I've been dealing with unexpected complications with regards to the 'silent killer' (diabetes) the past couple of days. Consequently I spent a goodly amount of time on the couch watching some movies I've recorded.
The first was a movie Angie had never seen, 'Come Back, Little Sheba,' a 1952 film based on the William Inge play. The extraordinary Shirley Booth reprised her stage role in the movie and she's just teriffic in every possible way. Unfortunately, Burt Lancaster is miscast opposite her as the shaky recovering alcoholic husband, Doc. Funny, because I remember seeing the film some twenty years ago and vaguely recall Lancaster being good. Well, he's as good as he can be under the circumstances, I suppose, but woefully miscast, ultimately.
The play is one of those rare ones that is so stunningly good in terms of ideas and themes, but badly written. Much of the language (it was written in 1949) is terribly dated. But aside from that the play itself works on so many different levels. It's just a blisteringly good idea, but it was Inge's first play and he didn't quite have the horses to pull that cart as a writer yet. It is one of the few plays that I would love to go back and rewrite myself. That sounds a tad arrogant, but I kept thinking it all the way through. Somehow it has become a bit of a 'sacred cow' over the years and the idea of tampering with it makes theater purists a bit crazy. I don't care, I'd really love to update the script and make it relevant to today.
My God, what a sad story. And a lot of the sadness comes from Booth. Yes, it's a very well-sculptured role, but she takes it to an entirely different level with her astonishing performance. She deservedly won the Oscar for it. Lancaster, on the other hand, is playing a role clearly written as a frumpy, past-his-prime, living-in-his-head, scaredy-cat. Lancaster, especially later in his career, had some chops. That's not the problem. The problem is he's too young for the role and too goodlooking. The character should be at the end of his rope, physically unappealing, caught forever in a daily existence of en oui. Lancaster, through no real fault of his own, looks like he could run away and be a gigolo if he wanted.
But the core of the movie is still there. It made Angie cry (and me, too, actually). As well it should. It's such a great idea for a drama. And a little more poignant knowing that Inge himself died of alcoholism some twenty years later. I kept thinking what a remarkable film it would have been if Spencer Tracy had played the role instead of Burt Lancaster.
The second film was a surprise. A surprise in the sense that I completely expected it to be a laugh-riot, tongue firmly planted in cheek, much like, say, 'Dusk Till Dawn' is a funny film. It's called 'Hostel' and it's produced by Tarantino and directed by Eli Roth. It follows the same sort of pattern as the DiCaprio movie 'The Beach.' Some youngish, American party types are looking for fun and sex in Europe while backpacking across the continent. They unexpectedly hear about the existence of a sex-filled, girl-laden hostel in Slovakia so they hop on a train and head over there to check it out. And I'll be damned if the movie doesn't actually get scary at this point. Now, to be honest, it's nothing to write home about. I mean, it's not in the same league as, say, 'Silence of the Lambs' or 'Jaws' or 'The Exorcist,' but it's pretty spooky nonetheless. And the special effects are dead-on. To say much more would spill the beans about the film, but suffice to say it manages to make a very believable right turn from 'Beach Party Movie' to genunine 'Scare the Shit Out of You Movie.' And even though Roth directed it, there are very clear touches of Tarantino throughout.
And the sheer ability to go from a movie apparently about topless girls sitting on a bed, breasts bouncing enticingly, giggling and uttering inanities to a hide-your-eyes, real-assed horror flick is in and of itself quite an achievement.
Anyway, there you have it. 'Come Back, Little Sheba' and 'Hostel,' two movies to which I give a half-assed thumbs up.
The old blood pressure is fluctuating wildly. So much so, in fact, that the play had to be cancelled yesterday because I was having trouble standing up. Waves of dizziness. Saturday's show was a nightmare for me. There were four separate spots in the show I actually thought I might lose my balance and pass out.
Good Lord, I hate getting old.
Seeing you tomorrow.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Books.
Yesterday, a dear friend brought over a couple boxes of books and gave them to me. He no longer had the room to store them, apparently. It was an ecclectic bunch of books ranging from biographies of Orson Welles and Marlon Brando to sassy, cutting edge cookbooks to fantasy genre to Jack Kerouac (my favorite quote on Kerouac: when Johnny Carson asked Truman Capote what he thought of this 'hot, new writer,' Capote replied, "That's not writing, that's typing."). There's even a copy of 'The Great Gatsby,' arguably the finest novel of the twentieth century.
By God, I love books. They have been my salvation throughout a sometimes turbulent life. Not film, not tv, not theatre, not religion, not love, but books. Books. Books have been the constant in my life that have kept me from spinning off into a life of true apathy and self-destruction. Now, that's a heady statement, to be sure, but I believe it whole-heartedly.
Many years ago in New York when I was suffering through a savage break-up (and only age and late-life understanding have finally made me realize that nothing, nothing at all, can ease the pain of love lost...except the passage of time...and that's always a poor trade-off) I didn't leave my apartment for a month. I just sat indoors and read. And read. And read. And a month later, I finally escaped my self-imposed exile a better person. That was my Faulkner period. During that month of self-pity I devoured everything Billy Faulkner had ever written.
Skip ahead about ten years and I was in Rochester, NY, and again suffering through a devestating break-up (beginning to sound like a pattern, isn't it). I was teaching at the time and would only leave the apartment to go to class, and afterwards would race home and start reading again. This was my holocaust period. I was pouring over everything I could find about the Jewish Holocaust. There was no connection between that particular subject matter and my broken heart, it just turned out that way.
When I first moved to NYC I was often scared witless. I mean, here I was, 23 years old in New York, knowing hardly anyone, working as a waiter in an anonymous restaurant, absolutely no idea what my next step in life might be, and I discovered the works of John D. McDonald and Robert Parker and Dashiell Hammett. After my lunch shift I'd keep my brave face on until I got back to my apartment in Jersey City and spend the evening enveloped in that unmistakably American genre writing, the detective story. Parker, incidentally, recently passed away. He's a vastly underrated writer. A terrific story teller.
And, of course, when my mom died in a boat accident in 1987, once again, I took refuge in books. I needed some powerful voo-doo for that one. And it was then that I started on the Russians: Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Gorky and Pushkin. Those old Russians saved me. They took me to places where mid-summer, tragic, middle-class houseboat accidents didn't happen.
Naturally, over the years, I've developed favorites. John Irving is one. I love opening a new Irving book. Mostly because he's one of the few writers around today that always surprises me. Yes, one can always count on at least a passing reference to Austria, hotels, bears, wrestling or incest, but man oh man, can he surprise me. He may be the only living writer that has had me weeping with laughter and only a few pages later weeping with genuine sorrow. He is the Dickens of our time. An absolute master story teller.
But I'm not a snob about reading. I devour King and Grisham and Clancy, too. In fact, one of the books I recieved yesterday was King's 'Bag of Bones,' perhaps my favorite of King's later books. My early King favorite was, oddly, 'Pet Semetary.' That book, for some reason, scared the bejesus out of me. And make no mistake, now and then King can do some real writing. He'll be chugging along with all of his paranormal yadayada and suddenly, out of nowhere, he'll write a heart-breaking paragraph, as good as any writer working today anywhere. King, despite being the best-selling author in the history of mankind, is no lightweight. When he chooses, he can write like a house-a-fire.
Early in life, of course, I discovered Hemingway and Salinger, two writers that planted ideas and phrases in my head that have forever taken residence. Hemingway was the master at writing the exact right word at the exact right time. There's a story about him being unable to submit his novel, 'The Sun Also Rises' because he couldn't find the right word for the last sentence. The protagonist, Jake, is confronted with his ex-lover and she says something along the lines of 'We could be happy forever together...the best of lives.' Jake finally answers, 'Wouldn't it be pretty to think so.' It took Hemingways months to find the word, 'pretty.' Remember, he was at the top of his game then, the world breathlessly awaiting his next masterpiece. And he held it up for months in order to find that word. Nice.
And Salinger. Ah, Salinger. First I found 'Catcher in the Rye' like most teenage boys. Later I discovered my favorite of his, 'Franny and Zooey.' It is the most important book of my life, along with Irving's 'Prayer for Owen Meany.' I've read it dozens of times and still find something new. I give it out yearly as Christmas presents. I buy it for students because I think it's the most valuable book an actor can ever read. I've probably given away over a hundred copies of the book over the years. If you haven't read it, I recommend it highly. It addresses the idea of honesty in acting, truth on stage, integrity amidst lies. An astonishing piece of writing. And it's a quick read, too. A novella, really. If you haven't read it, run, don't walk, to your nearest bookstore.
And even though for some years I made my living as a playwright, I've never really enjoyed reading plays. Plays are meant to be seen not read. Hence the bad rap Shakepeare has gotten over the centuries. Who among us hasn't had to sit through an English class reading 'Romeo and Juliet' or 'Julius Caesar' out loud? Oh, the humanity. It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that I finally figured out what all the fuss was about Shakespeare. He was meant to be seen, not read. Shakespeare done well is among life's greatest pleasures. And during my journey of discovering Shakespeare I came to the conclusion that there is Shakespeare and then there is every other writer in the history of the planet. His work lives unchallenged on a hill by itself. He grasped the human condition more completely than anyone before or since. But, Christ, it's hard to get my students to understand this. And mostly it's because of all those clueless high school English teachers crassly tossing his work around like a bucket of dead fish. Academia has nearly single-handedly hidden the genius of Shakespeare.
So I gots me some new books. And I am quivering with anticipation. Today I begin a personal and joy-filled quest into the world of Orson Welles, and later I'll have a front row seat as dragons terrorize the night skies, and after that I'll enter the life of Jay Gatsby once again and lovingly wonder why he was so lonely and what great burdens he carried, what mysteries he locked away in his heart, what kept him from saying, "I love you" to the great love of his life. And I'll envision the great eyes of a billboard staring accusingly at all that pass by and I'll sit on a long dock at the end of a long day and picture, in my mind, the unblinking green light across the bay.
See you tomorrow.
By God, I love books. They have been my salvation throughout a sometimes turbulent life. Not film, not tv, not theatre, not religion, not love, but books. Books. Books have been the constant in my life that have kept me from spinning off into a life of true apathy and self-destruction. Now, that's a heady statement, to be sure, but I believe it whole-heartedly.
Many years ago in New York when I was suffering through a savage break-up (and only age and late-life understanding have finally made me realize that nothing, nothing at all, can ease the pain of love lost...except the passage of time...and that's always a poor trade-off) I didn't leave my apartment for a month. I just sat indoors and read. And read. And read. And a month later, I finally escaped my self-imposed exile a better person. That was my Faulkner period. During that month of self-pity I devoured everything Billy Faulkner had ever written.
Skip ahead about ten years and I was in Rochester, NY, and again suffering through a devestating break-up (beginning to sound like a pattern, isn't it). I was teaching at the time and would only leave the apartment to go to class, and afterwards would race home and start reading again. This was my holocaust period. I was pouring over everything I could find about the Jewish Holocaust. There was no connection between that particular subject matter and my broken heart, it just turned out that way.
When I first moved to NYC I was often scared witless. I mean, here I was, 23 years old in New York, knowing hardly anyone, working as a waiter in an anonymous restaurant, absolutely no idea what my next step in life might be, and I discovered the works of John D. McDonald and Robert Parker and Dashiell Hammett. After my lunch shift I'd keep my brave face on until I got back to my apartment in Jersey City and spend the evening enveloped in that unmistakably American genre writing, the detective story. Parker, incidentally, recently passed away. He's a vastly underrated writer. A terrific story teller.
And, of course, when my mom died in a boat accident in 1987, once again, I took refuge in books. I needed some powerful voo-doo for that one. And it was then that I started on the Russians: Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Gorky and Pushkin. Those old Russians saved me. They took me to places where mid-summer, tragic, middle-class houseboat accidents didn't happen.
Naturally, over the years, I've developed favorites. John Irving is one. I love opening a new Irving book. Mostly because he's one of the few writers around today that always surprises me. Yes, one can always count on at least a passing reference to Austria, hotels, bears, wrestling or incest, but man oh man, can he surprise me. He may be the only living writer that has had me weeping with laughter and only a few pages later weeping with genuine sorrow. He is the Dickens of our time. An absolute master story teller.
But I'm not a snob about reading. I devour King and Grisham and Clancy, too. In fact, one of the books I recieved yesterday was King's 'Bag of Bones,' perhaps my favorite of King's later books. My early King favorite was, oddly, 'Pet Semetary.' That book, for some reason, scared the bejesus out of me. And make no mistake, now and then King can do some real writing. He'll be chugging along with all of his paranormal yadayada and suddenly, out of nowhere, he'll write a heart-breaking paragraph, as good as any writer working today anywhere. King, despite being the best-selling author in the history of mankind, is no lightweight. When he chooses, he can write like a house-a-fire.
Early in life, of course, I discovered Hemingway and Salinger, two writers that planted ideas and phrases in my head that have forever taken residence. Hemingway was the master at writing the exact right word at the exact right time. There's a story about him being unable to submit his novel, 'The Sun Also Rises' because he couldn't find the right word for the last sentence. The protagonist, Jake, is confronted with his ex-lover and she says something along the lines of 'We could be happy forever together...the best of lives.' Jake finally answers, 'Wouldn't it be pretty to think so.' It took Hemingways months to find the word, 'pretty.' Remember, he was at the top of his game then, the world breathlessly awaiting his next masterpiece. And he held it up for months in order to find that word. Nice.
And Salinger. Ah, Salinger. First I found 'Catcher in the Rye' like most teenage boys. Later I discovered my favorite of his, 'Franny and Zooey.' It is the most important book of my life, along with Irving's 'Prayer for Owen Meany.' I've read it dozens of times and still find something new. I give it out yearly as Christmas presents. I buy it for students because I think it's the most valuable book an actor can ever read. I've probably given away over a hundred copies of the book over the years. If you haven't read it, I recommend it highly. It addresses the idea of honesty in acting, truth on stage, integrity amidst lies. An astonishing piece of writing. And it's a quick read, too. A novella, really. If you haven't read it, run, don't walk, to your nearest bookstore.
And even though for some years I made my living as a playwright, I've never really enjoyed reading plays. Plays are meant to be seen not read. Hence the bad rap Shakepeare has gotten over the centuries. Who among us hasn't had to sit through an English class reading 'Romeo and Juliet' or 'Julius Caesar' out loud? Oh, the humanity. It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that I finally figured out what all the fuss was about Shakespeare. He was meant to be seen, not read. Shakespeare done well is among life's greatest pleasures. And during my journey of discovering Shakespeare I came to the conclusion that there is Shakespeare and then there is every other writer in the history of the planet. His work lives unchallenged on a hill by itself. He grasped the human condition more completely than anyone before or since. But, Christ, it's hard to get my students to understand this. And mostly it's because of all those clueless high school English teachers crassly tossing his work around like a bucket of dead fish. Academia has nearly single-handedly hidden the genius of Shakespeare.
So I gots me some new books. And I am quivering with anticipation. Today I begin a personal and joy-filled quest into the world of Orson Welles, and later I'll have a front row seat as dragons terrorize the night skies, and after that I'll enter the life of Jay Gatsby once again and lovingly wonder why he was so lonely and what great burdens he carried, what mysteries he locked away in his heart, what kept him from saying, "I love you" to the great love of his life. And I'll envision the great eyes of a billboard staring accusingly at all that pass by and I'll sit on a long dock at the end of a long day and picture, in my mind, the unblinking green light across the bay.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
The Rich Get Richer, etc.
I don't usually blog about political issues and I'm not going to start now. For one thing I'm too dumb. But recently I posted an article on Facebook about the widening divide between the ultra-rich and the so-called 'middle-class' in this country. It sparked a fire fight because a couple of conservative Facebook friends weighed in on the issue. I was mildly surprised at the rage and online hissing that followed.
Really, however, I don't know why anyone is surprised. Not at the reaction to the posts, but at the reality of the situation. I think the simple fact that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer is a natural endgame to capitalism. I mean, come on, it's at the very root of the American dream. It is the pot of gold at the end of the idealogical rainbow, the game-winning response to the final American jeapardy question; in short, it is the solution we sought, not the problem we've inadvertently created. And now, 235 years after the fact, we're shocked and awed it turned out this way at all.
I don't mean to sound elementary here, but the final goal of capitalism is not, regardless of what we've been taught, supply and demand. No, not at all. The final goal of capitalism is who can screw the most people out of the most money in the shortest amount of time. And the circus-like atmosphere that envelops this nation in the high-stakes game of disguising that fact has become treacherous and partisan, to say the least.
The great experiment known as democracy has succeeded. I can't remember who said it and I'm paraphrasing here, but it's been called 'the worst system of government on earth...until you look at all the others.' And make no mistake, democracy and capitalism are forever and permanently bound together.
And yet, we (and by 'we' I mean 'me') are outraged by it. The combined income of the wealthiest ten percent of American citizens comes to approximately 1.7 trillion dollars. The bottom fifty percent comes to 1.6 trillion dollars. We're coming to the end of the monopoly game, Gentle Readers, and there are winners and losers. As in every single aspect of life in the 21st century, there are winners and losers. It is an extension of Darwin's survival of the fittest and, as in nature itself, the most adaptable, the boldest, the strongest, the ones without remorse, the quickest to the draw, continue to thrive and flourish. The weak, the less aggressive, the slow and careless, the moral and fair-minded are destined to live in the dreaded bottom fifty percent.
Even Jesus, allegedly delivering his inauguration address from the mount, acknowledged the inherent unfairness in Darwin's theory. He extolled the virtues of 'the weak,' encouraging them and offering the consolation prize of 'inheriting the earth,' of partaking in a much fairer plain of existence in the afterlife, promising everyone a 'mansion' in the kingdom of heaven, and mollifying the disgruntled masses by promising that 'the rich man' cannot enter. It was tantamount to the after game speech from a disappointed little league coach...'we'll get 'em next year, boys.'
This is the system of economy our ancestors bled and died for. We won. Our dreams came true. Everything we stood for, believed in, were taught was sacred, has come to fruition. And, as Cervantes warned, we were apparently not careful enough in our wishes, because we have had the misfortune to have them granted. The rich, not the meek, have inherited the earth. And we're all just starting to shake off the effects of the dream and coming to grips with the fact that it wasn't a dream after all. It is our who we are.
And in our confusion, we want to call a 'do over.' "Wait a minute," we say, "Um, this is not, uh, this is not what we wanted at all. There's been a terrible mistake. We'd like to start the game over, please." Too late. Too late for that. The game of Risk is nearly over, 'global domination,' as it says in the rulebook, is the final solution. We wrote the rulebook. We approved it. We voted for it. We wrote it and then prayed to it. And now, like the scientists at Los Alamos, we'd like to put the genie back in the bottle.
And finally, we are enraged. We are appalled that the playing field has been so unlevel all these years, all these centuries. We paid our money, we took aim, we threw the softball and we didn't quite knock all the stacked bottles down. And we didn't get the stuffed bear. All we got was a weathered and yellowing ticket and a hopeful memory of the circus that came blazing through town 235 years ago.
I dare say in about a hundred years, our grandchildren's children will be the true recipients of our shortsidedness. And we can only hope we will be forgiven for a noble experiment gone terribly wrong. Our roads were indeed paved with the very best of intentions. But we wrote the rule book. We set the height of the bar ourselves. We clearly and methodically outlined the game. And now it's getting late, people are going home, most have already been ousted from the game, the winners are still gathered around the table and the losers are questioning why they ever started.
America was founded on the concept of winning and losing. "...And justice for all" and "We, the people..." are wonderful concepts for a melodrama, but lousy concepts by which to develop a philosophy to insure 'the pursuit of happiness' for upwards of 300 million people. In the final analysis, 'the rich get rich and the poor get poorer' is not a courageous and defiant phrase uttered by our parents and grandparents. It is a summation of the rules of the game. The game we invented. The game we played passionately and lustfully. The game most of us lost.
See you tomorrow.
Really, however, I don't know why anyone is surprised. Not at the reaction to the posts, but at the reality of the situation. I think the simple fact that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer is a natural endgame to capitalism. I mean, come on, it's at the very root of the American dream. It is the pot of gold at the end of the idealogical rainbow, the game-winning response to the final American jeapardy question; in short, it is the solution we sought, not the problem we've inadvertently created. And now, 235 years after the fact, we're shocked and awed it turned out this way at all.
I don't mean to sound elementary here, but the final goal of capitalism is not, regardless of what we've been taught, supply and demand. No, not at all. The final goal of capitalism is who can screw the most people out of the most money in the shortest amount of time. And the circus-like atmosphere that envelops this nation in the high-stakes game of disguising that fact has become treacherous and partisan, to say the least.
The great experiment known as democracy has succeeded. I can't remember who said it and I'm paraphrasing here, but it's been called 'the worst system of government on earth...until you look at all the others.' And make no mistake, democracy and capitalism are forever and permanently bound together.
And yet, we (and by 'we' I mean 'me') are outraged by it. The combined income of the wealthiest ten percent of American citizens comes to approximately 1.7 trillion dollars. The bottom fifty percent comes to 1.6 trillion dollars. We're coming to the end of the monopoly game, Gentle Readers, and there are winners and losers. As in every single aspect of life in the 21st century, there are winners and losers. It is an extension of Darwin's survival of the fittest and, as in nature itself, the most adaptable, the boldest, the strongest, the ones without remorse, the quickest to the draw, continue to thrive and flourish. The weak, the less aggressive, the slow and careless, the moral and fair-minded are destined to live in the dreaded bottom fifty percent.
Even Jesus, allegedly delivering his inauguration address from the mount, acknowledged the inherent unfairness in Darwin's theory. He extolled the virtues of 'the weak,' encouraging them and offering the consolation prize of 'inheriting the earth,' of partaking in a much fairer plain of existence in the afterlife, promising everyone a 'mansion' in the kingdom of heaven, and mollifying the disgruntled masses by promising that 'the rich man' cannot enter. It was tantamount to the after game speech from a disappointed little league coach...'we'll get 'em next year, boys.'
This is the system of economy our ancestors bled and died for. We won. Our dreams came true. Everything we stood for, believed in, were taught was sacred, has come to fruition. And, as Cervantes warned, we were apparently not careful enough in our wishes, because we have had the misfortune to have them granted. The rich, not the meek, have inherited the earth. And we're all just starting to shake off the effects of the dream and coming to grips with the fact that it wasn't a dream after all. It is our who we are.
And in our confusion, we want to call a 'do over.' "Wait a minute," we say, "Um, this is not, uh, this is not what we wanted at all. There's been a terrible mistake. We'd like to start the game over, please." Too late. Too late for that. The game of Risk is nearly over, 'global domination,' as it says in the rulebook, is the final solution. We wrote the rulebook. We approved it. We voted for it. We wrote it and then prayed to it. And now, like the scientists at Los Alamos, we'd like to put the genie back in the bottle.
And finally, we are enraged. We are appalled that the playing field has been so unlevel all these years, all these centuries. We paid our money, we took aim, we threw the softball and we didn't quite knock all the stacked bottles down. And we didn't get the stuffed bear. All we got was a weathered and yellowing ticket and a hopeful memory of the circus that came blazing through town 235 years ago.
I dare say in about a hundred years, our grandchildren's children will be the true recipients of our shortsidedness. And we can only hope we will be forgiven for a noble experiment gone terribly wrong. Our roads were indeed paved with the very best of intentions. But we wrote the rule book. We set the height of the bar ourselves. We clearly and methodically outlined the game. And now it's getting late, people are going home, most have already been ousted from the game, the winners are still gathered around the table and the losers are questioning why they ever started.
America was founded on the concept of winning and losing. "...And justice for all" and "We, the people..." are wonderful concepts for a melodrama, but lousy concepts by which to develop a philosophy to insure 'the pursuit of happiness' for upwards of 300 million people. In the final analysis, 'the rich get rich and the poor get poorer' is not a courageous and defiant phrase uttered by our parents and grandparents. It is a summation of the rules of the game. The game we invented. The game we played passionately and lustfully. The game most of us lost.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
What's Next?
I have become endlessly fascinated lately with real estate. I don't know why. Well, I guess I do know why. It's probably because Angie and I were very seriously considering a move to what we considered our dream house which is very near to where we live now. We call it 'The Garden House,' not because it has a garden (although it does) but because it is on Garden Street here in the Rancho District.
This was all happening several months ago and I think I even posted a picture of the house here on the blog. It really was our perfect house: beautiful wood interiors, a great office off the master bedroom, two full baths, a guest house, three stalls for horses in a nicely appointed, turn-around barn, a converted garage where I could teach classes, a huge kitchen and dining room, massive fireplace, big lot with, literally, a white picket fence, a park across the street for the puppies to play and a portrait-like view of the mountains in the distance. Quiet neighborhood, long driveway and plenty of space for not only a flower garden but also a vegetable garden. Angie and I looked at it while taking our daily walk about fifty times. We even contacted the realtor and went inside a couple of times.
The house was not selling. The price kept dropping. Finally, the realtor called us and said the seller might be interested in a lease-option. Our hopes soared. The house, to be honest, was slightly outside of our range financially, but a lease would have been ideal.
Alas, the house sold a few weeks ago.
But the flame had been fanned. Since then I've been watching house-selling shows non-stop. In fact, just last night I was up very late watching one. Nine million dollar condos in New York City, Beach-front property on the Gulf Coast, a fixer-upper in Austria, a Costa Rican place on fifty acres...on and on.
Utterly fascinated by it all. I've even gone so far as to start finding places on the internet and saving them so that Angie can see them. She briefly enters my outlandish fantasies and looks through all the floor plans and pictures with me.
One of the features in the more high-end places here in LA is a home movie theater. I love that. The pictures on the web show a mini-movie-theater and my imagination darts off at a thousand miles an hour.
Now, the truth is, we have no intention of moving. We love our house. We live very close to The Equestrian Center here in LA and Griffith Park is only footsteps away. We have a wonderful two-stall barn in our backyard complete with tack room, a huge garage, a great yard all attached to a 1920s, two-bedroom bungalow with a big fireplace, office and wood furnishings. In short, we live in a great house in a very exclusive neighborhood.
The uncomfortable truth is, I always want more. I have the disease of 'More.' It's a niggling disease that sits dormant inside me for months at a time and then surfaces at the oddest times.
The uncomfortable truth is, I have a tremendously difficult time being satisfied with what I have. The grass is always greener, ya da ya da ya da.
The uncomfortable truth is, I spend way too much time living in the land of 'What if...' It's a place that doesn't exist. It never has. It is a land of refuge for nitwits like myself that should know better but don't. It is the land of unnecessary dreams. For when all is said and done, I live in my dream house, I live my dream life, I do, every single day, the stuff of dreams. I exist and thrive in the midst of a life I dreamt of fervently only a few years ago. I want for nothing. I am so layered in care, love and purpose that it has become second nature, common ground, daily habit. And yet I, like many others, I suspect, thrash around, gazing longingly at stuff I don't need nor really, down deep, want. This disease of 'More' is pesky. It's diverting. It's illogical.
And yet, I recommend it highly, in moderation. Because the moment I stop wanting more is the moment I enter into the world of resignation.
Many years ago I watched a terrible movie called 'First Family.' It was about, well, the first family, the President of the United States and his family. It starred Bob Newhart, of all people. Just an awful film. But there was scene in the movie that has stuck with me all these years later. The camera, at one point, moved from bedroom to bedroom in The White House and depicted the dreams and hopes and fears of the first family. The daughter dreamt of parties and impossibly good-looking boyfriends, the son dreamt of harrowing adventures in the old west, the wife dreamt of being chased by Zulu warriors in the jungle and the president, Bob Newhart, dreamt of sitting alone in a white room at a plain table and sipping clear soup hour after hour. A shockingly good scene in an otherwise forgettable movie.
I think of that scene because it is one of my deepest fears; to stop wanting more, to have reached the summit of my dreams, to have reached a point in life that demands nothing from me, no effort, no demands, no effort, utterly lacking in ambition. It is a loud, clanging warning bell for those of us cursed with the disease of 'More.'
I live in my dream house. I live in my dream world. My grass is so green it hurts my eyes. In short, I have never been more content. Every aspect of my life is beyond comfortable, it is borderline royal. But I still like to look at the pictures, read the stories, anticipate the vicarious thrills of a younger and less informed life. I still tremble with the thought of what might be around the next bend, over the next hill, of what might happen...next.
Life is what you do while you're busy making other plans.
See you tomorrow.
This was all happening several months ago and I think I even posted a picture of the house here on the blog. It really was our perfect house: beautiful wood interiors, a great office off the master bedroom, two full baths, a guest house, three stalls for horses in a nicely appointed, turn-around barn, a converted garage where I could teach classes, a huge kitchen and dining room, massive fireplace, big lot with, literally, a white picket fence, a park across the street for the puppies to play and a portrait-like view of the mountains in the distance. Quiet neighborhood, long driveway and plenty of space for not only a flower garden but also a vegetable garden. Angie and I looked at it while taking our daily walk about fifty times. We even contacted the realtor and went inside a couple of times.
The house was not selling. The price kept dropping. Finally, the realtor called us and said the seller might be interested in a lease-option. Our hopes soared. The house, to be honest, was slightly outside of our range financially, but a lease would have been ideal.
Alas, the house sold a few weeks ago.
But the flame had been fanned. Since then I've been watching house-selling shows non-stop. In fact, just last night I was up very late watching one. Nine million dollar condos in New York City, Beach-front property on the Gulf Coast, a fixer-upper in Austria, a Costa Rican place on fifty acres...on and on.
Utterly fascinated by it all. I've even gone so far as to start finding places on the internet and saving them so that Angie can see them. She briefly enters my outlandish fantasies and looks through all the floor plans and pictures with me.
One of the features in the more high-end places here in LA is a home movie theater. I love that. The pictures on the web show a mini-movie-theater and my imagination darts off at a thousand miles an hour.
Now, the truth is, we have no intention of moving. We love our house. We live very close to The Equestrian Center here in LA and Griffith Park is only footsteps away. We have a wonderful two-stall barn in our backyard complete with tack room, a huge garage, a great yard all attached to a 1920s, two-bedroom bungalow with a big fireplace, office and wood furnishings. In short, we live in a great house in a very exclusive neighborhood.
The uncomfortable truth is, I always want more. I have the disease of 'More.' It's a niggling disease that sits dormant inside me for months at a time and then surfaces at the oddest times.
The uncomfortable truth is, I have a tremendously difficult time being satisfied with what I have. The grass is always greener, ya da ya da ya da.
The uncomfortable truth is, I spend way too much time living in the land of 'What if...' It's a place that doesn't exist. It never has. It is a land of refuge for nitwits like myself that should know better but don't. It is the land of unnecessary dreams. For when all is said and done, I live in my dream house, I live my dream life, I do, every single day, the stuff of dreams. I exist and thrive in the midst of a life I dreamt of fervently only a few years ago. I want for nothing. I am so layered in care, love and purpose that it has become second nature, common ground, daily habit. And yet I, like many others, I suspect, thrash around, gazing longingly at stuff I don't need nor really, down deep, want. This disease of 'More' is pesky. It's diverting. It's illogical.
And yet, I recommend it highly, in moderation. Because the moment I stop wanting more is the moment I enter into the world of resignation.
Many years ago I watched a terrible movie called 'First Family.' It was about, well, the first family, the President of the United States and his family. It starred Bob Newhart, of all people. Just an awful film. But there was scene in the movie that has stuck with me all these years later. The camera, at one point, moved from bedroom to bedroom in The White House and depicted the dreams and hopes and fears of the first family. The daughter dreamt of parties and impossibly good-looking boyfriends, the son dreamt of harrowing adventures in the old west, the wife dreamt of being chased by Zulu warriors in the jungle and the president, Bob Newhart, dreamt of sitting alone in a white room at a plain table and sipping clear soup hour after hour. A shockingly good scene in an otherwise forgettable movie.
I think of that scene because it is one of my deepest fears; to stop wanting more, to have reached the summit of my dreams, to have reached a point in life that demands nothing from me, no effort, no demands, no effort, utterly lacking in ambition. It is a loud, clanging warning bell for those of us cursed with the disease of 'More.'
I live in my dream house. I live in my dream world. My grass is so green it hurts my eyes. In short, I have never been more content. Every aspect of my life is beyond comfortable, it is borderline royal. But I still like to look at the pictures, read the stories, anticipate the vicarious thrills of a younger and less informed life. I still tremble with the thought of what might be around the next bend, over the next hill, of what might happen...next.
Life is what you do while you're busy making other plans.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Our Next Car.
Someday soon, maybe not tomorrow or the day after or next week or next month, but someday soon, we're going to buy a new car. There was a time, in fact not very long ago, that I really didn't pay attention to cars. Cars held little to no interest for me. The only time I took notice of cars was when something odd appeared on the car horizon. Like the Smart Car. I began mentally playing the old 'slug your sister in the arm everytime you see a VW Bug' game in my head whenever I spotted a 'Smart Car.' Maybe you didn't play that game, but in my family it was considered the height of sophisticated travel enjoyment. It was the contract bridge of the Morts family. We were a simple people. My family played that game well into our adult lives. Even after I moved to New York City I would slug cab drivers when I saw one. They were always surprised, especially the foreign drivers, and occasionally asked me to get out of the cab.
Anyway, I never paid much attention to cars. I think it had something to do with the fact that my older brother and my dad seemed to never talk about anything else. They were obsessed with engines and fenders and tires and motor fluid and oil filters and transmissions and cubic inches and viscosity (whatever that meant). They were both amateur mechanics (my father worked in a NAPA auto parts store when we were all kids and my brother managed a tire store when he became an adult). So cars played a big part of their lives and, consequently, they bored the bejesus out of me.
This is all changing now that I live in Los Angeles. This is a car culture and there's simply no way of getting around that.
Angie and I talk about our next car purchase a lot. Just yesterday she remarked that she was seeing a lot of Bentleys on the road lately. There was a time I wouldn't know a Bentley from an AMC Gremlin. Nor did I care.
Yesterday we got a notice from our bank informing us we were 'pre-approved for a car loan up to $30,000.' I was so intrigued I actually went on-line to check out some cars that we could buy for less than $30,000.
When I was a kid my favorite car was a 1973 Buick something-or-other. I liked it because it had bat wings on it like the bat car.
Later I liked the Jaguar because a friend of mine's parents had one and I rode in it once and it seemed like a perfect place to spend time. It had seats that warmed your butt and a powerful engine that made a cool sound when you accelerated. Plus it had that hood ornament that seemed really imposing, too.
I also always wanted a jeep. I loved the idea of having a jeep. This is because a high school buddy of mine had one and we often went '4-wheeling' at Hazelrigg's Claypit back in Fulton, Missouri where I was born and lowered. Now, '4-wheeling' was a term used to describe driving a jeep over trecherous landscapes. And Hazelrigg's Claypit was a place just outside of town that was the perfect place to do this. We even busted a few 'oil pans' doing this and then we'd have to race back to town before the oil all drained out. Or something like that. I really never knew why we had to race back to town, but I liked telling people we 'lost the oil pan so we had to drive back to town at 80mph to save our lives.' They were usually impressed.
So today, after much consideration and endless conversation, Angie and I have decided we want a Ford Flex. It's a hybrid, so that's a good thing. Again, I have no idea what that means, but it seems like a responsible thing to want. If we have two cars we also want a Prius, which is good because it runs on ketchup. Oh, I don't know what it runs on, but it gets nearly 400 miles to the gallon, so we want that, too.
But we want those cars only if we're living like normal people. A few weeks ago when I played one ticket for the lottery of 209 million dollars after taxes and I was spending whole days fantasizing about the winnings, I was considering our next purchase. Part of that irrational fantazizing included new cars. One, I decided, would be a new Mercedes SUV - the kind that looks like a matchbox car, or the SUV that was featured in, brace yourself for an incredibly obscure reference here, the TV show DAKTARI - and the other would be a brand new, four-door, convertable Cadillac for Angie. This is because that's what Angie wanted. I used to live in Chicago and any Cadillac was considered 'ghetto.' But that's not the case in Los Angeles, apparently. So she wanted a Cadillac. "A very underrated car," she would say. Okay. Whatever.
All my life I have identified cars by their color rather than their brand name. So I told Angie I wanted a 'forest green' car. "What kind?" she asked. "Oh, I don't really care, but I like the forest green kind." She decided if we went to the car lot to get a car it would probably be best if I didn't say anything.
At the moment we have a perfectly good, nice running, utilitarian type car. It's a Saturn station wagon. It's been very good to us, although it was built in the 1920's or something. We bought it straight out with cash. Before we had a huge red truck roughly the size of a Soviet Abrams tank used to defend Stalingrad. It got one quarter of a gallon of gas every mile. We would drive to the store and have to fill it up again. It had an impossibly huge gas tank and cost about $4,000 to fill up. But we liked it and were comforted in the fact that if we ever needed to pull a house around behind it we could.
Angie has named our Saturn 'Envy,' because she thinks it is the envy of all who see it. She claims that if it's very dark out and one closes one eye and squints it could easily be mistaken for a Mercedes Benz station wagon.
Anyway. I'm looking at cars nowadays with a much more discerning eye. I chuckle at the idea of only wanting a 'forest green' car. I'm much more sophisticated now. These days I want a forest green car with those hubcaps that look like they're spinning the wrong way while you're driving. If I had a car like that I'd be so very happy.
See you tomorrow.
Anyway, I never paid much attention to cars. I think it had something to do with the fact that my older brother and my dad seemed to never talk about anything else. They were obsessed with engines and fenders and tires and motor fluid and oil filters and transmissions and cubic inches and viscosity (whatever that meant). They were both amateur mechanics (my father worked in a NAPA auto parts store when we were all kids and my brother managed a tire store when he became an adult). So cars played a big part of their lives and, consequently, they bored the bejesus out of me.
This is all changing now that I live in Los Angeles. This is a car culture and there's simply no way of getting around that.
Angie and I talk about our next car purchase a lot. Just yesterday she remarked that she was seeing a lot of Bentleys on the road lately. There was a time I wouldn't know a Bentley from an AMC Gremlin. Nor did I care.
Yesterday we got a notice from our bank informing us we were 'pre-approved for a car loan up to $30,000.' I was so intrigued I actually went on-line to check out some cars that we could buy for less than $30,000.
When I was a kid my favorite car was a 1973 Buick something-or-other. I liked it because it had bat wings on it like the bat car.
Later I liked the Jaguar because a friend of mine's parents had one and I rode in it once and it seemed like a perfect place to spend time. It had seats that warmed your butt and a powerful engine that made a cool sound when you accelerated. Plus it had that hood ornament that seemed really imposing, too.
I also always wanted a jeep. I loved the idea of having a jeep. This is because a high school buddy of mine had one and we often went '4-wheeling' at Hazelrigg's Claypit back in Fulton, Missouri where I was born and lowered. Now, '4-wheeling' was a term used to describe driving a jeep over trecherous landscapes. And Hazelrigg's Claypit was a place just outside of town that was the perfect place to do this. We even busted a few 'oil pans' doing this and then we'd have to race back to town before the oil all drained out. Or something like that. I really never knew why we had to race back to town, but I liked telling people we 'lost the oil pan so we had to drive back to town at 80mph to save our lives.' They were usually impressed.
So today, after much consideration and endless conversation, Angie and I have decided we want a Ford Flex. It's a hybrid, so that's a good thing. Again, I have no idea what that means, but it seems like a responsible thing to want. If we have two cars we also want a Prius, which is good because it runs on ketchup. Oh, I don't know what it runs on, but it gets nearly 400 miles to the gallon, so we want that, too.
But we want those cars only if we're living like normal people. A few weeks ago when I played one ticket for the lottery of 209 million dollars after taxes and I was spending whole days fantasizing about the winnings, I was considering our next purchase. Part of that irrational fantazizing included new cars. One, I decided, would be a new Mercedes SUV - the kind that looks like a matchbox car, or the SUV that was featured in, brace yourself for an incredibly obscure reference here, the TV show DAKTARI - and the other would be a brand new, four-door, convertable Cadillac for Angie. This is because that's what Angie wanted. I used to live in Chicago and any Cadillac was considered 'ghetto.' But that's not the case in Los Angeles, apparently. So she wanted a Cadillac. "A very underrated car," she would say. Okay. Whatever.
All my life I have identified cars by their color rather than their brand name. So I told Angie I wanted a 'forest green' car. "What kind?" she asked. "Oh, I don't really care, but I like the forest green kind." She decided if we went to the car lot to get a car it would probably be best if I didn't say anything.
At the moment we have a perfectly good, nice running, utilitarian type car. It's a Saturn station wagon. It's been very good to us, although it was built in the 1920's or something. We bought it straight out with cash. Before we had a huge red truck roughly the size of a Soviet Abrams tank used to defend Stalingrad. It got one quarter of a gallon of gas every mile. We would drive to the store and have to fill it up again. It had an impossibly huge gas tank and cost about $4,000 to fill up. But we liked it and were comforted in the fact that if we ever needed to pull a house around behind it we could.
Angie has named our Saturn 'Envy,' because she thinks it is the envy of all who see it. She claims that if it's very dark out and one closes one eye and squints it could easily be mistaken for a Mercedes Benz station wagon.
Anyway. I'm looking at cars nowadays with a much more discerning eye. I chuckle at the idea of only wanting a 'forest green' car. I'm much more sophisticated now. These days I want a forest green car with those hubcaps that look like they're spinning the wrong way while you're driving. If I had a car like that I'd be so very happy.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, February 14, 2011
A Night on the Beach...
Today is Valentine's Day. It's a Hallmark Card kind of holiday, no doubt invented to boost sales of some sort or another. I'm just guessing. I didn't google it. Fine. It's the American way. Not being cynical, just musing.
Angie and I spent the evening, a really fun evening as it turns out, at our dear friends, Mark and Tammy, in their really exquisite Manhattan Beach house. Mark is a player with Fox Network and Tammy owns her own exclusive catering company headquartered out there.
We had a couple of friends in from Missouri (ostensibly to see my play, but really just to get away from the horrid Missouri weather for the weekend), Steve and Carolea.
So we all trotted over to Manhattan Beach following the play yesterday (typical matinee, by the way, played to a sea of blue hair).
I love spending time over at Tammy and Mark's place. For one thing, it's a really cool house; there's a beautiful and very private back patio complete with fire pit, hot tub and ping pong table. The conversation is always lively, with a great deal of healthy disagreement over a wide range of topics. And then, of course, there's the food. As I said, Tammy is a high end caterer and we always eat like Louis XIV over there. Or XV, or XVI or whoever it was that had the best food. Last night was no exception...filet mignon was the centerpiece of the evening.
Steve, coming in from Missouri, had never been there before, although his wife, Carolea (whom I've known for about 31 years) spent some time in LA early in her career and had visited the house often. Steve is now a very successful business man in southern Missouri, but back in the day he was the lead singer for a really great, semi-famous rock band called 'The Mistakess.' He is now the very picture of the former rock star complete with a deceptive 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. A funny and smart guy, the truth is he does give a fuck and he's incredibly informed.
These are good people. The kind of people I like to be around. I don't socialize much, I've made no secret of that in this blog over the past year or so, and when I do I like to be around people that challenge me, people that provoke and question me. I like to be around people that have opinions. Odd as it sounds, so many, many people simply don't. Well, not these folks...they do and I love it.
Steve and Carolea had seen my show, Adding Machine, the night before and like many others, didn't quite know what to make of it. I think it fair to say they liked it in a 'big picture' kind of way. Carolea is a true musician, years of training under her belt and a very discerning eye when it comes to this sort of thing. Last night when I called the music 'Sondheim squared' she said, enlightened finally, "Yes! Yes, that's it exactly!"
Steve, who is the kind of guy that doesn't suffer fools gladly, said as we dropped them off at their hotel last night, "You know, I've never seen you live, always on a DVD or something. You're unbelievably good at what you do." Coming from someone like Steve who rarely, if ever, speaks in superlatives, it meant a lot. Made my day, in fact.
Angie and I have been tossing around an idea as of late, a new company we're thinking of forming. Not a theatre company, but an actual business. So I sort of plopped it out there last night to get some reactions. In an instant the evening turned into a massive brainstorming session. They all thought it an amazing idea and were tremendously supportive. So much so, in fact, that Ange and I kind of made the final decision to go forth with it. Now, I'm not, by any stretch of the imagination, a business kind of guy. Angie is far ahead of me in that respect. So today, we start the actual research, the actual nuts and bolts implementation of this idea. When it is moored securely in reality, I'll write about it. But all in all, we're very encouraged.
So it's Valentine's Day. I won't belabour my thoughts on that. I will simply say this: Never in my wildest dreams, my most outlandish fantasies, my most fervent and halcyon imagination did I ever expect to find someone so perfect, so good, so beautiful and fascinating, so forever as Angie. She has single-handedly and seemingly effortlessly given me the life I've spent five decades searching for. She is my soul.
And a happy Valentine's Day to all of you, Gentle Readers.
See you tomorrow.
Angie and I spent the evening, a really fun evening as it turns out, at our dear friends, Mark and Tammy, in their really exquisite Manhattan Beach house. Mark is a player with Fox Network and Tammy owns her own exclusive catering company headquartered out there.
We had a couple of friends in from Missouri (ostensibly to see my play, but really just to get away from the horrid Missouri weather for the weekend), Steve and Carolea.
So we all trotted over to Manhattan Beach following the play yesterday (typical matinee, by the way, played to a sea of blue hair).
I love spending time over at Tammy and Mark's place. For one thing, it's a really cool house; there's a beautiful and very private back patio complete with fire pit, hot tub and ping pong table. The conversation is always lively, with a great deal of healthy disagreement over a wide range of topics. And then, of course, there's the food. As I said, Tammy is a high end caterer and we always eat like Louis XIV over there. Or XV, or XVI or whoever it was that had the best food. Last night was no exception...filet mignon was the centerpiece of the evening.
Steve, coming in from Missouri, had never been there before, although his wife, Carolea (whom I've known for about 31 years) spent some time in LA early in her career and had visited the house often. Steve is now a very successful business man in southern Missouri, but back in the day he was the lead singer for a really great, semi-famous rock band called 'The Mistakess.' He is now the very picture of the former rock star complete with a deceptive 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. A funny and smart guy, the truth is he does give a fuck and he's incredibly informed.
These are good people. The kind of people I like to be around. I don't socialize much, I've made no secret of that in this blog over the past year or so, and when I do I like to be around people that challenge me, people that provoke and question me. I like to be around people that have opinions. Odd as it sounds, so many, many people simply don't. Well, not these folks...they do and I love it.
Steve and Carolea had seen my show, Adding Machine, the night before and like many others, didn't quite know what to make of it. I think it fair to say they liked it in a 'big picture' kind of way. Carolea is a true musician, years of training under her belt and a very discerning eye when it comes to this sort of thing. Last night when I called the music 'Sondheim squared' she said, enlightened finally, "Yes! Yes, that's it exactly!"
Steve, who is the kind of guy that doesn't suffer fools gladly, said as we dropped them off at their hotel last night, "You know, I've never seen you live, always on a DVD or something. You're unbelievably good at what you do." Coming from someone like Steve who rarely, if ever, speaks in superlatives, it meant a lot. Made my day, in fact.
Angie and I have been tossing around an idea as of late, a new company we're thinking of forming. Not a theatre company, but an actual business. So I sort of plopped it out there last night to get some reactions. In an instant the evening turned into a massive brainstorming session. They all thought it an amazing idea and were tremendously supportive. So much so, in fact, that Ange and I kind of made the final decision to go forth with it. Now, I'm not, by any stretch of the imagination, a business kind of guy. Angie is far ahead of me in that respect. So today, we start the actual research, the actual nuts and bolts implementation of this idea. When it is moored securely in reality, I'll write about it. But all in all, we're very encouraged.
So it's Valentine's Day. I won't belabour my thoughts on that. I will simply say this: Never in my wildest dreams, my most outlandish fantasies, my most fervent and halcyon imagination did I ever expect to find someone so perfect, so good, so beautiful and fascinating, so forever as Angie. She has single-handedly and seemingly effortlessly given me the life I've spent five decades searching for. She is my soul.
And a happy Valentine's Day to all of you, Gentle Readers.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The Hill.
Los Angeles is different than New York or Chicago when it comes to a social life. I'm not altogether sure of the exact reasons for this but I suspect the sheer size of this city has something to do with it. And, of course, LA is a car town. You drive everywhere. There's a little store up the street on the corner where Angie and I occasionally get cigs (we're both about to quit smoking...AGAIN...more on that later) or cookies or milk or what have you. It is, I'm guessing here, probably three hundred yards from us, door to door. I walk to it when I need something. Angie drives.
In any event, unlike NY and Chicago, if you wanna meet up with a couple of friends for coffee or dinner or maybe catch a movie, the planning starts weeks, sometimes months, in advance. In Chicago let's say you live in Edgewater and your buddy lives in Lincoln Park and you want to meet for coffee in Andersonville. You call, you set it up, you meet, ba da bang, ba da bing.
In New York, let's say you live in Astoria and your friend is on the Upper West and you wanna meet in Chelsea...you call, you set it up, you meet, wham bam, thank ya' ma'am.
This would never happen in Los Angeles. It becomes an endless series of phone calls, texts, emails, planning, scheduling, waffling, yes, no, how about 4 instead of 3, sorry, but I have a yoga class then, what's your Tuesday look like? I don't know how people do it.
The most common and exasperating excuse is, "I don't like to drive over the hill." (The 'hill' is the small, mountainous barrier between the San Fernando Valley and the rest of the civilized world, apparently.) Sometimes people use that excuse even if they don't live over the 'hill.' They just like to say it. Sometimes a friend will live in Studio City and you live in Burbank and they'll still say it. Los Angeles is the perfect place to live if you're really into isoloating.
The mass transit system out here is treated as one might treat a leper in the second century AD. In New York and Chicago EVERYone uses the subway, the buses, the el, etc. In Los Angeles if one is caught using public transportation, it's sometimes announced on the local news..."And when we come back, Clifford Morts allegedly took the bus sixteen blocks to North Hollywood. We'll have the shocked reactions from local residents."
Here's what a friend of mine often says, "You know, after driving all over the place all day, when I finally get home I just can't stand to go out again." This always gives me pause. I mean, you're DRIVING places, you're SITTING DOWN, you're in a comfortable seat, the window is down because it's in the mid-seventies outside, you're listening to your favorite music on the CD player. It's not like you're in a Flinstones car and you're running to get it started and using your heels to brake. People out here act as if driving is something akin to lumberjacking all day. It's utterly exhausting to them. "Oh, I couldn't possibly drive ONE MORE SECOND. I'm just pooped!"
I think one of the reasons Los Angeles is not as healthy, socially speaking, as NY or Chicago is because of this rampant car culture. When I first moved here a few of my buddies from NY would meet up almost every week at this little diner in Studio City called 'Sitton's.' We'd sit out on the patio, smoke cigarettes, have coffee and eventually eat an egg or two. We'd discuss the myriad twists and turns of our careers, our hopes and dreams, laugh about past misadventures, recount our perplexing love lives, encourage each other, etc. And afterwards we'd all feel connected, we'd feel a part of something. One by one, however, we all stopped meeting up. I asked a friend of mine why we stopped meeting the other day. He said, "Oh, I don't know. I guess we all got tired of driving over the hill." None of us live over the hill.
That's it, you know. There's the rub. That damned 'hill.' It took me awhile, but I finally realized 'the hill' is actually a metaphor. It's a way of saying, 'I don't want to exert the energy to let someone into my life, not even for a few minutes, the time it takes for cup of coffee, not even to meet for a stick of gum." No. The 'hill' is the perfect excuse not to share our lives. It is Frost's good neighbors and good fences. It is the symbol of of our fear, at the risk of sounding dramatic. That damned hill.
The longer one lives out here, the larger the hill gets. Eventually, I suspect, the 'hill' becomes almost impossible to navigate. "I'd love to meet for dinner, I haven't seen you for ages, not since we celebrated Clinton's inauguration, but the hill, you know, the hill, I just can't get over the hill. I don't think I can make it over the hill ever again. It's just been too long. I don't think I can even try. The hill is spreading. It's almost in my backyard now. It's blocked our view. We used to have a glorious view from our front window. No longer. These days all we can see is the hill."
I miss having coffee with my friends. I miss connecting, face to face, sitting on the patio, laughing at stuff only we would laugh at, eating bad omelettes, drinking bad coffee, saying things out loud I would never dream of saying out loud to anyone else. But I've been in Los Angeles for over a year now. And when I stand outside and look around, all I can see is the hill. Sometimes, and this is really scary, I can see the hill in my own living room, my own kitchen, my own bedroom. I'm really beginning to hate the hill.
See you tomorrow.
In any event, unlike NY and Chicago, if you wanna meet up with a couple of friends for coffee or dinner or maybe catch a movie, the planning starts weeks, sometimes months, in advance. In Chicago let's say you live in Edgewater and your buddy lives in Lincoln Park and you want to meet for coffee in Andersonville. You call, you set it up, you meet, ba da bang, ba da bing.
In New York, let's say you live in Astoria and your friend is on the Upper West and you wanna meet in Chelsea...you call, you set it up, you meet, wham bam, thank ya' ma'am.
This would never happen in Los Angeles. It becomes an endless series of phone calls, texts, emails, planning, scheduling, waffling, yes, no, how about 4 instead of 3, sorry, but I have a yoga class then, what's your Tuesday look like? I don't know how people do it.
The most common and exasperating excuse is, "I don't like to drive over the hill." (The 'hill' is the small, mountainous barrier between the San Fernando Valley and the rest of the civilized world, apparently.) Sometimes people use that excuse even if they don't live over the 'hill.' They just like to say it. Sometimes a friend will live in Studio City and you live in Burbank and they'll still say it. Los Angeles is the perfect place to live if you're really into isoloating.
The mass transit system out here is treated as one might treat a leper in the second century AD. In New York and Chicago EVERYone uses the subway, the buses, the el, etc. In Los Angeles if one is caught using public transportation, it's sometimes announced on the local news..."And when we come back, Clifford Morts allegedly took the bus sixteen blocks to North Hollywood. We'll have the shocked reactions from local residents."
Here's what a friend of mine often says, "You know, after driving all over the place all day, when I finally get home I just can't stand to go out again." This always gives me pause. I mean, you're DRIVING places, you're SITTING DOWN, you're in a comfortable seat, the window is down because it's in the mid-seventies outside, you're listening to your favorite music on the CD player. It's not like you're in a Flinstones car and you're running to get it started and using your heels to brake. People out here act as if driving is something akin to lumberjacking all day. It's utterly exhausting to them. "Oh, I couldn't possibly drive ONE MORE SECOND. I'm just pooped!"
I think one of the reasons Los Angeles is not as healthy, socially speaking, as NY or Chicago is because of this rampant car culture. When I first moved here a few of my buddies from NY would meet up almost every week at this little diner in Studio City called 'Sitton's.' We'd sit out on the patio, smoke cigarettes, have coffee and eventually eat an egg or two. We'd discuss the myriad twists and turns of our careers, our hopes and dreams, laugh about past misadventures, recount our perplexing love lives, encourage each other, etc. And afterwards we'd all feel connected, we'd feel a part of something. One by one, however, we all stopped meeting up. I asked a friend of mine why we stopped meeting the other day. He said, "Oh, I don't know. I guess we all got tired of driving over the hill." None of us live over the hill.
That's it, you know. There's the rub. That damned 'hill.' It took me awhile, but I finally realized 'the hill' is actually a metaphor. It's a way of saying, 'I don't want to exert the energy to let someone into my life, not even for a few minutes, the time it takes for cup of coffee, not even to meet for a stick of gum." No. The 'hill' is the perfect excuse not to share our lives. It is Frost's good neighbors and good fences. It is the symbol of of our fear, at the risk of sounding dramatic. That damned hill.
The longer one lives out here, the larger the hill gets. Eventually, I suspect, the 'hill' becomes almost impossible to navigate. "I'd love to meet for dinner, I haven't seen you for ages, not since we celebrated Clinton's inauguration, but the hill, you know, the hill, I just can't get over the hill. I don't think I can make it over the hill ever again. It's just been too long. I don't think I can even try. The hill is spreading. It's almost in my backyard now. It's blocked our view. We used to have a glorious view from our front window. No longer. These days all we can see is the hill."
I miss having coffee with my friends. I miss connecting, face to face, sitting on the patio, laughing at stuff only we would laugh at, eating bad omelettes, drinking bad coffee, saying things out loud I would never dream of saying out loud to anyone else. But I've been in Los Angeles for over a year now. And when I stand outside and look around, all I can see is the hill. Sometimes, and this is really scary, I can see the hill in my own living room, my own kitchen, my own bedroom. I'm really beginning to hate the hill.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Sometimes it just is.
I've discovered I really don't like doing this play every night. Don't get me wrong, that's not necessarily a bad thing. It just is. A close friend came to see the show last night and Angie and I had a conversation outside the theater with her afterwards. And as we were chatting I said as much. I hadn't actually said it out loud until then. Angie looked at me a little askew.
The reason, I finally realized, has nothing to do with the subject matter or the hopelessness inherent in the text or the difficulty in doing it. It has to do with the fact that there are parts (actually massive CHUNKS of the play) that are either right or wrong. That is to say, there is very little room to play. There is either the 'right way to do it' or 'the wrong way to do it.' That doesn't appeal to me.
One of the reasons I became an actor a hundred years ago is because success or achievement or goals or whatever has absolutely nothing to do with 'right' or 'wrong.' This business, this craft, is concerned only with what works or what doesn't work, not 'right' or 'wrong.'
For example, I was watching an old movie the other day. Gene Wilder was playing the lead role. A line was said, a line that probably no other actor on earth could've said 'funny.' Yet Wilder did. It wasn't a funny line, it probably wasn't even intended to be funny by the author. But Wilder, in his inimitable fashion, said the line in such a way that made me chuckle out loud. You see? There was no right or wrong, there was only Wilder's choice. That's a very small example but it's precisely what I'm talking about.
Try to imagine doing 'Hamlet' and after the show someone walks up to you and says, "Sorry, but you did the role wrong tonight. Try harder tomorrow night." You see? There IS no 'wrong' way to do Hamlet. Or hardly any other role for that matter. And that is exactly the beauty of it, the appeal, the excitement, that 'unknown variable.' But, as much as I don't like it, there IS a wrong way to do this role. And again, it just is. No one's fault, no one is the cause of this...except maybe the composer, but that's hardly to be considered a drawback. The music is every bit as genius as I first thought it to be.
In this play, Adding Machine - The Musical, there is so much of it that is complex rhythm and exact counting. It is necessary because other things can't happen next unless it happens exactly right at that moment. I know that's a bit nebulous, but that's the long and short of it. It's like going on stage every night and doing trigonometry. This is, obviously, by design, hence the title of the play. But I don't like it. I don't like not being able to play INSIDE the text.
I suppose it comes from a deep-seated hatred of people telling me there is only one way to do something. So I naturally, given my pre-disposition and distrust of authority in general, gravitated toward this business. I've spent a career, I'd like to think anyway, approaching roles from a different viewpoint, a new way of thinking about something, an eccentric thought process. Maybe I've been kidding myself, but I like to think so, anyway.
There is room to do that in this play, to be sure. Not a lot, but some. But not nearly enough to give me enjoyment over the evening. Our friend said last night, "Well, it's no wonder you're not having a lot of fun. It's a very depressing theme." Honestly, that has nothing to do with it. It has to do entirely with the practical application of what I do. Not the text, not the subject matter, not even the music, really, but the inability to 'play.' I hate actually 'working' when I go to work.
Now, the audience is none the wiser. So, with that in mind, it really doesn't, in the final analysis, matter how I feel. This is entirely my own thought process. It's not about me, never has been. This is one of the reasons I've always disdained 'Method' work. It's not about the actor. It's all, entirely, every bit, always and forever, about the audience. It's about the $45 they shelled out for that seat. To ever, even for a moment, think otherwise is the absolute height of self-indulgence. It's the closest thing to a crime that an actor can commit, as far as I'm concerned. So many actors actually think it's about them. It astonishes me.
So I guess what I'm saying is, it's best to at least acknowledge that I'm not having any fun doing this. Rather than simply walk around in a sort of morass all the time about having to do it again, simply acknowledge what and why it effects me in such a way. And I think that goes a long way to at least accepting the work and the personal effort on a nightly basis.
Sometimes I feel like I'm going out on the boards every night to compete in a spelling bee rather than interpreting a role. It just is. This is one of those rare occasions when one just has to suck it up and do what is necessary. I may not enjoy it, but I sure as hell appreciate it.
See you tomorrow.
The reason, I finally realized, has nothing to do with the subject matter or the hopelessness inherent in the text or the difficulty in doing it. It has to do with the fact that there are parts (actually massive CHUNKS of the play) that are either right or wrong. That is to say, there is very little room to play. There is either the 'right way to do it' or 'the wrong way to do it.' That doesn't appeal to me.
One of the reasons I became an actor a hundred years ago is because success or achievement or goals or whatever has absolutely nothing to do with 'right' or 'wrong.' This business, this craft, is concerned only with what works or what doesn't work, not 'right' or 'wrong.'
For example, I was watching an old movie the other day. Gene Wilder was playing the lead role. A line was said, a line that probably no other actor on earth could've said 'funny.' Yet Wilder did. It wasn't a funny line, it probably wasn't even intended to be funny by the author. But Wilder, in his inimitable fashion, said the line in such a way that made me chuckle out loud. You see? There was no right or wrong, there was only Wilder's choice. That's a very small example but it's precisely what I'm talking about.
Try to imagine doing 'Hamlet' and after the show someone walks up to you and says, "Sorry, but you did the role wrong tonight. Try harder tomorrow night." You see? There IS no 'wrong' way to do Hamlet. Or hardly any other role for that matter. And that is exactly the beauty of it, the appeal, the excitement, that 'unknown variable.' But, as much as I don't like it, there IS a wrong way to do this role. And again, it just is. No one's fault, no one is the cause of this...except maybe the composer, but that's hardly to be considered a drawback. The music is every bit as genius as I first thought it to be.
In this play, Adding Machine - The Musical, there is so much of it that is complex rhythm and exact counting. It is necessary because other things can't happen next unless it happens exactly right at that moment. I know that's a bit nebulous, but that's the long and short of it. It's like going on stage every night and doing trigonometry. This is, obviously, by design, hence the title of the play. But I don't like it. I don't like not being able to play INSIDE the text.
I suppose it comes from a deep-seated hatred of people telling me there is only one way to do something. So I naturally, given my pre-disposition and distrust of authority in general, gravitated toward this business. I've spent a career, I'd like to think anyway, approaching roles from a different viewpoint, a new way of thinking about something, an eccentric thought process. Maybe I've been kidding myself, but I like to think so, anyway.
There is room to do that in this play, to be sure. Not a lot, but some. But not nearly enough to give me enjoyment over the evening. Our friend said last night, "Well, it's no wonder you're not having a lot of fun. It's a very depressing theme." Honestly, that has nothing to do with it. It has to do entirely with the practical application of what I do. Not the text, not the subject matter, not even the music, really, but the inability to 'play.' I hate actually 'working' when I go to work.
Now, the audience is none the wiser. So, with that in mind, it really doesn't, in the final analysis, matter how I feel. This is entirely my own thought process. It's not about me, never has been. This is one of the reasons I've always disdained 'Method' work. It's not about the actor. It's all, entirely, every bit, always and forever, about the audience. It's about the $45 they shelled out for that seat. To ever, even for a moment, think otherwise is the absolute height of self-indulgence. It's the closest thing to a crime that an actor can commit, as far as I'm concerned. So many actors actually think it's about them. It astonishes me.
So I guess what I'm saying is, it's best to at least acknowledge that I'm not having any fun doing this. Rather than simply walk around in a sort of morass all the time about having to do it again, simply acknowledge what and why it effects me in such a way. And I think that goes a long way to at least accepting the work and the personal effort on a nightly basis.
Sometimes I feel like I'm going out on the boards every night to compete in a spelling bee rather than interpreting a role. It just is. This is one of those rare occasions when one just has to suck it up and do what is necessary. I may not enjoy it, but I sure as hell appreciate it.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
New Review.
“I’m sorry to lose an old and faithful employee, but you see, in an organization like this, efficiency is the first consideration. You will, of course, draw your salary for the full month. We couldn’t do anything less for such a valued and loyal employee. And I’ll direct my secretary to give you an excellent letter of recommendation.”
“Wait a minute. Let me get this right. You mean … you’re letting me go?”
No, this isn’t dialog from Up In The Air, the movie that had George Clooney flying around the country firing people. It’s from Adding Machine: A Musical, adapted from a 1923 play by Elmer Rice. Talk about timeless!
Rice’s The Adding Machine centers on a certain Mr. Zero, a sad sack of a man who finds himself after twenty-five years of old-style accounting suddenly replaced by a machine. Unlike the pink-slipped victims of Up In The Air, however, most of whom a slick Clooney was able to convince that a change would do them good, Mr. Zero snaps and kills his boss.
Clearly Adding Machine: A Musical has other intentions than being your average, everyday musical. Winner of the Outer Critics Circle, Louise Lortel, and Chicago’s Joseph Jefferson Awards for Best New Musical, Adding Machine: A Musical (libretto by Jason Loewith and Joshua Schmidt) is a surreal fantasy with a score that makes Sondheim’s complex melodies and rhythms seem like old-fashioned show tunes by comparison.
Since the adjective “surreal” generally makes this reviewer want to turn and run, it may come as a surprise to StageSceneLA readers that I loved every one of Adding Machine: A Musical’s dreamlike, even nightmarish, moments and composer Schmidt’s complex, often dissonant melodies. Under Ron Sossi’s inspired direction, and featuring a uniformly superb cast, Adding Machine: A Musical’s West Coast Premiere at the Odyssey Theater turns out to be about as exciting a musical event as they come.
Like Adam Guettel and Michael John LaChiusa, composer Schmidt take a while getting used to, but the more you listen, the more his music resounds and resonates. Mrs. Zero’s nagging, cacophonous “Something To Be Proud Of” sets the mood from the get-go, followed by the quite extraordinary “Harmony, Not Discord,” entirely spoken by a quintet of performers, each at a different speed and rhythm, yet all somehow blending into one powerful whole. Then there’s “In Numbers,” with its syncopated harmonies, “The Party” which somehow amidst its racist, anti-Semitic, homophobic slurs recalls the talk-songs of Meredith Willson, and “A Pleasant Place” with an almost angelic chorale singing backup to a post-execution Mr. Zero.
Amidst these weird yet wonderful concoctions, out pop several quite hummable show stoppers, like the Kander-&-Ebb-in-Chicago-mode-esque “I’d Rather Watch You,” the catchy three-quarter time “Ham And Eggs,” and “The Gospel According to Shrdlu,” which seems straight out of a Southern Baptist revival meeting.
Charles Erven’s abstract, deliberately dingy gray scenic design sets the expressionist mood from the get-go, aided and abetted by Kathryn Poppen’s monochromatic costumes, Adam Blumenthal’s striking lighting, and Rosalyn Rice’s dramatic sound design, with its strident factory whistles and perfect mixing of musical instruments and unamplified voices.
Working in tandem, director Sossi and choreographer Natalie Labellarte keep the cast moving in ever-varied patterns, particularly the four-member ensemble, who execute numerous roles while serving as a kind of Greek chorus.
Performances are all-around sensational, beginning with Clifford Mort’s angry, bigoted, resentful Mr. Zero, whose enraged roars alternate with near-operatic arias sung in a rich, powerful baritone. Abandoning vanity, Kelly Lester disappears into Mrs. Zero’s faded shell, sings in a crystal clear soprano, and proves herself as adept in a stark dramatic role as she was in her much lighter roles in That Perfect Moment. The non-traditional casting of Christine Horn as Daisy Devore, Mr. Zero’s co-worker and the object of his affection, proves disconcerting at first given the racist epithet Mr. Zero spits out in his confession, but ends up adding complexity to Zero’s character. Not surprisingly, given the StageSceneLA Award winner’s recent performance as the most unforgettable of The Women Of Brewster Place, Horn dazzles in this very different role, imbuing Daisy with a sad sweetness and vocalizing with a set of absolutely glorious pipes. Horn’s fellow StageSceneLA Award winner Rob Herring makes it three superb performances in a row with his work as the sweetest mother-killer ever to grace a musical stage, once again revealing the heavenly tenor that doubtless contributed to his Ovation Award-nominated turn as the doomed Tobias in Sweeney Todd.
An ensemble of gifted musical theater newcomers (Greta McAnany, Travis Leland, Nick Tubbs, and Mandy Wilson) not only acquit themselves of their demanding vocal tasks with consummate skill and flair, they also execute a variety of supporting roles, including married couples Mr. and Mrs. One and Two as well as assorted accountants, prisoners, a prisoner’s wife, a matron, and a prison guard. The only nit one could possibly pick with this particular group of performers is their uniform youth, making middle-aged Mr. Zero stand out as a tad too much an anomaly in the accounting firm. Alan Abelew completes the cast quite effectively in the show’s sole non-musical track, playing three roles: Mr. Zero’s boss, a Fixer, and Charles, whose job it is to inform Mr. Zero of his post-death future.
There would be no Adding Machine: A Musical without the accomplished work of musical director Alan Patrick Kenny and the production’s marvelous three-piece orchestra—Kenny on piano, Chris Meyers on keyboards, and Scott Director on percussion.
Makeup and hair design (both excellent) are by Catherine Joseph, Jennifer Palumbo is stage manager, and Katherine S. Hunt is prop master.
Adding Machine: A Musical will not be everyone’s cup of tea. If Rodgers & Hammerstein’s The Sound Of Music is as dark a show as you’d care to see, if you’d pick Jerry Herman over Stephen Sondheim any day, if out-of-the-ordinary is something you’d rather opt to skip … then by all means, search out a more traditional show. If, however, you are open to taking chances where musical theater is concerned, Adding Machine: A Musical is simply not to be missed.
ADDING MACHINE: A MUSICAL
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble, 2055 South Sepulveda Boulevard, Los Angeles.
Click here for current performance schedule, closing date, and reservation line.
www.odysseytheatre.com
--Steven Stanley
February 6, 2011
“Wait a minute. Let me get this right. You mean … you’re letting me go?”
No, this isn’t dialog from Up In The Air, the movie that had George Clooney flying around the country firing people. It’s from Adding Machine: A Musical, adapted from a 1923 play by Elmer Rice. Talk about timeless!
Rice’s The Adding Machine centers on a certain Mr. Zero, a sad sack of a man who finds himself after twenty-five years of old-style accounting suddenly replaced by a machine. Unlike the pink-slipped victims of Up In The Air, however, most of whom a slick Clooney was able to convince that a change would do them good, Mr. Zero snaps and kills his boss.
Clearly Adding Machine: A Musical has other intentions than being your average, everyday musical. Winner of the Outer Critics Circle, Louise Lortel, and Chicago’s Joseph Jefferson Awards for Best New Musical, Adding Machine: A Musical (libretto by Jason Loewith and Joshua Schmidt) is a surreal fantasy with a score that makes Sondheim’s complex melodies and rhythms seem like old-fashioned show tunes by comparison.
Since the adjective “surreal” generally makes this reviewer want to turn and run, it may come as a surprise to StageSceneLA readers that I loved every one of Adding Machine: A Musical’s dreamlike, even nightmarish, moments and composer Schmidt’s complex, often dissonant melodies. Under Ron Sossi’s inspired direction, and featuring a uniformly superb cast, Adding Machine: A Musical’s West Coast Premiere at the Odyssey Theater turns out to be about as exciting a musical event as they come.
Like Adam Guettel and Michael John LaChiusa, composer Schmidt take a while getting used to, but the more you listen, the more his music resounds and resonates. Mrs. Zero’s nagging, cacophonous “Something To Be Proud Of” sets the mood from the get-go, followed by the quite extraordinary “Harmony, Not Discord,” entirely spoken by a quintet of performers, each at a different speed and rhythm, yet all somehow blending into one powerful whole. Then there’s “In Numbers,” with its syncopated harmonies, “The Party” which somehow amidst its racist, anti-Semitic, homophobic slurs recalls the talk-songs of Meredith Willson, and “A Pleasant Place” with an almost angelic chorale singing backup to a post-execution Mr. Zero.
Amidst these weird yet wonderful concoctions, out pop several quite hummable show stoppers, like the Kander-&-Ebb-in-Chicago-mode-esque “I’d Rather Watch You,” the catchy three-quarter time “Ham And Eggs,” and “The Gospel According to Shrdlu,” which seems straight out of a Southern Baptist revival meeting.
Charles Erven’s abstract, deliberately dingy gray scenic design sets the expressionist mood from the get-go, aided and abetted by Kathryn Poppen’s monochromatic costumes, Adam Blumenthal’s striking lighting, and Rosalyn Rice’s dramatic sound design, with its strident factory whistles and perfect mixing of musical instruments and unamplified voices.
Working in tandem, director Sossi and choreographer Natalie Labellarte keep the cast moving in ever-varied patterns, particularly the four-member ensemble, who execute numerous roles while serving as a kind of Greek chorus.
Performances are all-around sensational, beginning with Clifford Mort’s angry, bigoted, resentful Mr. Zero, whose enraged roars alternate with near-operatic arias sung in a rich, powerful baritone. Abandoning vanity, Kelly Lester disappears into Mrs. Zero’s faded shell, sings in a crystal clear soprano, and proves herself as adept in a stark dramatic role as she was in her much lighter roles in That Perfect Moment. The non-traditional casting of Christine Horn as Daisy Devore, Mr. Zero’s co-worker and the object of his affection, proves disconcerting at first given the racist epithet Mr. Zero spits out in his confession, but ends up adding complexity to Zero’s character. Not surprisingly, given the StageSceneLA Award winner’s recent performance as the most unforgettable of The Women Of Brewster Place, Horn dazzles in this very different role, imbuing Daisy with a sad sweetness and vocalizing with a set of absolutely glorious pipes. Horn’s fellow StageSceneLA Award winner Rob Herring makes it three superb performances in a row with his work as the sweetest mother-killer ever to grace a musical stage, once again revealing the heavenly tenor that doubtless contributed to his Ovation Award-nominated turn as the doomed Tobias in Sweeney Todd.
An ensemble of gifted musical theater newcomers (Greta McAnany, Travis Leland, Nick Tubbs, and Mandy Wilson) not only acquit themselves of their demanding vocal tasks with consummate skill and flair, they also execute a variety of supporting roles, including married couples Mr. and Mrs. One and Two as well as assorted accountants, prisoners, a prisoner’s wife, a matron, and a prison guard. The only nit one could possibly pick with this particular group of performers is their uniform youth, making middle-aged Mr. Zero stand out as a tad too much an anomaly in the accounting firm. Alan Abelew completes the cast quite effectively in the show’s sole non-musical track, playing three roles: Mr. Zero’s boss, a Fixer, and Charles, whose job it is to inform Mr. Zero of his post-death future.
There would be no Adding Machine: A Musical without the accomplished work of musical director Alan Patrick Kenny and the production’s marvelous three-piece orchestra—Kenny on piano, Chris Meyers on keyboards, and Scott Director on percussion.
Makeup and hair design (both excellent) are by Catherine Joseph, Jennifer Palumbo is stage manager, and Katherine S. Hunt is prop master.
Adding Machine: A Musical will not be everyone’s cup of tea. If Rodgers & Hammerstein’s The Sound Of Music is as dark a show as you’d care to see, if you’d pick Jerry Herman over Stephen Sondheim any day, if out-of-the-ordinary is something you’d rather opt to skip … then by all means, search out a more traditional show. If, however, you are open to taking chances where musical theater is concerned, Adding Machine: A Musical is simply not to be missed.
ADDING MACHINE: A MUSICAL
Odyssey Theatre Ensemble, 2055 South Sepulveda Boulevard, Los Angeles.
Click here for current performance schedule, closing date, and reservation line.
www.odysseytheatre.com
--Steven Stanley
February 6, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A no-lose situation.
My disease, the silent disease, that is, type II diabetes, is cramping my social calendar. I probably have a host of other health issues but that's the one in charge of me today. I have to go over to Cedars-Sinai to get some blood work done at the behest of my doctor. The last time I was in for my check-up, everything, all the 'numbers', as she says, were incredibly good. At least the ones she could read without the help of bloodwork. She was very encouraged. Remarkable difference, she said, from when I first came to see her nine months or so ago.
But I don't wanna go to a hospital and sit around for a few hours waiting to get my blood drawn. I wanna be free and run like the wind in the park and dance complicated Pakistani swivel-hipped dances under the stars.
Well, I don't want to be stuck in the hospital, that's certainly true.
Anyway.
I really can't go into too much detail with what I'm about to write next, but it bears mentioning. A screenwriter/producer (well known, with film credits out the ying-yang) type came to see the play I'm doing awhile back. He sent a message to me via our director that I was to contact him. Left his home number, etc. After a bit of confusion in getting the message to me, I finally called him a couple days ago.
He really liked my work, apparently. I won't go into what-all he said, but it was embarrassingly nice. Suffice to say, he really liked it. So we talked for quite awhile. Turns out this man is close friends with Jack Nicholson. In fact, he said he spent Sunday at Nicholson's house watching the Superbowl and he spoke to 'Jack' about 'this terrific performance onstage he had just seen.'
That's all well and good, but of course, it really means very little in terms of getting work. I learned long ago that actors rarely get other actors work. It happens, but not often. Yes, it was nice to know that somebody told the legendary Jack Nicholson about my work, but realistically, that's not really legal tender out here in Lala land.
But what IS legal tender is that this gentleman's son is a major casting guy out here. In fact he's in the middle of casting several pilots at the moment. So he said, "Send over your pic and res and reel right away. I want to personally hand it to my son with a verbal recommendation." Nice.
So I did. Angie, who's been in the wild and wacky film and tv business out here for many years, was tremendously excited. To me, regardless of this guy's stature in the film world (natually, being a dummy about this stuff, I immediately googled him...he's the real deal), I figured it was just another case of someone paying lip service to something they happened to like. But Angie didn't feel that way and consequently now I don't either. She said, "You don't understand. I've been in casting out here for twenty years. This is how things happen." Hm.
There's a lot more to the story, but that's really all I can relate at this point. As a buddy of mine, a very successful tv actor, said when I told him all about it, "It's a very good thing, a no-lose situation. It could turn out to be a small thing or a very big thing, but it's good no matter what." Whatever it turns out to be, at this point it's simply a wait and see kind of thing. More on that if and when it pans out.
It's another stunningly beautiful day here in Southern California. Franny and Zooey are staring at me wondering when the walk will commence. Angie and I have been taking them over to The Equestrian Center and Griffith Park (both literally around the corner from our house) and letting them run free. They love it, especially Franny. They completely ignore, for the most part, the horses and riders we encounter on the trails over there, which is a good thing. It's what I worried about most when we decided to take Franny (who is 13 months old now). He's, uh, easily distracted.
It's all good.
See you tomorrow.
But I don't wanna go to a hospital and sit around for a few hours waiting to get my blood drawn. I wanna be free and run like the wind in the park and dance complicated Pakistani swivel-hipped dances under the stars.
Well, I don't want to be stuck in the hospital, that's certainly true.
Anyway.
I really can't go into too much detail with what I'm about to write next, but it bears mentioning. A screenwriter/producer (well known, with film credits out the ying-yang) type came to see the play I'm doing awhile back. He sent a message to me via our director that I was to contact him. Left his home number, etc. After a bit of confusion in getting the message to me, I finally called him a couple days ago.
He really liked my work, apparently. I won't go into what-all he said, but it was embarrassingly nice. Suffice to say, he really liked it. So we talked for quite awhile. Turns out this man is close friends with Jack Nicholson. In fact, he said he spent Sunday at Nicholson's house watching the Superbowl and he spoke to 'Jack' about 'this terrific performance onstage he had just seen.'
That's all well and good, but of course, it really means very little in terms of getting work. I learned long ago that actors rarely get other actors work. It happens, but not often. Yes, it was nice to know that somebody told the legendary Jack Nicholson about my work, but realistically, that's not really legal tender out here in Lala land.
But what IS legal tender is that this gentleman's son is a major casting guy out here. In fact he's in the middle of casting several pilots at the moment. So he said, "Send over your pic and res and reel right away. I want to personally hand it to my son with a verbal recommendation." Nice.
So I did. Angie, who's been in the wild and wacky film and tv business out here for many years, was tremendously excited. To me, regardless of this guy's stature in the film world (natually, being a dummy about this stuff, I immediately googled him...he's the real deal), I figured it was just another case of someone paying lip service to something they happened to like. But Angie didn't feel that way and consequently now I don't either. She said, "You don't understand. I've been in casting out here for twenty years. This is how things happen." Hm.
There's a lot more to the story, but that's really all I can relate at this point. As a buddy of mine, a very successful tv actor, said when I told him all about it, "It's a very good thing, a no-lose situation. It could turn out to be a small thing or a very big thing, but it's good no matter what." Whatever it turns out to be, at this point it's simply a wait and see kind of thing. More on that if and when it pans out.
It's another stunningly beautiful day here in Southern California. Franny and Zooey are staring at me wondering when the walk will commence. Angie and I have been taking them over to The Equestrian Center and Griffith Park (both literally around the corner from our house) and letting them run free. They love it, especially Franny. They completely ignore, for the most part, the horses and riders we encounter on the trails over there, which is a good thing. It's what I worried about most when we decided to take Franny (who is 13 months old now). He's, uh, easily distracted.
It's all good.
See you tomorrow.
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