and goat cheese pizzas, barbeque pizzas, Mexican pizzas, Supreme pizzas, five-cheese pizzas, Tombstone, Tony's, Red Baron, California Kitchen...it's simply overwhelming. By the time she catches up to me in that aisle I can't speak. I've gone into a sort of halcyon overload. The most I can do is point and salivate. I grunt prehistorically. Angie ignores me. She pretends not to know me. She carries a Canadian Mounted Police baton and pokes me hard in the ribs. This is usually all that pulls me out of it. Sometimes this goes on for up to an hour. When I finally snap out of my fugue state I quickly jog to the chips aisle. The chips aisle in Pavallions is long. About a half mile, I'd say. I stare at the chips for awhile, bouncing from one leg to another. I quietly beg innocent passersby to purchase a bag for me. Any bag. Doesn't matter. They run from me. I don't care. I descend on the next one. My pride and self-respect evaporate. Sometimes I take a hand-written sign. "Will work for chips." I just want chips. My mind won't focus on anything else.
Eventually Angie catches me in this aisle. We repeat the baton routine. My ribs are sore and bruised but I don't care. Out of respect for the play I'm doing, she doesn't strike me in the face. After a bit, I'm beaten back to normalcy.
Once we leave Pavillions sometimes, very rarely, we head over to Trader Joe's.
'Trader Joe's' has become Angie's code word for 'No.' I'll say, "Let's get those frozen burritos." She'll say, "We'll get those at Trader Joe's." This way she avoids a scene in the grocery store. She used to just say, "No." But she discovered that simply makes me fall to the floor and throw a fit. I kick and cry for about an hour. I sometimes do coffee grinders. She's wily, Angie is, so she finally started saying, "Let's get those at Trader Joe's." I fell for that line about 173 times before I realized that we never go to Trader Joe's.
So we head out soon for the grocery shopping. It's an ordeal but necessary. Angie has tried leaving me behind for these trips but I only run after the car until she stops and lets me in.
It's hope that keeps me going. The hope of the damned. The slim, almost impossible chance that one day she'll give up. I'll exhaust her into saying, "Oh, for God's sakes, just get the damned frozen pizza." It's never happened. But I hold out hope that it might one day.
I don't sleep much on the nights before we go. I discard my agnostic beliefs and pray to a kind and benevolent Christian god. One day a month I become Oral Roberts. It hasn't helped.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
"It's time to stop being afraid..."
I was talking to a close friend yesterday about Adding Machine (we go back into rehearsals today). I was yammering on about the songs, the memorization process, the transitions, a couple of my frustrations, etc. And he said something quite perceptive. He said, "Yeah, well, all of that is fine and good, but it's time to make it your own now." I thought for a moment I'd misheard him. "What?" I asked. He said, "Any good actor can memorize this stuff, although it's clearly very complicated. But the reason I go to see you perform is to see what you do with it. It sounds to me like you're being really polite and trying to give the directors what they want to see and hear."
It gave me huge pause.
He's right, of course. It's really the reason I act. I remember a while back when I was living in New York going to see Ian McKellen do Richard III. I have seen a lot of Dicky 3s in my life. A lot. It's such an enormously complicated play on a political level...all those references to family ties, former royalty, warring factions, Yorkists and Lancastrians. Most remember it solely for the central character, the humpback king, and not all of that other falderal. It is tantamount to doing a play about Nixon and Watergate about four hundred years from now...it gets very detailed about who is who and I'm sure it would be terribly difficult to follow.
So I go to see Sir Ian do it at BAM. The whole thing is done in NAZI garb, not terribly origninal but quite fitting. Apparently someone had taken the time to tell McKellen the same thing. His Richard was far different and far superior to any I'd seen. The story was just as complicated and difficult to decipher for the uninitiated, but Sir Ian, in the middle of it, had a whole new take on absolute evil. Unlike Olivier's Richard, McKellen didn't concern himself with playing a 'bad guy.' He played it with true eccentricity and tons of charm. It brought to mind Gary Oldman in his best bad guy film roles, very charming and almost impossible not to watch. Clearly, Sir Ian was not the least bit interested in what people 'expected' to see.
Another time was watching Stephen Lang do the role of Colonel Jessop (the role Jack Nicholson did in the film) onstage. It was so terribly different than what I'd expected. Brilliant and razor's edge performance. I later read that Lang (a singularly eccentric man in real life, I can say from personal experience) spent hours and hours watching the alpha gorilla at the Brooklyn Zoo in preparation. And that's exactly how he played it. Utterly riveting.
So during the six weeks of rehearsal we've had for Adding Machine I often found myself saying to myself, 'I have a great idea here, something out of the ordinary...hm...I guess I'll wait a while to try it.' I'm a little surprised at myself. I suppose there are two reasons I haven't been following my instincts. One is because of the tension in rehearsals. Early on we had a bit of a revolt from a few of the ensemble and I simply didn't want to make more waves. Not like me at all. The other is because the music, the actual score, is so precise and our brilliant musical director so dedicated to encouraging us learn it perfectly (as he should, that's his job and he does it beautifully) that I've been leery of taking any liberties with it. But after my buddy said that to me yesterday I realized he was right. No one walks away from a play thinking, "I loved the perfect counting in bar 58 and 59 in that song." No. They walk away saying, "I loved that moment when..." As I do so often, I remind myself that this business is not about the artist, it's about the audience. No one gives a shit how I feel as a character. It's entirely about what THEY feel. After all, I didn't shell out 30 bucks for the ticket, they did.
Many years ago I saw the late and wonderful actor Raul Julia do Quixote in Man of La Mancha on Broadway. Many don't remember that Julia was a fine singer, too. Anyway, I came away a little underwhelmed. I'd long admired Mr. Julia as an actor. And I've actually done Quixote myself. He did a very professional job with it. But he took no liberties. There was not one moment in the play when I thought, 'Wow. I didn't expect THAT." It was a flawless rendition of what's on the page. Exactly what's on the page. And it bored me.
So starting today, I enter some serious negotiations with this role. Trying things, making second and third choices, find the unexpected, playing with the pace and rhythm (not with the music, but the dialogue), unafraid to be eccentric for eccentricity's sake.
Now, to be fair, I haven't done a lot of that yet simply because learning what is on the page itself has been so difficult. It's tough stuff.
I also remember some years back seeing an actor do a lightweight little comedy called Charley's Aunt in Chicago. Even in that simple piece of theatre I was sort of appalled at this actor making no choices whatsoever that weren't inherent in the writing. In fact, I very clearly remember saying to the girl I saw it with, "That's not acting, it's memorizing." To paraphrase Truman Capote.
In essence, it's time to start playing. It's time to start exploring the unpredictable. It's time to forget what past Mr. Zero's have done. It's time to give less weight to what's on the page and more to what's fascinating. Any actor can memorize a part regardless of how tough it is to do so...Hamlet comes to mind. I have seen dozens of very fine, experienced, highly reputed actors play that role from Kevin Kline to Daniel Day Lewis. But the best Hamlet I ever encountered was a 17 year old high school actor in Roanoke, Virginia, of all places. The young man's name was John Beard (odd that I remember that) and I had just done a new play with him at Mill Mountain Theater. I stuck around to do another play there and one morning John called me and invited me to an 'assembly' in which the play would be done in truncated form. I was dreading it. But I went to see him in the role and of course the production was laughably horrible. But John, right smack in the middle of it, as Hamlet, was electrifying. Absolutely wonderful. He played it with such rage and borderline pathology that I couldn't take my eyes off him. Later he told me, "This Shakespeare guy really knew how to write." I smiled. That's it. That's absolutely it. Play the role, in fact EVERY role, as though no one has ever done it before. He instinctively knew at 17 what it took me nearly a decade to learn.
So I have a new perspective going into rehearsal today. Not to say there will be any earth shattering changes. There won't be. But it's the idea of looking at the play from a different angle that will make it interesting to me now.
My buddy (a very fine actor himself) was right. It's not the role, it's the actor. The role will take care of itself. The actor needs to do the same.
Years back I did a play with the incomparable Elaine Stritch in New York. One day, late in rehearsal, Elaine finally had the text in her pocket, she had at last memorized the play. She said, quietly, almost under her breath one day, "It's time to stop being afraid. It's time to make THEM afraid." I think, although I'm not sure, she was referring to the audience. I have always remembered that comment. She was, of course, unimaginably wonderful in the role.
See you tomorrow.
It gave me huge pause.
He's right, of course. It's really the reason I act. I remember a while back when I was living in New York going to see Ian McKellen do Richard III. I have seen a lot of Dicky 3s in my life. A lot. It's such an enormously complicated play on a political level...all those references to family ties, former royalty, warring factions, Yorkists and Lancastrians. Most remember it solely for the central character, the humpback king, and not all of that other falderal. It is tantamount to doing a play about Nixon and Watergate about four hundred years from now...it gets very detailed about who is who and I'm sure it would be terribly difficult to follow.
So I go to see Sir Ian do it at BAM. The whole thing is done in NAZI garb, not terribly origninal but quite fitting. Apparently someone had taken the time to tell McKellen the same thing. His Richard was far different and far superior to any I'd seen. The story was just as complicated and difficult to decipher for the uninitiated, but Sir Ian, in the middle of it, had a whole new take on absolute evil. Unlike Olivier's Richard, McKellen didn't concern himself with playing a 'bad guy.' He played it with true eccentricity and tons of charm. It brought to mind Gary Oldman in his best bad guy film roles, very charming and almost impossible not to watch. Clearly, Sir Ian was not the least bit interested in what people 'expected' to see.
Another time was watching Stephen Lang do the role of Colonel Jessop (the role Jack Nicholson did in the film) onstage. It was so terribly different than what I'd expected. Brilliant and razor's edge performance. I later read that Lang (a singularly eccentric man in real life, I can say from personal experience) spent hours and hours watching the alpha gorilla at the Brooklyn Zoo in preparation. And that's exactly how he played it. Utterly riveting.
So during the six weeks of rehearsal we've had for Adding Machine I often found myself saying to myself, 'I have a great idea here, something out of the ordinary...hm...I guess I'll wait a while to try it.' I'm a little surprised at myself. I suppose there are two reasons I haven't been following my instincts. One is because of the tension in rehearsals. Early on we had a bit of a revolt from a few of the ensemble and I simply didn't want to make more waves. Not like me at all. The other is because the music, the actual score, is so precise and our brilliant musical director so dedicated to encouraging us learn it perfectly (as he should, that's his job and he does it beautifully) that I've been leery of taking any liberties with it. But after my buddy said that to me yesterday I realized he was right. No one walks away from a play thinking, "I loved the perfect counting in bar 58 and 59 in that song." No. They walk away saying, "I loved that moment when..." As I do so often, I remind myself that this business is not about the artist, it's about the audience. No one gives a shit how I feel as a character. It's entirely about what THEY feel. After all, I didn't shell out 30 bucks for the ticket, they did.
Many years ago I saw the late and wonderful actor Raul Julia do Quixote in Man of La Mancha on Broadway. Many don't remember that Julia was a fine singer, too. Anyway, I came away a little underwhelmed. I'd long admired Mr. Julia as an actor. And I've actually done Quixote myself. He did a very professional job with it. But he took no liberties. There was not one moment in the play when I thought, 'Wow. I didn't expect THAT." It was a flawless rendition of what's on the page. Exactly what's on the page. And it bored me.
So starting today, I enter some serious negotiations with this role. Trying things, making second and third choices, find the unexpected, playing with the pace and rhythm (not with the music, but the dialogue), unafraid to be eccentric for eccentricity's sake.
Now, to be fair, I haven't done a lot of that yet simply because learning what is on the page itself has been so difficult. It's tough stuff.
I also remember some years back seeing an actor do a lightweight little comedy called Charley's Aunt in Chicago. Even in that simple piece of theatre I was sort of appalled at this actor making no choices whatsoever that weren't inherent in the writing. In fact, I very clearly remember saying to the girl I saw it with, "That's not acting, it's memorizing." To paraphrase Truman Capote.
In essence, it's time to start playing. It's time to start exploring the unpredictable. It's time to forget what past Mr. Zero's have done. It's time to give less weight to what's on the page and more to what's fascinating. Any actor can memorize a part regardless of how tough it is to do so...Hamlet comes to mind. I have seen dozens of very fine, experienced, highly reputed actors play that role from Kevin Kline to Daniel Day Lewis. But the best Hamlet I ever encountered was a 17 year old high school actor in Roanoke, Virginia, of all places. The young man's name was John Beard (odd that I remember that) and I had just done a new play with him at Mill Mountain Theater. I stuck around to do another play there and one morning John called me and invited me to an 'assembly' in which the play would be done in truncated form. I was dreading it. But I went to see him in the role and of course the production was laughably horrible. But John, right smack in the middle of it, as Hamlet, was electrifying. Absolutely wonderful. He played it with such rage and borderline pathology that I couldn't take my eyes off him. Later he told me, "This Shakespeare guy really knew how to write." I smiled. That's it. That's absolutely it. Play the role, in fact EVERY role, as though no one has ever done it before. He instinctively knew at 17 what it took me nearly a decade to learn.
So I have a new perspective going into rehearsal today. Not to say there will be any earth shattering changes. There won't be. But it's the idea of looking at the play from a different angle that will make it interesting to me now.
My buddy (a very fine actor himself) was right. It's not the role, it's the actor. The role will take care of itself. The actor needs to do the same.
Years back I did a play with the incomparable Elaine Stritch in New York. One day, late in rehearsal, Elaine finally had the text in her pocket, she had at last memorized the play. She said, quietly, almost under her breath one day, "It's time to stop being afraid. It's time to make THEM afraid." I think, although I'm not sure, she was referring to the audience. I have always remembered that comment. She was, of course, unimaginably wonderful in the role.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
"Quite a party, Woodrow, quite a party." Those are the last words of Gus McRae to Woodrow Call in one of my favorite books, Lonesome Dove, and they encompass exactly how I feel about 2010.
I was settling into my desk this morning, adjusting things after I'd been away for almost two weeks, and I ran across a calendar for January, 2010. I noticed that I was having the first read-thru of my play, From the East to the West, in a couple of days from now this time last year. And, of course, it got me thinking about the year that was.
I can say, I think, that 2010 has been the best year in recent memory. So many wonderful things came to fruition: Performances of three of my plays, From the East to the West, Praying Small and Bachelor's Graveyard. And then there was that little thing called getting married. And saving Franny, my Norfolk Terrier puppy, from the 'joint' up in Bakersfield, bringing him home and making him a part of our family. Accepting the lead role in Adding Machine at Odyssey Theatre here in Los Angeles. Also making a couple of independent films. Signing to two agencies, Pinnacle Talent for commercials and Schiowitz and Clay for theatre. Renewing lifelong friendships with my my buddies Jim Barbour and John Bader. Starting a new theatre company with the former of the two called 'theGathering.'
But, without going into too much detail, it is Angela, my wife, that has changed everything. She has single-handedly given me a life of unimagined happiness.
So we flew in last night to LAX from Springfield, MO, where we'd just spent 11 wonderful days and nights with Angie's parents, four of the nicest, most accepting, loving and supportive people in the universe. I say four because we alternated time between Angie's mom and her stepfather and her dad and her stepmother. They are my family now, too, and I couldn't have picked four more generous and loving people if I tried.
I'm still not entirely sure they 'get' what it is I do, but I was talking to a good buddy of mine, a major Broadway star over the past decade or so, and he said the same thing. He said his family didn't entirely 'get' what he did either until he started making about ten grand a week on B'way. Of course, I'm not making ten grand a week on B'way at the moment, so it's a little harder to define my passions to them. Nonetheless, in the final analysis, I don't think they really care one way or another. As long as Angela and I are happy, which we are beyond words, it's all just fine with them.
And we got some goodies over Christmas, which was really cool. It has been many years since I'd done a 'family' Christmas, so I was humbled, overwhelmed and filled with gratitude all at the same time. It was the best Christmas morning I've had in decades, maybe ever. I've spent so many Christmas mornings either alone or on the road, I wasn't even sure how to act. And watching two beautiful little girls (Angie's brother's kids) unwrap presents that morning was truly the highlight.
We came home to our puppies, Franny and Zooey, going bonkers at seeing us again. In fact, they still are. I'm sure they thought we'd deserted them forever.
So today it's all about final touches on the script for Adding Machine. I didn't work on it as much as I'd anticipated over the break so I've got a little catch-up work to do today. I have been waffling a little about the piece. That is to say, it's either going to be magnificent or slightly out of reach. I've decided it will be magnificent.
Josh Schmidt, the brilliant composer of the piece, contacted me a few days ago and asked if he could get seats for the January 28th performance. I think that can be arranged. As a playwright, I've often flown in to see various productions around the country of my own work so I'm a little nervous. I long ago decided that I wasn't so much an actor as a 'purveyor of plays,' as Laurence Olivier once described himself. My job is to tell the story on the page, as honestly as I can. That's the long and short of it.
So as I start 2011, which I'm convinced will be even more wonderful than 2010, if that's possible, I've decided to list the ten best things that happened to me over the past year. Just as an academic exercise, really. I've thought about it a lot over the past few days. Here they are:
1) Angie
2) Angie
3) Angie
4) Angie
5) Angie
6) Angie
7) Angie
8) Angie
9) Angie
10) Franny and Zooey
That pretty much sums it up.
See you tomorrow.
I was settling into my desk this morning, adjusting things after I'd been away for almost two weeks, and I ran across a calendar for January, 2010. I noticed that I was having the first read-thru of my play, From the East to the West, in a couple of days from now this time last year. And, of course, it got me thinking about the year that was.
I can say, I think, that 2010 has been the best year in recent memory. So many wonderful things came to fruition: Performances of three of my plays, From the East to the West, Praying Small and Bachelor's Graveyard. And then there was that little thing called getting married. And saving Franny, my Norfolk Terrier puppy, from the 'joint' up in Bakersfield, bringing him home and making him a part of our family. Accepting the lead role in Adding Machine at Odyssey Theatre here in Los Angeles. Also making a couple of independent films. Signing to two agencies, Pinnacle Talent for commercials and Schiowitz and Clay for theatre. Renewing lifelong friendships with my my buddies Jim Barbour and John Bader. Starting a new theatre company with the former of the two called 'theGathering.'
But, without going into too much detail, it is Angela, my wife, that has changed everything. She has single-handedly given me a life of unimagined happiness.
So we flew in last night to LAX from Springfield, MO, where we'd just spent 11 wonderful days and nights with Angie's parents, four of the nicest, most accepting, loving and supportive people in the universe. I say four because we alternated time between Angie's mom and her stepfather and her dad and her stepmother. They are my family now, too, and I couldn't have picked four more generous and loving people if I tried.
I'm still not entirely sure they 'get' what it is I do, but I was talking to a good buddy of mine, a major Broadway star over the past decade or so, and he said the same thing. He said his family didn't entirely 'get' what he did either until he started making about ten grand a week on B'way. Of course, I'm not making ten grand a week on B'way at the moment, so it's a little harder to define my passions to them. Nonetheless, in the final analysis, I don't think they really care one way or another. As long as Angela and I are happy, which we are beyond words, it's all just fine with them.
And we got some goodies over Christmas, which was really cool. It has been many years since I'd done a 'family' Christmas, so I was humbled, overwhelmed and filled with gratitude all at the same time. It was the best Christmas morning I've had in decades, maybe ever. I've spent so many Christmas mornings either alone or on the road, I wasn't even sure how to act. And watching two beautiful little girls (Angie's brother's kids) unwrap presents that morning was truly the highlight.
We came home to our puppies, Franny and Zooey, going bonkers at seeing us again. In fact, they still are. I'm sure they thought we'd deserted them forever.
So today it's all about final touches on the script for Adding Machine. I didn't work on it as much as I'd anticipated over the break so I've got a little catch-up work to do today. I have been waffling a little about the piece. That is to say, it's either going to be magnificent or slightly out of reach. I've decided it will be magnificent.
Josh Schmidt, the brilliant composer of the piece, contacted me a few days ago and asked if he could get seats for the January 28th performance. I think that can be arranged. As a playwright, I've often flown in to see various productions around the country of my own work so I'm a little nervous. I long ago decided that I wasn't so much an actor as a 'purveyor of plays,' as Laurence Olivier once described himself. My job is to tell the story on the page, as honestly as I can. That's the long and short of it.
So as I start 2011, which I'm convinced will be even more wonderful than 2010, if that's possible, I've decided to list the ten best things that happened to me over the past year. Just as an academic exercise, really. I've thought about it a lot over the past few days. Here they are:
1) Angie
2) Angie
3) Angie
4) Angie
5) Angie
6) Angie
7) Angie
8) Angie
9) Angie
10) Franny and Zooey
That pretty much sums it up.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Bob's Holiday Office Party.
Christmas is creeping up on us. I have been watching the yearly holiday fare on television - Miracle on 34th Street, Holiday Inn, White Christmas, Apocalypse Now...okay, maybe not that last one. White Christmas, although clearly the lesser of the three movies, oddly, is my favorite. Although the song, "What do you do with a General when he's no longer a General?" may be the most awkward title for a song ever written. And poor Rosemary Clooney dances like a shot rabbit. Danny Kaye is decidedly unfunny and the outdoor sets are all obviously indoors. And yet, it's my favorite. Go figure.
Speaking of Holiday fare...Angie and I traveled over to Hollywood Friday night to see our friend, John Bader, in a show called "Bob's Holiday Office Party" at The Hudson Theater. Let me just say right off the bat that I can't remember ever laughing so hard at a stage play. The whole thing is sheer chaos. Complete anarchy up there on the boards. A play that manages to offend everyone in the audience at some point or another. I loved it.
I don't have the program in front of me because Angie went on a cleaning binge yesterday and threw away anything that wasn't bolted to the floor. I'm surprised Franny and Zooey made it though it alive. So I can't give proper credit to the writers and actors.
In any event, it's a great piece of work. Just when you think it can't get any zanier, it does. It builds to jaw-dropping heights of political incorrectness. If that sort of thing disturbs your sensitivities, it's probably not the play for you. Hardly anything or anyone escapes unscathed. I adored it.
It is exactly what it sounds like - a small-town, insurance company holiday party. The narrow-minded, outwardly republican conservative townfolk, all proceed to get rip-roaring drunk throughout the evening until the stage becomes a moving version of a Hieronymus Bosch painting by the end. Every time I thought they couldn't get any more ridiculous, they did. As I was gasping for breath I noticed an elderly couple near us staring, frozen and shocked, at the proceedings on stage. Which of course only made me laugh harder.
John is in the rather thankless role of a 'straight man' throughout, but he's such a fine actor he still manages to get his share of laughs out of it. One of the writers, Joe Keyes, plays the small-town sheriff and is absolute perfection. Mr. Keyes is a very, very funny actor.
The play has been running continually, every Christmas, for fifteen years here in Los Angeles and Angie and I have decided to make it our annual must-see holiday event. I think today is the last performance of it for 2010, but we will be dragging our more open-minded friends to it next year.
One kind of feels like they need a shower after watching it...but in a good way. This is really funny stuff and even more so because it's clear the actors are having the time of their lives up there. The script has been designed in such a way that allows the more versatile actors to adlib at their leisure, most notably the hysterical Mr. Keyes.
Years ago I did a long run of a half-scripted, half-improvised show called Flannigan's Wake on the East Coast. Also a pretty funny show, but nowhere near as funny as this one. In addition, Bob's Holiday Office Party has been slightly updated every year so that it keeps up with the times. There's a scathing section on Obama and Bush early in the play that's just priceless.
So...next year about this time, keep it in mind if you live in the LA area. It's worth every penny of the admission price.
Back to rehearsal today for me. Had a full run-thru yesterday for the designers. Everyone on hand did their best, but it's very early in the proceedings and there were, to put it mildly, a few rough spots - specifically from the first moment to the last. To be expected. Nonetheless, daunting. This is hard shit.
Back at it again all day today. We have a ten day break from it coming up...and then we're back in rehearsal on January 2. In a perfect world, I'll be off book by then which, of course, means I'll be singing this stuff ad nauseum back in Missouri over the holidays. So be it. Has to be done.
Los Angeles is in the middle of a Noah's Ark type rain these days. A little depressing. My consolation, however, is knowing that my former home, Chicago, is in the midst of its usual minus 40 degree December and January. Good Lord, I'm glad I don't live there anymore.
See you tomorrow.
Speaking of Holiday fare...Angie and I traveled over to Hollywood Friday night to see our friend, John Bader, in a show called "Bob's Holiday Office Party" at The Hudson Theater. Let me just say right off the bat that I can't remember ever laughing so hard at a stage play. The whole thing is sheer chaos. Complete anarchy up there on the boards. A play that manages to offend everyone in the audience at some point or another. I loved it.
I don't have the program in front of me because Angie went on a cleaning binge yesterday and threw away anything that wasn't bolted to the floor. I'm surprised Franny and Zooey made it though it alive. So I can't give proper credit to the writers and actors.
In any event, it's a great piece of work. Just when you think it can't get any zanier, it does. It builds to jaw-dropping heights of political incorrectness. If that sort of thing disturbs your sensitivities, it's probably not the play for you. Hardly anything or anyone escapes unscathed. I adored it.
It is exactly what it sounds like - a small-town, insurance company holiday party. The narrow-minded, outwardly republican conservative townfolk, all proceed to get rip-roaring drunk throughout the evening until the stage becomes a moving version of a Hieronymus Bosch painting by the end. Every time I thought they couldn't get any more ridiculous, they did. As I was gasping for breath I noticed an elderly couple near us staring, frozen and shocked, at the proceedings on stage. Which of course only made me laugh harder.
John is in the rather thankless role of a 'straight man' throughout, but he's such a fine actor he still manages to get his share of laughs out of it. One of the writers, Joe Keyes, plays the small-town sheriff and is absolute perfection. Mr. Keyes is a very, very funny actor.
The play has been running continually, every Christmas, for fifteen years here in Los Angeles and Angie and I have decided to make it our annual must-see holiday event. I think today is the last performance of it for 2010, but we will be dragging our more open-minded friends to it next year.
One kind of feels like they need a shower after watching it...but in a good way. This is really funny stuff and even more so because it's clear the actors are having the time of their lives up there. The script has been designed in such a way that allows the more versatile actors to adlib at their leisure, most notably the hysterical Mr. Keyes.
Years ago I did a long run of a half-scripted, half-improvised show called Flannigan's Wake on the East Coast. Also a pretty funny show, but nowhere near as funny as this one. In addition, Bob's Holiday Office Party has been slightly updated every year so that it keeps up with the times. There's a scathing section on Obama and Bush early in the play that's just priceless.
So...next year about this time, keep it in mind if you live in the LA area. It's worth every penny of the admission price.
Back to rehearsal today for me. Had a full run-thru yesterday for the designers. Everyone on hand did their best, but it's very early in the proceedings and there were, to put it mildly, a few rough spots - specifically from the first moment to the last. To be expected. Nonetheless, daunting. This is hard shit.
Back at it again all day today. We have a ten day break from it coming up...and then we're back in rehearsal on January 2. In a perfect world, I'll be off book by then which, of course, means I'll be singing this stuff ad nauseum back in Missouri over the holidays. So be it. Has to be done.
Los Angeles is in the middle of a Noah's Ark type rain these days. A little depressing. My consolation, however, is knowing that my former home, Chicago, is in the midst of its usual minus 40 degree December and January. Good Lord, I'm glad I don't live there anymore.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, December 17, 2010
'Pretty isn't beautiful, Georgie...'
'Pretty isn't beautiful, Georgie. Pretty is what changes. What the eye arranges, is what is beautiful.' Those are my favorite lyrics of any musical I've ever seen or done. It's from Sunday in the Park with George. Sondheim, of course.
I am torn sometimes about this acting thing that I do. Sometimes I think it's just a ridiculously childish occupation for an adult. Brando claims to have felt that way after about 1965 or so. "Just not a suitably mature livelihood," was his direct quote. Yesterday I was scouting around online and reading a number of reviews from various productions of this play I'm doing, Adding Machine. And I ran across a couple of interviews with actors that have played the role I'm doing, Mr. Zero.
As is the norm in this sort of publicity-driven business, the actors all got very high-falutin' about it, talking about their rather lofty approach to allegedly 'doing' the character. As constant readers of this blog might suspect, I'm usually just amused by that kind of drivel. However, having said that, I read something interesting from an actor that played the role somewhere in Florida last year. He said something along the lines of, "This guy (the character of Mr. Zero) is a complete asshole, but it's not his fault. My father drove a bus for forty years, got out of bed at 5am everyday to do a job he hated so that his children might have food and shelter. I think of that every night before I do the play."
I thought about that a lot yesterday before I headed into rehearsal.
For many years now, I've subscribed to the idea that acting is not about the actor. This idea found a foothold in my thinking many years ago when I first read J.D. Salinger's exceptional short novel, Franny and Zooey (not coincidentally, the name of my dogs). In that piece of writing Salinger says that all performance, regardless of the medium, is all about 'the fat lady.' That is to say, the audience.
It was further reinforced by my teacher of note, Michael Moriarty, in the late eighties in New York, who taught a very anti-method approach to the craft. The moment acting becomes intellectually masturbatory, it becomes, in my mind anyway, rather silly and self-indulgent. I'm always mildly amused when I hear actors drone on about 'their character.'
It is impossible to play 'metaphor' or 'allegory' or 'symbolism.' All we can do is play the next moment as honestly as we can. I, nor anyone for that matter, cannot 'act' the plight of the common man, or the rise and fall of civilization or anything remotely like that.
Is the actor's performance any more 'layered' or 'deep' if he conjures up images of lofty philosophizing while in the midst of his work? I don't think so. And yet. And yet. Sometimes one gets hold of a role that begs for it. Consequently, once the nuts and bolts of the performance are mastered, I don't see any harm in going deeper, if the piece allows it. That's what I was thinking about yesterday after reading these interviews.
Of course, I haven't mastered the nuts and bolts of the performance yet so it's all moot anyway at this point. But, I suspect, I soon will. And at that juncture of the rehearsal process, I think I'll start exploring an area of performance I've not allowed myself for a long time. That is to say, the very dangerous area I call the 'what does it all mean' area.
There's a lot in this piece of writing. A lot. Last night I listened as the musical director and the director had a very civil conversation about the propulsion of the play...one pointing out the desired effect of clarity in the music, the other saying none of that would matter anyway if the audience lost the thread of plot and theme. Both were right. Ultimately none of it had or has anything to do with me. The most I can contribute is to play the next moment before me honestly and with sincere intention. And, of course, in such a manner that the audience can hear me and understand me. Mamet talks about this in his two wry, sarcastic and wise books on acting.
I think it's a perfectly legitimate conversation for the musical director and the director to have, and frankly, I was pleased they were having it. And again, in the final analysis, it has absolutely nothing to do with my work on the piece. Thankfully, both are very, very good at what they do, so the conversation never got past the theoretical.
As I've told my students many times over the years, theatre is not a democracy as much as we'd like to dress it up and pretend it is. At its best it is a single and powerful vision. This may not apply to film, but it most certainly does to stage. The problem with this, just like any other profession be it plumbing or ballet or steering a boat, is that sometimes the person helming the ship is a moron. That is not, by any stretch of the imagination, the case of this ship, however. Thank God. I have been on that ship many times and it is not pleasant.
In this case, much to my delight, everyone involved in the steering of this particular ship is very good at it. This makes me feel safe as an actor. Trust is so terribly important. Without it the final product becomes disjointed and muddy. I can say without reservation that in this singular instance I have complete trust in our respective directors.
I say all of this to make a point. When everyone involved in a production is expertly taking care of his or her bidness...well, it's just an indescribable pleasure to work on a project of this sort. All I have to do is the next right thing, the next interesting moment, the next fascination bit of business, the next clear thought. Even though we, the actors, may be light years away from what we're trying to achieve, we can all rest easy that we are, like that insurance company, in 'good hands.'
A much needed day off today. Kind of. I'll still drag the script and score out and start working in a bit. I'll still think about it all day. I'll still let everything we've done up to this point percolate. And I'll still think about what I, personally, can do in my own small way to make this project 'beautiful' and not 'pretty.'
See you tomorrow.
I am torn sometimes about this acting thing that I do. Sometimes I think it's just a ridiculously childish occupation for an adult. Brando claims to have felt that way after about 1965 or so. "Just not a suitably mature livelihood," was his direct quote. Yesterday I was scouting around online and reading a number of reviews from various productions of this play I'm doing, Adding Machine. And I ran across a couple of interviews with actors that have played the role I'm doing, Mr. Zero.
As is the norm in this sort of publicity-driven business, the actors all got very high-falutin' about it, talking about their rather lofty approach to allegedly 'doing' the character. As constant readers of this blog might suspect, I'm usually just amused by that kind of drivel. However, having said that, I read something interesting from an actor that played the role somewhere in Florida last year. He said something along the lines of, "This guy (the character of Mr. Zero) is a complete asshole, but it's not his fault. My father drove a bus for forty years, got out of bed at 5am everyday to do a job he hated so that his children might have food and shelter. I think of that every night before I do the play."
I thought about that a lot yesterday before I headed into rehearsal.
For many years now, I've subscribed to the idea that acting is not about the actor. This idea found a foothold in my thinking many years ago when I first read J.D. Salinger's exceptional short novel, Franny and Zooey (not coincidentally, the name of my dogs). In that piece of writing Salinger says that all performance, regardless of the medium, is all about 'the fat lady.' That is to say, the audience.
It was further reinforced by my teacher of note, Michael Moriarty, in the late eighties in New York, who taught a very anti-method approach to the craft. The moment acting becomes intellectually masturbatory, it becomes, in my mind anyway, rather silly and self-indulgent. I'm always mildly amused when I hear actors drone on about 'their character.'
It is impossible to play 'metaphor' or 'allegory' or 'symbolism.' All we can do is play the next moment as honestly as we can. I, nor anyone for that matter, cannot 'act' the plight of the common man, or the rise and fall of civilization or anything remotely like that.
Is the actor's performance any more 'layered' or 'deep' if he conjures up images of lofty philosophizing while in the midst of his work? I don't think so. And yet. And yet. Sometimes one gets hold of a role that begs for it. Consequently, once the nuts and bolts of the performance are mastered, I don't see any harm in going deeper, if the piece allows it. That's what I was thinking about yesterday after reading these interviews.
Of course, I haven't mastered the nuts and bolts of the performance yet so it's all moot anyway at this point. But, I suspect, I soon will. And at that juncture of the rehearsal process, I think I'll start exploring an area of performance I've not allowed myself for a long time. That is to say, the very dangerous area I call the 'what does it all mean' area.
There's a lot in this piece of writing. A lot. Last night I listened as the musical director and the director had a very civil conversation about the propulsion of the play...one pointing out the desired effect of clarity in the music, the other saying none of that would matter anyway if the audience lost the thread of plot and theme. Both were right. Ultimately none of it had or has anything to do with me. The most I can contribute is to play the next moment before me honestly and with sincere intention. And, of course, in such a manner that the audience can hear me and understand me. Mamet talks about this in his two wry, sarcastic and wise books on acting.
I think it's a perfectly legitimate conversation for the musical director and the director to have, and frankly, I was pleased they were having it. And again, in the final analysis, it has absolutely nothing to do with my work on the piece. Thankfully, both are very, very good at what they do, so the conversation never got past the theoretical.
As I've told my students many times over the years, theatre is not a democracy as much as we'd like to dress it up and pretend it is. At its best it is a single and powerful vision. This may not apply to film, but it most certainly does to stage. The problem with this, just like any other profession be it plumbing or ballet or steering a boat, is that sometimes the person helming the ship is a moron. That is not, by any stretch of the imagination, the case of this ship, however. Thank God. I have been on that ship many times and it is not pleasant.
In this case, much to my delight, everyone involved in the steering of this particular ship is very good at it. This makes me feel safe as an actor. Trust is so terribly important. Without it the final product becomes disjointed and muddy. I can say without reservation that in this singular instance I have complete trust in our respective directors.
I say all of this to make a point. When everyone involved in a production is expertly taking care of his or her bidness...well, it's just an indescribable pleasure to work on a project of this sort. All I have to do is the next right thing, the next interesting moment, the next fascination bit of business, the next clear thought. Even though we, the actors, may be light years away from what we're trying to achieve, we can all rest easy that we are, like that insurance company, in 'good hands.'
A much needed day off today. Kind of. I'll still drag the script and score out and start working in a bit. I'll still think about it all day. I'll still let everything we've done up to this point percolate. And I'll still think about what I, personally, can do in my own small way to make this project 'beautiful' and not 'pretty.'
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.'
We staggered through the entire show last night. Only took us about six hours. Actually, less than two. But it felt like six. Nothing to do now but keep at it.
In a few days Angie and I are heading back to Missouri for Christmas. Well, Springfield. I don't really think of Springfield as 'Missouri,' although it obviously is. I have very few bad memories of Springfield. That's where I attended undergraduate school (SMSU, now MSU). Those days were mostly a lot of fun. It's the earlier days, the days of growing up in small-town, mid-Missouri that were loathesome for me. I'm always a little amused when I hear people talk about 'the good, old days.' Here's a simple and misunderstood truism: these are the good, old days.
Anyway, lots of things planned for the ten-day break in the Ozarks...seeing old friends, hanging out with Angie's family (shockingly normal as compared to mine), eating out at lots of not-to-be-missed restaurants (Springfield, oddly enough, is quite famous, locally speaking, for its 'cashew chicken' of all things).
Angie has been getting lots of calls from her family along the lines of 'what does Clif like?' This is our first Christmas as a married couple. The Peabody clan is trying to get a read on me, I guess. I've met them all, of course, but they don't really know me and vice-versa. At this point I guess I'm still just the 'bald, quiet guy that seems to always be around our Angie' to them. Except, of course, her immediate family. Her mom and step-dad and her dad and step-mom, that is. I think they like me well enough. I certainly like them.
So I hear her on the phone with brothers and aunts, etc. I only hear Angie's side of the conversation. "Well, he likes to read. He likes Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinatra. He likes argyle socks. Um. What else? He likes hats. What? No, he doesn't care for tools. He doesn't do tools. Hm? No, he's not really into NASCAR. I'm not sure he'd read a NASCAR magazine. He likes boxing. Yes, I said boxing. As in, 'boxing matches.' Yes. Muhammad Ali, that sort of thing. He likes to watch old fight films. He collects them. I said he collects them. No, not boxers. Boxing MATCHES. Yes, to watch. Hm? Oh, yes, he's seen them all. He know who's going to win. He likes to watch them anyway. What's that? No, I don't why. I haven't a clue. But that's what he does. Oh, yes, books. That's always a good idea. He loves books. Well, he likes fantasy. I say, fantasy. Books about wizards and elves. I don't know why. But he does. Uh, huh. Wizards and elves and thirty year old boxing matches. Hm? Oh, yes, he listens to music. He likes Frank Sinatra. But he's already got all those CDs, so don't get any of those. Well, he likes Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello and Tom Waits. Tom Waits. He's a singer. He has a growly voice. Yes, he likes that. Yes, I know. He's somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.' That's him exactly."
So back at rehearsal tonight. I told our director last night that I was having a 'mid-rehearsal crisis of confidence.' He said, why? I said, because I know all the notes I just have no idea in which order they go.
Franny and Zooey are silently demanding a walk. I shall take them.
See you tomorrow.
In a few days Angie and I are heading back to Missouri for Christmas. Well, Springfield. I don't really think of Springfield as 'Missouri,' although it obviously is. I have very few bad memories of Springfield. That's where I attended undergraduate school (SMSU, now MSU). Those days were mostly a lot of fun. It's the earlier days, the days of growing up in small-town, mid-Missouri that were loathesome for me. I'm always a little amused when I hear people talk about 'the good, old days.' Here's a simple and misunderstood truism: these are the good, old days.
Anyway, lots of things planned for the ten-day break in the Ozarks...seeing old friends, hanging out with Angie's family (shockingly normal as compared to mine), eating out at lots of not-to-be-missed restaurants (Springfield, oddly enough, is quite famous, locally speaking, for its 'cashew chicken' of all things).
Angie has been getting lots of calls from her family along the lines of 'what does Clif like?' This is our first Christmas as a married couple. The Peabody clan is trying to get a read on me, I guess. I've met them all, of course, but they don't really know me and vice-versa. At this point I guess I'm still just the 'bald, quiet guy that seems to always be around our Angie' to them. Except, of course, her immediate family. Her mom and step-dad and her dad and step-mom, that is. I think they like me well enough. I certainly like them.
So I hear her on the phone with brothers and aunts, etc. I only hear Angie's side of the conversation. "Well, he likes to read. He likes Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinatra. He likes argyle socks. Um. What else? He likes hats. What? No, he doesn't care for tools. He doesn't do tools. Hm? No, he's not really into NASCAR. I'm not sure he'd read a NASCAR magazine. He likes boxing. Yes, I said boxing. As in, 'boxing matches.' Yes. Muhammad Ali, that sort of thing. He likes to watch old fight films. He collects them. I said he collects them. No, not boxers. Boxing MATCHES. Yes, to watch. Hm? Oh, yes, he's seen them all. He know who's going to win. He likes to watch them anyway. What's that? No, I don't why. I haven't a clue. But that's what he does. Oh, yes, books. That's always a good idea. He loves books. Well, he likes fantasy. I say, fantasy. Books about wizards and elves. I don't know why. But he does. Uh, huh. Wizards and elves and thirty year old boxing matches. Hm? Oh, yes, he listens to music. He likes Frank Sinatra. But he's already got all those CDs, so don't get any of those. Well, he likes Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello and Tom Waits. Tom Waits. He's a singer. He has a growly voice. Yes, he likes that. Yes, I know. He's somewhere between 'odd' and 'boring.' That's him exactly."
So back at rehearsal tonight. I told our director last night that I was having a 'mid-rehearsal crisis of confidence.' He said, why? I said, because I know all the notes I just have no idea in which order they go.
Franny and Zooey are silently demanding a walk. I shall take them.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Back at it...
Back in the late eighties I studied with the brilliant actor/writer/pianist/composer, Michael Moriarty for several years. Right up until Michael started doing Law and Order, in fact. After that he no longer had time to teach. Which was a shame because Michael was a very gifted and gentle teacher. Not to mention a brilliant actor. One of the reasons Michael was so good as a teacher, I think, is because he had been there himself, under fire, on the front line of artistic combat, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Many times. And what's more, he has a shelf full of Tony's and Emmy's to prove it.
So over the time I worked with Michael I got a lot of opportunities to pick his brain, listen to stories and anectdotes. Michael has worked with everyone from Katherine Hepburn to Tennessee Williams to Robert DeNiro to Jack Nicholson to Meryl Streep. He has wonderful memories of them all and is a great storyteller.
One of the stories I remember him recounting to me one night was about doing 'Bang the Drum Slowly' with DeNiro. He said there was a scene, I believe it was set in a public bathroom in the film, where DeNiro's character had to vomit into a toilet while Michael was standing outside the stall. Michael's character could hear it all happening. For those who don't know the film, the DeNiro character is dying from some disease (never actually named). Both play big league baseball players.
In any event, DeNiro wanted, as was his usual approach in those days, absolute realism. So when it came time to shoot that scene he came in with one of those long, iced tea spoons. And just before every take of him throwing up, he would jam the spoon into the back of his throat to instigate his gag reflex. Over and over. Quite a few takes to get just the right one, Michael recalled. And, as he stood there watching this he thought to himself, 'I'm just not that serious about all this. It's only a movie, for Pete's sake.'
Another time, years back, I was doing the wonderful Lanford Wilson play, Fifth of July. I'd done it once before way back in college and was doing it again in an off-broadway revival at Circle-in-the-Square in New York. Wilson himself was on hand for a good part of the rehearsal period and actually wrote some new dialogue for our production. Marshall Mason was directing again.
In the play, two of the characters come very close to a fist fight. One is holding some gardening shears and uses them as a weapon to ward off the other character. It's a great moment and very tense. Anyway, during one late rehearsal, the moment got out of hand quite unexpectedly and the two actors actually threw some punches before the rest of us could get between them. Their relationship off-stage was never the same which was sad because they had been friends. In the aftermath of this little incident I remember thinking the same thing Michael had thought in that bathroom years before...'I'm just not that serious about all this.' Certainly not serious enough to lose control of myself and throw a punch in rehearsal. Not only does that violate nearly every acting instinct I have, it's just plain counter-productive. What is to be gained from something like that?
A moment like that comes from the passion of the artist. I honestly don't think these two guys (I've long since lost touch with both) had any sort of anger against each other, they just got lost in the moment.
Trying to churn out a perfect product is a myth that we who work on the stage chase relentlessly. And, I might add, without success. But we can't help ourselves. We're too passionate about it. And we'd certainly never do anything less than our very best.
That moment in Fifth of July never worked again because the actors wouldn't let themselves go that far again. They were both quietly ashamed of it. They later apologized and went out for drinks together and laughed about it, but the damage was done. There was an unhealthy tension between them for the rest of the run. It was an intangible thing, but there.
I love artists. People who are not only passionate about what they do, be it painting or acting or music or sculpting or dancing, but also good at it. I adore that passion. I thrive on it. It inspires me.
I recently played the lead role in one of my own plays. It was a tremendously difficult process. Egos ran rampant, my own included. A loggerhead was reached, of sorts, between myself (not only the actor but the playwright) and the director. We disagreed vehemently on our respective visions of the play. In the end we had a tremendously successful product, but it was really tough getting there. I sincerely regret some of the arguments we had about the play. In the final analysis, it didn't matter. The material soared anyway.
I was reminded of the passion of the artist last night as I stood aside and watched all of these unbelievably talented artists doing what they do best. I felt and feel terribly fortunate to be involved. There's nothing quite like the feeling of knowing the material is as good as the work. It's the same feeling I get every time I've worked on a piece of Shakespeare. There is a genius there that we all find ourselves trying to match. Everyone wants perfection. And that's how it should be.
I can't even begin to relay to you, Gentle Reader, the jaw-dropping talent involved in this piece: Ron Sossi, Alan Patrick Kenny, Kelly Lester, Rob Herring, Christine Horn, just to name the principals. The ensemble is every bit as extraordinary. During one of the breaks last night, I was listening to our musical director (Alan) and one of our ensemble members (Travis Leland) casually sing through some music from another show. I was stunned. These guys are just so, so good at what they do. Even when they're just playing around.
Back at it today. Music is out, script is out, pouring over it first thing in the morning. As a playwright I know how volatile the process of creating can be. And as an actor I know how very much it means to try and do justice to a good piece of writing. And I recognize and appreciate the fine line between passion and frustration. On one hand it makes for some sleepless nights. On the other hand it makes for a truly indescribable feeling of accomplishment. And the journey, bumps and all, is a beautiful and worthwhile thing.
See you tomorrow.
So over the time I worked with Michael I got a lot of opportunities to pick his brain, listen to stories and anectdotes. Michael has worked with everyone from Katherine Hepburn to Tennessee Williams to Robert DeNiro to Jack Nicholson to Meryl Streep. He has wonderful memories of them all and is a great storyteller.
One of the stories I remember him recounting to me one night was about doing 'Bang the Drum Slowly' with DeNiro. He said there was a scene, I believe it was set in a public bathroom in the film, where DeNiro's character had to vomit into a toilet while Michael was standing outside the stall. Michael's character could hear it all happening. For those who don't know the film, the DeNiro character is dying from some disease (never actually named). Both play big league baseball players.
In any event, DeNiro wanted, as was his usual approach in those days, absolute realism. So when it came time to shoot that scene he came in with one of those long, iced tea spoons. And just before every take of him throwing up, he would jam the spoon into the back of his throat to instigate his gag reflex. Over and over. Quite a few takes to get just the right one, Michael recalled. And, as he stood there watching this he thought to himself, 'I'm just not that serious about all this. It's only a movie, for Pete's sake.'
Another time, years back, I was doing the wonderful Lanford Wilson play, Fifth of July. I'd done it once before way back in college and was doing it again in an off-broadway revival at Circle-in-the-Square in New York. Wilson himself was on hand for a good part of the rehearsal period and actually wrote some new dialogue for our production. Marshall Mason was directing again.
In the play, two of the characters come very close to a fist fight. One is holding some gardening shears and uses them as a weapon to ward off the other character. It's a great moment and very tense. Anyway, during one late rehearsal, the moment got out of hand quite unexpectedly and the two actors actually threw some punches before the rest of us could get between them. Their relationship off-stage was never the same which was sad because they had been friends. In the aftermath of this little incident I remember thinking the same thing Michael had thought in that bathroom years before...'I'm just not that serious about all this.' Certainly not serious enough to lose control of myself and throw a punch in rehearsal. Not only does that violate nearly every acting instinct I have, it's just plain counter-productive. What is to be gained from something like that?
A moment like that comes from the passion of the artist. I honestly don't think these two guys (I've long since lost touch with both) had any sort of anger against each other, they just got lost in the moment.
Trying to churn out a perfect product is a myth that we who work on the stage chase relentlessly. And, I might add, without success. But we can't help ourselves. We're too passionate about it. And we'd certainly never do anything less than our very best.
That moment in Fifth of July never worked again because the actors wouldn't let themselves go that far again. They were both quietly ashamed of it. They later apologized and went out for drinks together and laughed about it, but the damage was done. There was an unhealthy tension between them for the rest of the run. It was an intangible thing, but there.
I love artists. People who are not only passionate about what they do, be it painting or acting or music or sculpting or dancing, but also good at it. I adore that passion. I thrive on it. It inspires me.
I recently played the lead role in one of my own plays. It was a tremendously difficult process. Egos ran rampant, my own included. A loggerhead was reached, of sorts, between myself (not only the actor but the playwright) and the director. We disagreed vehemently on our respective visions of the play. In the end we had a tremendously successful product, but it was really tough getting there. I sincerely regret some of the arguments we had about the play. In the final analysis, it didn't matter. The material soared anyway.
I was reminded of the passion of the artist last night as I stood aside and watched all of these unbelievably talented artists doing what they do best. I felt and feel terribly fortunate to be involved. There's nothing quite like the feeling of knowing the material is as good as the work. It's the same feeling I get every time I've worked on a piece of Shakespeare. There is a genius there that we all find ourselves trying to match. Everyone wants perfection. And that's how it should be.
I can't even begin to relay to you, Gentle Reader, the jaw-dropping talent involved in this piece: Ron Sossi, Alan Patrick Kenny, Kelly Lester, Rob Herring, Christine Horn, just to name the principals. The ensemble is every bit as extraordinary. During one of the breaks last night, I was listening to our musical director (Alan) and one of our ensemble members (Travis Leland) casually sing through some music from another show. I was stunned. These guys are just so, so good at what they do. Even when they're just playing around.
Back at it today. Music is out, script is out, pouring over it first thing in the morning. As a playwright I know how volatile the process of creating can be. And as an actor I know how very much it means to try and do justice to a good piece of writing. And I recognize and appreciate the fine line between passion and frustration. On one hand it makes for some sleepless nights. On the other hand it makes for a truly indescribable feeling of accomplishment. And the journey, bumps and all, is a beautiful and worthwhile thing.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Adding Machine, a Musical. Opens January 22, 2011, Odyssey Theater, Los Angeles.
A long weekend of rehearsal. Wednesday we have our 'designer run thru.' To the uninitiated, this is not a run for Calvin Klein and that ilk, but rather a run of the show for the set, lighting, sound and costume designers. It is their first opportunity to see the piece translated from page to stage.
Thursday, if I'm not mistaken, we have our 'sitzprobe.' This is our first opportunity to sing all the music while sitting around the full orchestra.
Josh Schmidt, bless his heart, has written a musical so dense, so complex, so perfectly melded together as to be mind-boggling at times. And difficult. So difficult. I actually stopped a music rehearsal briefly yesterday to ask our music director, the stalwart and always good-humored Alan Patrick Kenny, if he didn't think Josh was perhaps having a bit of fun with us at times. It's hard to describe without hearing the music, but there are moments in the score which seem simply random. Alan assured me he didn't. I could only smile and push on.
I'm reminded of the apocryphal story about Shakespeare and his leading actor, Richard Burbage. It is oft repeated in the acting world. The story is that Shakespeare and Burbage were getting drunk together one night and Burbage, known to be a huge egoist, claimed that Shakespeare could not write a part he couldn't play. Shakespeare then wrote Hamlet. The inside joke is that Hamlet is a character that, as Olivier says in the opening of his film of the play, 'cannot make up his mind.' The one thing an actor cannot play, at least for long stretches, is indecision. The reason being that generally speaking the most important thing an actor does is make choices, make decisions. It is at the very heart of an actor's 'intentions' and 'motivation.' So there's Hamlet, unable to do so.
The reason it reminds me of this story is because there are moments, musically speaking, in the play that seem completely haphazard, intentionally random. Yet they're not. They fit together perfectly. It's just not readily apparent.
So all of us, not just myself, but all of us - Kelly Lester, Christine Horn, Rob Herring - all of us that have some solo stuff, find ourselves occasionally just stopping the proceedings now and then and saying..."Is that right? Is this a misprint? Do you actually want me to sing a C there instead of a D?"
Josh, if you're reading this, you've written a slice of sly genius. God forbid an actor should try and get comfortable singing one of these songs. If the others are like me, just when I start to think I've got this, I realize I don't. It's maddening.
But brilliant.
After a marathon couple of rehearsal periods this weekend, I'm back at the drawing board all day, listening to this stuff, singing along with it, making notations in the score, doing it again, trying to shove it into my muscle memory, trying once more. Repitition is the soul of art.
Sometimes, after a show, I get this question from an audience member: How do you remember all of those lines. Well, I'll tell you how. I say them 10,000 times before you ever hear them for the first time. It's that simple.
Due to complications beyond anyone's control, we've added a couple of new ensemble members into the show as of yesterday. They're both very good. The show just notched up a bit because of their contributions. Very exciting.
Two of my best friends, John Bader and Jim Barbour, are both off doing gigs of their own right now: Jim in NY doing his Christmas Concert to full houses at the historic 'Birdland' club in that city and John is doing a flat-out, no-holds-barred holiday farce over at the Hudson Theater here in LA. Angie and I are going to see John this Friday on my one night off. Unfortunately, we weren't able to see Jimmy this year. We saw his holiday concert tour last year, however, and it's astonishing. James Barbour has one of the finest voices in the world today. Not America, not NYC, not LA...but the world. If you haven't seen him do it, do so immediately. It's awesome. There's a reason Jim is one of the most highly sought-after Broadway leading men around today, and it ain't because he fits the costumes. He's amazing. And Johnny is back on stage after a long absence (John does a ton of film and commercial work these days). It'll be good to see him back doing what he does so well.
Sorry. Had to plug my buddies there. I don't plug mediocre stuff, though. Both Jim and John have more talent than is usually thought humanly possible. I am very lucky to have such talented friends. For one thing it makes it so much easier to talk to them after I see them perform. I don't have to say things like, "You know, I couldn't see anyone else in that role but you." Or, "Boy, you got close this time, didn't you?" Or, "You were wearing the nicest hat I think I've ever seen tonight."
So...back at it. Turn off the TV, put on the headphones, crank up the CD, pull out the score, dim the lights, concentrate, George, concentrate...see a perfect tree...
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, if I'm not mistaken, we have our 'sitzprobe.' This is our first opportunity to sing all the music while sitting around the full orchestra.
Josh Schmidt, bless his heart, has written a musical so dense, so complex, so perfectly melded together as to be mind-boggling at times. And difficult. So difficult. I actually stopped a music rehearsal briefly yesterday to ask our music director, the stalwart and always good-humored Alan Patrick Kenny, if he didn't think Josh was perhaps having a bit of fun with us at times. It's hard to describe without hearing the music, but there are moments in the score which seem simply random. Alan assured me he didn't. I could only smile and push on.
I'm reminded of the apocryphal story about Shakespeare and his leading actor, Richard Burbage. It is oft repeated in the acting world. The story is that Shakespeare and Burbage were getting drunk together one night and Burbage, known to be a huge egoist, claimed that Shakespeare could not write a part he couldn't play. Shakespeare then wrote Hamlet. The inside joke is that Hamlet is a character that, as Olivier says in the opening of his film of the play, 'cannot make up his mind.' The one thing an actor cannot play, at least for long stretches, is indecision. The reason being that generally speaking the most important thing an actor does is make choices, make decisions. It is at the very heart of an actor's 'intentions' and 'motivation.' So there's Hamlet, unable to do so.
The reason it reminds me of this story is because there are moments, musically speaking, in the play that seem completely haphazard, intentionally random. Yet they're not. They fit together perfectly. It's just not readily apparent.
So all of us, not just myself, but all of us - Kelly Lester, Christine Horn, Rob Herring - all of us that have some solo stuff, find ourselves occasionally just stopping the proceedings now and then and saying..."Is that right? Is this a misprint? Do you actually want me to sing a C there instead of a D?"
Josh, if you're reading this, you've written a slice of sly genius. God forbid an actor should try and get comfortable singing one of these songs. If the others are like me, just when I start to think I've got this, I realize I don't. It's maddening.
But brilliant.
After a marathon couple of rehearsal periods this weekend, I'm back at the drawing board all day, listening to this stuff, singing along with it, making notations in the score, doing it again, trying to shove it into my muscle memory, trying once more. Repitition is the soul of art.
Sometimes, after a show, I get this question from an audience member: How do you remember all of those lines. Well, I'll tell you how. I say them 10,000 times before you ever hear them for the first time. It's that simple.
Due to complications beyond anyone's control, we've added a couple of new ensemble members into the show as of yesterday. They're both very good. The show just notched up a bit because of their contributions. Very exciting.
Two of my best friends, John Bader and Jim Barbour, are both off doing gigs of their own right now: Jim in NY doing his Christmas Concert to full houses at the historic 'Birdland' club in that city and John is doing a flat-out, no-holds-barred holiday farce over at the Hudson Theater here in LA. Angie and I are going to see John this Friday on my one night off. Unfortunately, we weren't able to see Jimmy this year. We saw his holiday concert tour last year, however, and it's astonishing. James Barbour has one of the finest voices in the world today. Not America, not NYC, not LA...but the world. If you haven't seen him do it, do so immediately. It's awesome. There's a reason Jim is one of the most highly sought-after Broadway leading men around today, and it ain't because he fits the costumes. He's amazing. And Johnny is back on stage after a long absence (John does a ton of film and commercial work these days). It'll be good to see him back doing what he does so well.
Sorry. Had to plug my buddies there. I don't plug mediocre stuff, though. Both Jim and John have more talent than is usually thought humanly possible. I am very lucky to have such talented friends. For one thing it makes it so much easier to talk to them after I see them perform. I don't have to say things like, "You know, I couldn't see anyone else in that role but you." Or, "Boy, you got close this time, didn't you?" Or, "You were wearing the nicest hat I think I've ever seen tonight."
So...back at it. Turn off the TV, put on the headphones, crank up the CD, pull out the score, dim the lights, concentrate, George, concentrate...see a perfect tree...
See you tomorrow.
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