Ground Zero swells before me. 'Ground Zero' is what I'm calling the day I quit smoking. My wife and I have decided to take the plunge. It's time. Smoking is and always has been an absolute indefensible habit. The problem is I really, really, really, really like to smoke.
I started smoking, like most actors, for a role. I had to smoke onstage. And back in those days I fancied myself quite the method actor. So I'm doing this show in a semi-professional summer stock gig called 'Tent Theatre' in southern Missouri. The show was '1940's Radio Hour' and I had been cast as a guy named 'Johnny Cantone.' The character was based on a young Sinatra and called for me to chain-smoke throughout the two hour show, even during the crooning ballads I sang. It was June of 1983. I've been smoking 28 years.
I'd actually dabbled a bit in smoking a couple years earlier. I was 'Black Bart the train robber' at Silver Dollar City in Branson, MO, in 1981 and between robbing trains (it was an elaborate, scripted 20 minute show each time) we sat in 'the train shack,' as it was called, and waited for the next train. There were five or six of us, all 'Black Barts,' all dressed in black with our black hats and pearl-handled six-shooters, all taking our turn robbing the train. This is a blog all by itself, actually, the silliness of that summer, but suffice to say this is when I first tried to be a smoker. I couldn't do it. I hated smoking. All of the other 'Black Barts' smoked cigarettes, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I bought a couple packs of a brand I'm fairly certain no longer exists, a menthol cigarette called 'Arctic Lights.' They were like smoking a Christmas tree.
Incidentally, I nearly got punched in the face once as Black Bart the Train Robber. The script we used left plenty of room to improvise and one of the lines I often trotted out while I was ostensibly robbing people was 'You sure don't sweat much for a fat girl!' I don't know, it seemed funny at the time and always got a big laugh from the customer/victims on the train. But one day (I don't know what I was thinking) I said it to a Muslim woman complete with veil and black robes and her Taliban husband jumped up and took a swing at me. Fortunately my cat-like reflexes got me out of the way, but we (me and Black Bart's 'gang') cut the script short and jumped off the train before he could fly a plane into me.
Anyway.
Like most smokers I've quit a thousand times. My longest stint was about nine months. I was living in New York then and there was a Chinese Restaurant on 46th street in mid-town a bunch of my friends and I would frequent. Mostly because they had ass-kicking but awful saki and also gave dirty fortune cookies to the regulars. And I mean really dirty, nasty fortune cookies. I won't even repeat the ones I remember. Very scatalogical fortune cookies. We loved it.
So we were all sitting around our usual big round table, about ten of us, and I had launched into a long, boring story of some sort (much like this one, I suspect) and the guy sitting next to me (I forget who) had a pack of Marlboro Reds sitting on the table in front of him - my brand. And (this is how strong the addiction is) without even thinking about it (remember, I had been off cigs for nine months) reached down in the middle of my long, boring story and lit up. I smoked half the cigarette before I remembered I had quit. Amazing. The next day I had two. And then three. And inside of a week I was a pack-a-day guy again.
One of the things that helped me quit before was a box of straws. Yes, straws. Plastic straws. I buy a big industrial sized box of straws and everytime I had the urge I pulled one out and chewed on it. Not very attractive but it seems to do the trick. So today I'm off to buy some straws. Talk about your oral fixations.
This whole paradigm shift happened when Angie added up the money we spent on our nasty, little habit. She estimates we spend, together, about $3,700 a year on cigarettes. I recently had a friend, Stephanie, who quit after decades of smoking. She used the same approach, daily reminding herself of the amount of money she was saving by not smoking. She would even post the amounts on Facebook. It got me to thinking.
I need new headshots, I need to join a gym. Just two of the things the $3,700 will facilitate. So my plan of attack is to use this as my impetus. I'm going to post the amounts of money I'm saving every few days on the cork board in my office. I think that might be good for me to glance at every now and then. Plus Angie says she wants fancy underwear. That's what she said - 'fancy underwear.' We also want a new Mercedes station wagon but we'd have to give up eating, drinking and paying rent for that.
I have several friends that smoke a cigarette 'every now and then.' I don't get these people. For me that's like saying 'I only take a lungful of air every now and then.' They're freaks.
Although I have very few, if any, 'regrets' in my life (yes, I'd do things different given the chance, but 'regrets?' That's the road to suicide as far as I'm concerned.)taking a drag of that first cigarette back in 1981 is one.
Incidentally, when I first learned to smoke, during '1940's Radio Hour' in 1983, I bought myself a carton of cigs and a six-pack of beer and I drove out to an old country road outside of Springfield, MO, and I taught myself how to do it. I quite literally 'taught' myself. I didn't want to appear to be a non-smoker onstage, serious young actor that I was. You know, holding the cigarette delicately at the end of two outstretched fingers, taking shallow drags, looking uncomfortable holding it, etc. No, I wanted to come across as a lifetime smoker. In my youthful arrogance my plan, of course, was to quit as soon as the play was over. Needless to say, that didn't happen.
Cigarettes, the ones I bought, were $1.35 the year I started smoking. Today I spend $6.00 a pack (American Spirits - Natural). And that's cheap. In Chicago they're inching towards $10.00 a pack. It's now illegal to smoke in public in both Burbank and Glendale. I abhor this law, but I suppose for non-smokers it's deeply satisfying. Currently under consideration is a new law that would make it illegal to smoke in your car in these two cities. True dat. The only place left to smoke legally would be in the privacy of your own home. Of course, I often flaunt the laws and step outside of restaurants all the time and light up. Not because I need a cigarette so much but rather to say 'fuck you' to the stupid, government- invasion-of-privacy laws. I have a strong Republican streak in me when it comes to that.
In any event, tomorrow is the day. I'm finishing my last can of smokes (I buy a large can of American Spirit - $35.00 - and roll my own with this nifty little roller I bought) and Angie is finishing up her last pack (she smokes the 'American Spirits - Ultra Light). We're terrified.
We have an 'e-cigarette' for emergencies. We've decided to keep that plugged up and ready to use for the first difficult week. My mother-in-law, Rosemary, a very vocal anti-smoker, says she'll buy all the nicarette we can chew if we ever decide to quit. We may take her up on it. I also want 'the patch.' But unless it becomes just too terrible, I probably won't go with that. It'll be cold turkey. My old acting teacher and friend, Michael Moriarty, once told me when he quit he kept a pack of cigarettes by his side all the time and whenever he had the urge to light up he would pick up the pack and say to it, "Who's stronger? You or me?" That always seemed a bit masochistic to me, though. I'd eventually just say, "Oh, okay. You are." And light up.
And finally, I'm hoping to rid myself of the perpetual smugness of other smokers who have successfully quit. My good buddy, John, quit 12 years ago. He reminds me of this approximately once every five minutes.
My wife once quit for a long, long time. She did it through hypnosis. Alas, when she started spending time with me, she started back up. That always makes me feel kind of bad, too. Another buddy of mine did it through weekly acupuncture. Personally, I'd like to take some sedatives that knock me out for about three months and then wake up smoke-free. With my luck I'd miss out on a big audition if I did that, though.
And then, of course, there's the diabetes. That's a whole other cup of danger. Everytime I see my doctor the first thing she asks is, "So how's the smoking coming?" The last time I saw her I said, "Great! I'm down to 28 a day!" She scowled at me.
I remember those Yul Brennar PSA spots when I was a kid. They were creepy as shit. He would appear on the television, filling up the whole screen with his shaved head and Eastern European smirk, and say, "By the time you're watching this, I'll be dead. I smoked four packs of cigarettes a day..." First of all, I never believed him. Four packs? When did he have the time? Because 'The King and I' was two hours long, so the math just didn't add up.
I've had three cigarettes while writing this blog today. Good God, I'm going to miss them.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Another day, another Russian Accent
I've added a few reels to the site. They're to the right of this text. I recently found a new program, free download, which enables me to make reels, etc. The only problem is they have to be posted on YouTube and then downloaded onto the blogger site. Oh, there's probably a way to do it without putting them on YouTube first, but I'm pretty much a slobbering idiot when it comes to this stuff so I can't quite figure that part out.
But the point is, I have so much fun doing it. I feel like I'm on the bridge of the Enterprise trying to save earth from certain destruction when I start messing with computer-related stuff.
So, okay, I go about a week without a single audition. Nada, nothing, zip, zero. And then of course I get a call from the home office and have two virtually at the same time. We do a little shuffling, call the casting directors, and get things lined up.
The first was a film, an 'ultra low budget' thingee. Something about 'Russian mobsters.' Okay. So I slip on my Russian accent and travel to Hollywood for that one. It ended up being in a warehouse - the audition, that is. They were running behind, about a half hour or so, and in comes this guy that apparently had been there earlier but had to leave for some reason. He comes in and tells the monitor that he'd like to go in next. My eyebrows raised. Next? But he left. He gave up his spot. I looked around and everyone had an eyebrow raised. And this guy refused to take no for an answer. "In all my years in this business I've never heard of such a thing," he whined, "You're just going to have to march in there and tell them John Doe is here." And, much to my chagrin, she did. She disappeared into the room and came out and said, okay, you can go in next. Personally, I had another audition to get to, so I wasn't too keen on all this. But, sure enough, he ambled in next.
The reason they were behind is because they were taking a long time with every actor in the room. About ten minutes each, in fact - an inordinantly long time to stay in the room. Well, I don't know what happened in there, but this guy comes out about thirty seconds later and stomps out of the warehouse, mumbling obscenities under his breath.
Times like that I want to just grab people and say, "Alright, listen, here's how life works: you wait your turn. Simple as that. All areas of life, that's what you do. You wait your turn. Generally speaking, people who never learned to wait their turn are either working on Wall Street or in jail." But I didn't say that to him. I thought it.
After the 'Russian Mobster' gig I quickly drove over to one of the studios (doing the whole security check thing at the gate) for a co-starring read on a major network drama. Much nicer scenario, I must say. A bunch of veteran LA actors all sitting peacefully in a waiting room, being nice to one another, one lady was actually knitting. The role was for a priest and one guy had the whole Jesuit priest get up on complete with turned around collar. I, sagely, simply wore a black shirt buttoned up. Not that it mattered, because I'm fairly certain I didn't get it. For one thing I was the youngest guy in the room by about twenty years. For another, I was so harried by the narrow time window to do both gigs, I think I might have done the Jesuit priest with a slight Russian accent.
Later this month the acclaimed LA theatre company, Echo Theatre, will be doing a reading of my play, From the East to the West. In fact, it falls on Angie's birthday, so we're looking forward to that. And my old Alma Mater, Redtwist Theatre Company in Chicago, wants to re-mount Praying Small next season. The AD asked for the DVD of the production we did here in LA. So I sent that off and will see what we will see. That play opened the theatre back in 2004 and ended up running about six months. The following season, 2005, Redtwist (back then it was called 'Actors Workshop') mounted the show again for another four or five months. Suffice to say both productions were critical and commercial successes.
And yet another rewrite on 'the German screenplay.' I'm meeting with the producer again today to brainstorm a bit. He also wants to pick Angie's brain a bit about the whole thing - Angie has seen dozens of films through from start to finish back in the day and has a singular knowledge about, quite literally, what to do next. He's a first time producer and, although the money is sort of in place, the particulars are not.
Los Angeles is in the midst of an uncharacteristic cold snap. I like it. It's very rare one gets the chance to wear sweaters in LA. And I like wearing sweaters. Plus we get to crank up our fireplace every night. I like fireplaces. There's something very comforting about a fireplace roaring in the den with my wife and two dogs nearby. My wife is the fire starting expert in the family. I tried to do it alone last night and after an hour or so of staring at cold logs had to hand over the reigns to Angie. A few minutes later the fire was crackling and leaping. I should never have quit after the Webelows. Sigh.
See you tomorrow.
But the point is, I have so much fun doing it. I feel like I'm on the bridge of the Enterprise trying to save earth from certain destruction when I start messing with computer-related stuff.
So, okay, I go about a week without a single audition. Nada, nothing, zip, zero. And then of course I get a call from the home office and have two virtually at the same time. We do a little shuffling, call the casting directors, and get things lined up.
The first was a film, an 'ultra low budget' thingee. Something about 'Russian mobsters.' Okay. So I slip on my Russian accent and travel to Hollywood for that one. It ended up being in a warehouse - the audition, that is. They were running behind, about a half hour or so, and in comes this guy that apparently had been there earlier but had to leave for some reason. He comes in and tells the monitor that he'd like to go in next. My eyebrows raised. Next? But he left. He gave up his spot. I looked around and everyone had an eyebrow raised. And this guy refused to take no for an answer. "In all my years in this business I've never heard of such a thing," he whined, "You're just going to have to march in there and tell them John Doe is here." And, much to my chagrin, she did. She disappeared into the room and came out and said, okay, you can go in next. Personally, I had another audition to get to, so I wasn't too keen on all this. But, sure enough, he ambled in next.
The reason they were behind is because they were taking a long time with every actor in the room. About ten minutes each, in fact - an inordinantly long time to stay in the room. Well, I don't know what happened in there, but this guy comes out about thirty seconds later and stomps out of the warehouse, mumbling obscenities under his breath.
Times like that I want to just grab people and say, "Alright, listen, here's how life works: you wait your turn. Simple as that. All areas of life, that's what you do. You wait your turn. Generally speaking, people who never learned to wait their turn are either working on Wall Street or in jail." But I didn't say that to him. I thought it.
After the 'Russian Mobster' gig I quickly drove over to one of the studios (doing the whole security check thing at the gate) for a co-starring read on a major network drama. Much nicer scenario, I must say. A bunch of veteran LA actors all sitting peacefully in a waiting room, being nice to one another, one lady was actually knitting. The role was for a priest and one guy had the whole Jesuit priest get up on complete with turned around collar. I, sagely, simply wore a black shirt buttoned up. Not that it mattered, because I'm fairly certain I didn't get it. For one thing I was the youngest guy in the room by about twenty years. For another, I was so harried by the narrow time window to do both gigs, I think I might have done the Jesuit priest with a slight Russian accent.
Later this month the acclaimed LA theatre company, Echo Theatre, will be doing a reading of my play, From the East to the West. In fact, it falls on Angie's birthday, so we're looking forward to that. And my old Alma Mater, Redtwist Theatre Company in Chicago, wants to re-mount Praying Small next season. The AD asked for the DVD of the production we did here in LA. So I sent that off and will see what we will see. That play opened the theatre back in 2004 and ended up running about six months. The following season, 2005, Redtwist (back then it was called 'Actors Workshop') mounted the show again for another four or five months. Suffice to say both productions were critical and commercial successes.
And yet another rewrite on 'the German screenplay.' I'm meeting with the producer again today to brainstorm a bit. He also wants to pick Angie's brain a bit about the whole thing - Angie has seen dozens of films through from start to finish back in the day and has a singular knowledge about, quite literally, what to do next. He's a first time producer and, although the money is sort of in place, the particulars are not.
Los Angeles is in the midst of an uncharacteristic cold snap. I like it. It's very rare one gets the chance to wear sweaters in LA. And I like wearing sweaters. Plus we get to crank up our fireplace every night. I like fireplaces. There's something very comforting about a fireplace roaring in the den with my wife and two dogs nearby. My wife is the fire starting expert in the family. I tried to do it alone last night and after an hour or so of staring at cold logs had to hand over the reigns to Angie. A few minutes later the fire was crackling and leaping. I should never have quit after the Webelows. Sigh.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Barking at Lighted Windows
An actual fire in our actual fireplace last night, November 5, 2011.
Angie and I decided to test drive our fireplace last night after a year or so of not using it. And it was glorious. We purposely hadn't been using it because the last time we gave it a whirl the whole house filled with smoke and we ran screaming and rolling into the front yard, ducking and covering. So we decided we needed a chimney sweep. I thought chimney sweeps were extinct. But one day shortly thereafter we pulled into our driveway and a tall, gangly guy in a sooty top hat was leaving our neighbor's house. We stared in fascination. He was really wearing a top hat. His van was parked out front and it said "Chimney Sweep" on the side. We looked at each other quickly and then yelled over and caught him. The guy actually looked a little like a young Dick Van Dyke. We got his card and promised we'd be calling soon.
As it turns out we didn't need a chimney sweep. We just needed to open our flu. Or floo. However it's spelled. In France it's probably 'fleiu.'
Yesterday (and today, I think) the day was an out and out rarity in SoCal; it was cold. So as we followed our usual dinner extravaganza plans (we make a big deal over dinner in this house), we decided to give the old fireplace another shot. Only problem was we didn't have any wood. I suggested we burn our ugly patio furniture (which Angie calls 'antique' but I just call 'pathetic') but was quickly vetoed. So we drove over to our local Von's to get some firewood. They were out. Instead we had to look at manufactured 'slow burning' logs ("Up to Three Hours!"). But just as we were about to purchase one, a guy came out with a new shipment of good and true (I was feeling very Hemingway-esque at the prospect of a fire) firewood, which of course we bought immediately.
The fireplace, once we'd discovered the whole 'floo' thing, worked perfectly and was soon 'roaring' in the hearth. We finished our elaborate, nightly dinner perparations and all was right in the world.
There's something about a fireplace with a good, crackling fire that calms and restores. Growing up I never had a fireplace. My parents, thinking God knows what, purchased one of those small, fake, ridiculous, plastic fireplaces and had it installed in my childhood home. It was a huge source of embarrassment. It had some sort of wheel that spun with a red gel over a light in the back and made a kind of humming sound. The wood was a plastic mold and looked nothing like real wood. As an added benefit it put out 'electric heat.' Not much, a trickle of heat at most, but heat. Thankfully they put it in a small, back room in the house so unless you really looked for it, it was mostly out of sight and, thankfully, out of mind.
When I was living in Columbia, MO, I had a black, pot-bellied, wood-burning stove in the middle of my apartment. I liked that stove. Ostensibly one could cook on it, but I never did. I just stole wood from my neighbors and fired it up now and then and drank scotch and smoked a pipe in front of it.
But until now, I've never lived in a house (not counting the myriad places I lived while working as an actor up and down the East Coast) that had a fireplace.
So we got the fire cranked up and we sat down for dinner (thin burgers, grilled, on toasted ciabatta bread with turkey bacon and aged cheddar with thin cut potato fries). After, we sat on our new couch and the puppies leapt up and while my wife read a new cook book I'd just bought for her, watched television until it was time to go to bed. Norman Rockwell would have felt right at home.
I have lived a, shall we say, less than domestic lifestyle for the past three decades, occasionally on the edge of glory, occasionally on the edge of ruin. The deeply satisfying and tranquil scene in front of our newly roaring fireplace was as foreign to me as closing up a bar at 4am on the South Side of Chicago would be to an Ammish minister. And having closed a lot of bars at 4am on the South Side of Chicago, I speak from experience.
This whole 'rocking chair on the front porch' lifestyle gets into the marrow of my bones. It makes me reflective and docile. It allows any regret and resentfulness to seep out of me. It soothes a lifetime of unwarranted rage of perceived slights and over reactions and brings new meaning to living well being the best revenge. It takes the bark out of me.
And I like that. I like not being angry at some silly little thing in the past. And I'm just terrible at letting things go. Always have been. Part of a whole catalogue of character flaws. My wife has, through example, taught me many things but perhaps the most important is this new mindset. And last night as we sat in front of our snapping, popping fireplace it seemed to all come together in my mind.
All my life I've had a fascination with the lights in other people's houses. Driving down the highway in the middle of the night seeing the warm and inviting glow from a small house in the middle of nowhere, wondering how someone could have purposefully chosen to live such a life filled with mundanity, quiet, unassuming and peaceful. And the other part of me, the part sick with fatigue of driving too fast and gripping the wheel too hard and listening to the radio too loud, burned with envy over their chosen life, their calm and happy life, their foresight in choosing that life, that countenance.
I wrote a play years ago which was rather successful in an upstate New York regional theater about this very subject. It was called 'Barking at Lighted Windows.' When I was a kid our next door neighbors had a wonderful, patient and very smart dog named 'John.' And John and I would sit for hours outside, after it got dark, just the two of us, hidden in the bushes, staring and fantasizing about a big, old, crumbling house a few streets away. I thought it was haunted. We called it, the neighborhood kids, for no apparent reason, 'The Hockaday House.' I never saw anyone come in or out of the house. Of course I was young, maybe ten or eleven, and couldn't stay out too long, but I would covertly observe the house, hiding in the tall weeds in the vacant lot next to it, and try and catch a glimpse of any sort of paranormal activity. And as the night came, the lights in the big house would pop on in several rooms, first the downstairs and then the upstairs and then all over the house. I could see shadows moving behind the thin curtains. And as each light came on in succession, John would bark. Just once, as though surprised.
And one night a lady stepped out on the porch with two white mugs in her hands. She looked directly at John and I and called out to the dark, "Would you care for some hot chocolate?" The jig was up. I slowly stood up and walked over to the porch, the operation aborted. She gave me the hot chocolate. We stood in silence for a while and then I said, "I thought this house was haunted. I never see anyone come in or out." She said, "Oh, no. Not haunted. But I'm on disability and my husband is very sick these days." We drank our hot chocolate in the darkness of that mid-summer Missouri night quietly and then I gave her back the empty mug and went home, John at my heels. And that night lay in bed while listening to the alcohol-fueled, noisy disfunction playing out in my own home downstairs, I thought of that big house and that lady that gave me hot chocolate. I never again hid outside and spied on that big house. And John never again barked at the lights as they came on, one by one.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
The Adjustment Bureau and The Lincoln Lawyer
Last night I took a look at 'The Adjustment Bureau' with Matt Damon. Matt's getting a little chubby. He's getting that third-season-Star-Trek-James-T-Kirk look - you know, when Shatner can clearly be seen wearing a girdle under his Star Fleet blouse. Damon is getting that soft look, sort of pudgy. Not your leading man profile at all. His partner in crime, Ben Affleck, whom I saw a while back in 'The Town,' is aging much better, although granted, Damon is the better actor. I guess after staying in tip-top shape for the Bourne films has left him a little apathetic.
Anyway, this is a film that has a lot of promise for the first twenty minutes or so. Maybe longer. It's not bad at all for a bit, chugging along, laying out the exposition smartly, giving us great insights into Damon's politician character. He's about to lose a big Senate election and is alone in a bathroom when he accidently meets a whacky, clever and tender-hearted English chick. They meet cute (she has, inexplicably, crashed a wedding party and is hiding from security in a bathroom stall - a weak MaGuffin if I ever saw one), fall in love, and then he doesn't see her again for three years, although he tries to find her by googling her first name. I could have told him that wouldn't work.
Apparently, in the movie, there are 'case workers' who wear Sinatra-type hats that control the fate of the world. This is where the movie jumps the shark. Just let me say that again, it's so preposterous - apparently there are 'case workers' who wear Sinatra-type hats that control the fate of the world. Okay, that's better. So, some call them 'angels.' But they only have their powers, which include opening just about any door and stepping into another part of NYC (where the film takes place) WHILE they're wearing their hats. Without their Rat Pack hats, they're powerless. It is the way 'The Chairman' (God) keeps them from having too much power. Okeedokee, then.
I'm sorry, I have to write that one again, too. Without their Rat Pack hats, they're powerless.
The movie was written and directed and produced by George Nolfi, who evidently got the idea from a short story somewhere. Movies don't happen overnight. They take years. Especially big budget movies like this one. Nolfi must have given his life, for several years, to this idea about biblical 'case workers' who only have supernatural powers while wearing a gangsta' hat. Which, upon thinking about it, sort of takes on an 'Ed Wood' quality of absurdity and probably wouldn't be a bad premise in a Will Ferrell flick.
So the premise is this: the two are not supposed to meet. It's not part of 'the plan' (fate) outlined by 'the chairman' (God). In fact, if they DO meet and fall in love their respective lives will not unfold as 'The Chairman' wants, which is to say, Matt will not become President of the United States and the English chick will not become 'the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world.' I'm not making that last part up. 'The most famous experimental modern dancer in the world.' Which, to my way of thinking, is tantamount to being 'the most famous ceramic ashtray maker in the world.' Whatever. In any case, she won't be 'the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world' if she ends up with Damon. The best she'll do is 'teach modern dance to six year olds.' Which is meant to be a sad fate, but sort of made me do a double take at the screen. Anyway, the plan will be disrupted. And Damon won't be President because - wait for it - they COMPLETE one another. They won't need all this silly ambition.
Old Terrence Stamp, whom I've always liked, is the bad guy in this, the bad 'case worker.' He's out to give Damon a 'reset' (lobotomy) if they can't get these two love birds apart. The climax of the movie occurs during a long and physical chase through Manhattan. Now, Terrence Stamp, being approximately 85, can barely walk much less chase. But nonetheless it's a rousing chase, mostly because one of the good guy 'case workers' has lent Damon his Sinatra hat that allows the two lovers to enter doors in Harlem and end up at The Chrysler Building. Yep, that's what happened. He loaned his Sinatra hat to Damon for a little while.
Well, all's well that ends well, thank goodness. The Chairman decides to rewrite 'the plan' in the interest of love. And really, who can blame Him? It's clear the way these two playfully slap and punch one another throughout the movie that they're deeply in love.
YEARS of his life, this George Nolfi guy, dedicated to getting this film made.
Now don't get me wrong. Francis Coppola dedicated years of his life to get Apocalypse Now made. It's a life changing picture. A landmark film. A turning point in the way film was made. It was worth every second of those years Coppola waited and planned and begged and scraped and cajoled the studios into letting him make it. It's a masterpiece.
But this? The Adjustment Bureau? Didn't Nolfi know maybe he was off track when he wrote the line, 'Without our hats we're powerless!' Or when he wrote the line, 'Without you she becomes the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world!' Or maybe even the line uttered by one of the angels, 'This is above my paygrade. I'm gonna kick it upstairs to the home office.' Didn't he see the red lights going off?
The plot of this movie relies a lot on cell phones. It is my opinion that cell phones are the bane of the dramatist's existence. First of all, they quickly become silly in the world of film. Example, look at movies made only ten years ago. Everyone is carrying around cell phones that look like WWII walkie-talkies. But more importantly, the dramatist depends on lack of communication and inability to reach out for plot twists. And you can use the old chestnut of 'I've lost my signal' only so many times. No, it's best to not use or show cell phones in a screenplay. Otherwise two things happen, 1) the script is quickly an anachronism and B) the plot and action thrusts are severely handicapped. No, cell phones have really hampered good dramatic writing for the screen and stage, in my opinion.
My wife and I also watched 'The Lincoln Lawyer' the other night. I liked that one a lot more than 'The Adjustment Bureau,' mostly because it was basically a remake of 'Shaft.' Except the cool black guy was a cool white guy. Unfortunately, I can't write a lot about it because we watched it about a week ago and frankly I've forgotten everything about it except the fact that William H. Macy gets killed at one point. And I only remember that because my wife used to be really good friends with William H. Macy and she reminded me of that when he got killed. Otherwise, I can't seem to remember much about it. It didn't bore me, I know that. In fact, I think that was the tag line: "The Lincoln Lawyer - it won't bore you!"
As you can see, I'm in search of a good movie to watch. If you have any suggestions - recent movies preferrably - leave a message. If it's more than ten years old, I've probably seen it.
See you tomorrow.
Anyway, this is a film that has a lot of promise for the first twenty minutes or so. Maybe longer. It's not bad at all for a bit, chugging along, laying out the exposition smartly, giving us great insights into Damon's politician character. He's about to lose a big Senate election and is alone in a bathroom when he accidently meets a whacky, clever and tender-hearted English chick. They meet cute (she has, inexplicably, crashed a wedding party and is hiding from security in a bathroom stall - a weak MaGuffin if I ever saw one), fall in love, and then he doesn't see her again for three years, although he tries to find her by googling her first name. I could have told him that wouldn't work.
Apparently, in the movie, there are 'case workers' who wear Sinatra-type hats that control the fate of the world. This is where the movie jumps the shark. Just let me say that again, it's so preposterous - apparently there are 'case workers' who wear Sinatra-type hats that control the fate of the world. Okay, that's better. So, some call them 'angels.' But they only have their powers, which include opening just about any door and stepping into another part of NYC (where the film takes place) WHILE they're wearing their hats. Without their Rat Pack hats, they're powerless. It is the way 'The Chairman' (God) keeps them from having too much power. Okeedokee, then.
I'm sorry, I have to write that one again, too. Without their Rat Pack hats, they're powerless.
The movie was written and directed and produced by George Nolfi, who evidently got the idea from a short story somewhere. Movies don't happen overnight. They take years. Especially big budget movies like this one. Nolfi must have given his life, for several years, to this idea about biblical 'case workers' who only have supernatural powers while wearing a gangsta' hat. Which, upon thinking about it, sort of takes on an 'Ed Wood' quality of absurdity and probably wouldn't be a bad premise in a Will Ferrell flick.
So the premise is this: the two are not supposed to meet. It's not part of 'the plan' (fate) outlined by 'the chairman' (God). In fact, if they DO meet and fall in love their respective lives will not unfold as 'The Chairman' wants, which is to say, Matt will not become President of the United States and the English chick will not become 'the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world.' I'm not making that last part up. 'The most famous experimental modern dancer in the world.' Which, to my way of thinking, is tantamount to being 'the most famous ceramic ashtray maker in the world.' Whatever. In any case, she won't be 'the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world' if she ends up with Damon. The best she'll do is 'teach modern dance to six year olds.' Which is meant to be a sad fate, but sort of made me do a double take at the screen. Anyway, the plan will be disrupted. And Damon won't be President because - wait for it - they COMPLETE one another. They won't need all this silly ambition.
Old Terrence Stamp, whom I've always liked, is the bad guy in this, the bad 'case worker.' He's out to give Damon a 'reset' (lobotomy) if they can't get these two love birds apart. The climax of the movie occurs during a long and physical chase through Manhattan. Now, Terrence Stamp, being approximately 85, can barely walk much less chase. But nonetheless it's a rousing chase, mostly because one of the good guy 'case workers' has lent Damon his Sinatra hat that allows the two lovers to enter doors in Harlem and end up at The Chrysler Building. Yep, that's what happened. He loaned his Sinatra hat to Damon for a little while.
Well, all's well that ends well, thank goodness. The Chairman decides to rewrite 'the plan' in the interest of love. And really, who can blame Him? It's clear the way these two playfully slap and punch one another throughout the movie that they're deeply in love.
YEARS of his life, this George Nolfi guy, dedicated to getting this film made.
Now don't get me wrong. Francis Coppola dedicated years of his life to get Apocalypse Now made. It's a life changing picture. A landmark film. A turning point in the way film was made. It was worth every second of those years Coppola waited and planned and begged and scraped and cajoled the studios into letting him make it. It's a masterpiece.
But this? The Adjustment Bureau? Didn't Nolfi know maybe he was off track when he wrote the line, 'Without our hats we're powerless!' Or when he wrote the line, 'Without you she becomes the most famous experimental modern dancer in the world!' Or maybe even the line uttered by one of the angels, 'This is above my paygrade. I'm gonna kick it upstairs to the home office.' Didn't he see the red lights going off?
The plot of this movie relies a lot on cell phones. It is my opinion that cell phones are the bane of the dramatist's existence. First of all, they quickly become silly in the world of film. Example, look at movies made only ten years ago. Everyone is carrying around cell phones that look like WWII walkie-talkies. But more importantly, the dramatist depends on lack of communication and inability to reach out for plot twists. And you can use the old chestnut of 'I've lost my signal' only so many times. No, it's best to not use or show cell phones in a screenplay. Otherwise two things happen, 1) the script is quickly an anachronism and B) the plot and action thrusts are severely handicapped. No, cell phones have really hampered good dramatic writing for the screen and stage, in my opinion.
My wife and I also watched 'The Lincoln Lawyer' the other night. I liked that one a lot more than 'The Adjustment Bureau,' mostly because it was basically a remake of 'Shaft.' Except the cool black guy was a cool white guy. Unfortunately, I can't write a lot about it because we watched it about a week ago and frankly I've forgotten everything about it except the fact that William H. Macy gets killed at one point. And I only remember that because my wife used to be really good friends with William H. Macy and she reminded me of that when he got killed. Otherwise, I can't seem to remember much about it. It didn't bore me, I know that. In fact, I think that was the tag line: "The Lincoln Lawyer - it won't bore you!"
As you can see, I'm in search of a good movie to watch. If you have any suggestions - recent movies preferrably - leave a message. If it's more than ten years old, I've probably seen it.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
'Inception' and '2012'
I watched 'Inception' last night. I have no idea what it was about. But I watched it all, damnit. For one thing, I just don't think I'm as smart as I used to be. Twenty years ago I think I might have loved this movie. Maybe even have understood it. Something about 'going deep' and 'the third layer of a dream' and 'feeling the push' and needing an architect, a chemist and a, oh, I don't know what else. All I kept thinking was, "You know, Leo DiCaprio is starting to look a lot like Van Heflin as he gets older." And, oddly, his dead wife (spoiler alert) had an Eastern European accent for some reason. And Tom Berenger turned up. I thought he was dead. I think Andy Warhol might have directed this film, although I can't say for sure. And the vertically challenged girl who had a small role on a West Wing episode was in it, too. She seemed to speak louder than the others. And...well, that's about it. I think it ended well for everyone. Not sure about that, either. Michael Caine was in it for about 12 seconds. And then not. That kid from '3rd Rock from the Sun' was in it being all serious and shit. I had tried to watch this film once about three months ago but after thirty minutes switched to 'Murder, She Wrote.' I think it takes place at some point in the future but I clearly saw an AMC Gremlin at one point. Oh, and that creepy kid from 'Witness' with Harrison Ford was in it, all grown up. He apparently gets drunk a lot with DiCaprio according to TMZ, so that explains that. And that Japanese fella from one of those two Japanese movies that Clint Eastwood directed, he's in it, too. He grimaces a great deal in it. I think he's a bad guy that becomes a good guy or something. Anyway, I refused to turn it off once I'd started it. My wife walked through the room at one point and said, "What's this?" I just shook my head and wept.
In any event, the movie cost about a hundred and eighty billion dollars to make. Which only made me weep harder.
The special effects were kind of cool, although I never knew why they were happening except to know they were all happening in someone's dream. Which sort of takes the wind out of special effects for me. It's not really happening so who cares? And everytime something really big happened with the special effects the movie cuts to someone waking up from the dream all startled and shit, looking off and squinting, like they do when they go to a commercial break on 'Young and the Restless.' Most of the movie is in slow-motion so when they cut to regular speed, it's like, "Oh. The dream must be over." These guys all have slow-motion dreams, I guess.
DiCaprio is a good actor. I don't think we even know how good Leo is yet. He's been extraordinary in the past. Watch some of his unheralded work in 'Blood Diamond.' One critic called it a "Brando inspired performance..." I can see why. It's a hugely intelligent performance complete with a Brando-esque South African, dead-on accent.
One thing I noticed about DiCaprio is, even though he's aging and is now, oh, I don't know, probably mid-thirties, he still walks like a kid. Odd thing to notice, I know. But he does. He sort of throws his legs out before him when he walks, willy-nilly. As though he's still an adolescent and doesn't realize how tall he's gotten.
Actually, in point of fact,'Inception' cost approximately 200 million dollars to make. That's right, 200 million dollars. And I just kept thinking (during the slow-motion segments, which was about two thirds of the movie) that 200 really good films could have been made instead. Of course, that's not how the universe works, but I couldn't help thinking it.
I sort of liked Danny Glover in the opening segments as the President of the United...wait. Oh, yeah, that was '2012.' Another movie I desperately tried to get through recently. It was also made for about 200 million dollars. True. So, that's 400 really good movies the planet could have had instead of these two sleepers. Or, if you're not a movie buff and don't care about that sort of thing, 400 million dollars that could have fed starving children in Alabama (I'm sure there are some down there).
I always seem to catch '2012' on one of the cable channels (we now have U-Verse and about 1,000 channels) and never see the beginning of it. I always seem to tune in right about the time The Vatican gets wiped out. Coincidence? I think not.
This is another movie that kind of looks promising for a bit and then all of a sudden we're in the middle of The Poseidon Adventure (Shelly Winters: "Oh, Manny, in the water I feel...THIN!"). The difference between '2012' and 'Inception' is the acting. 'Inception' has some good acting, although you have no idea what they're up to, and '2012' is just appalling. At one point in '2012,' thousands of Chinese workers are going to be left behind to be destroyed by a giant tidal wave while the principals in the movie make their getaway in a huge Noah's Ark kind of thing. Oliver Platt, probably the best thing in it, says to the young, black scientist and his simpering lady love, 'If you want to give your tickets to a couple of Chinese workers, be my guest!' Moments before the two young lovers are practically apoplectic at the idea of leaving all the Chinese workers behind to die. But when Oliver Platt says this, they sort of look at each other and smile and raise their eyebrows in a way that says, "Well, he's got a point, the old rascal."
Four hundred good, small, smart, insightful, new, thought-provoking films that could have been made instead of these two shameful behemoths.
Whatever. But I'm telling you, DiCaprio is starting to look A LOT like Van Heflin.
See you tomorrow.
In any event, the movie cost about a hundred and eighty billion dollars to make. Which only made me weep harder.
The special effects were kind of cool, although I never knew why they were happening except to know they were all happening in someone's dream. Which sort of takes the wind out of special effects for me. It's not really happening so who cares? And everytime something really big happened with the special effects the movie cuts to someone waking up from the dream all startled and shit, looking off and squinting, like they do when they go to a commercial break on 'Young and the Restless.' Most of the movie is in slow-motion so when they cut to regular speed, it's like, "Oh. The dream must be over." These guys all have slow-motion dreams, I guess.
DiCaprio is a good actor. I don't think we even know how good Leo is yet. He's been extraordinary in the past. Watch some of his unheralded work in 'Blood Diamond.' One critic called it a "Brando inspired performance..." I can see why. It's a hugely intelligent performance complete with a Brando-esque South African, dead-on accent.
One thing I noticed about DiCaprio is, even though he's aging and is now, oh, I don't know, probably mid-thirties, he still walks like a kid. Odd thing to notice, I know. But he does. He sort of throws his legs out before him when he walks, willy-nilly. As though he's still an adolescent and doesn't realize how tall he's gotten.
Actually, in point of fact,'Inception' cost approximately 200 million dollars to make. That's right, 200 million dollars. And I just kept thinking (during the slow-motion segments, which was about two thirds of the movie) that 200 really good films could have been made instead. Of course, that's not how the universe works, but I couldn't help thinking it.
I sort of liked Danny Glover in the opening segments as the President of the United...wait. Oh, yeah, that was '2012.' Another movie I desperately tried to get through recently. It was also made for about 200 million dollars. True. So, that's 400 really good movies the planet could have had instead of these two sleepers. Or, if you're not a movie buff and don't care about that sort of thing, 400 million dollars that could have fed starving children in Alabama (I'm sure there are some down there).
I always seem to catch '2012' on one of the cable channels (we now have U-Verse and about 1,000 channels) and never see the beginning of it. I always seem to tune in right about the time The Vatican gets wiped out. Coincidence? I think not.
This is another movie that kind of looks promising for a bit and then all of a sudden we're in the middle of The Poseidon Adventure (Shelly Winters: "Oh, Manny, in the water I feel...THIN!"). The difference between '2012' and 'Inception' is the acting. 'Inception' has some good acting, although you have no idea what they're up to, and '2012' is just appalling. At one point in '2012,' thousands of Chinese workers are going to be left behind to be destroyed by a giant tidal wave while the principals in the movie make their getaway in a huge Noah's Ark kind of thing. Oliver Platt, probably the best thing in it, says to the young, black scientist and his simpering lady love, 'If you want to give your tickets to a couple of Chinese workers, be my guest!' Moments before the two young lovers are practically apoplectic at the idea of leaving all the Chinese workers behind to die. But when Oliver Platt says this, they sort of look at each other and smile and raise their eyebrows in a way that says, "Well, he's got a point, the old rascal."
Four hundred good, small, smart, insightful, new, thought-provoking films that could have been made instead of these two shameful behemoths.
Whatever. But I'm telling you, DiCaprio is starting to look A LOT like Van Heflin.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Tall Weeds
Yesterday, in the midst of my bi-monthly doctor's appointment to regulate, observe and hopefully manipulate my Type II Diabetes, I was told I now have Type I Diabetes - which is the older, crueler step-sister of Type II Diabetes.
I also had a fleeting glimpse into my own mortality which, all things being equal, I could have done without.
I have a buddy, in years past very close, but like all buddies eventually, now far away and emotionally remote, who used to say about stuff like this, 'you're in the tall weeds now.' He's right. I felt the weeds were very tall for a while yesterday. So tall, in fact, I couldn't quite get my mind around them for a bit.
Type I Diabetes means I have to take four shots a day for the rest of my life, all in my stomach. I was given a little pamphlet when I left, with stick figures and cartoon characters representing sugar and insulin and various cells and abstract hyperglycemia drawings. The figures drawn to represent the cells hungry for sugar are particularly cute. One has the hard-working insulin, smiling of course, feeding the grateful cell as it shepherds the sugar through the bloodstream. It's comforting to know there's a whole Electric Company segment taking place inside me on a daily basis, teaching the kids the alphabet and overseeing my blood sugar.
A couple weeks ago I had a battery of blood tests run over at Cedar's Sinai, a hoity-toity hospital facility here in Southern California. Although I can't say I was particularly surprised, one of the conclusions apparently indicated my pancreas was no longer producing any insulin. "It happens," my doctor said. "Sometimes when you're older (that would be me, 'older') the pancreas gives one last push, one last surge and then gives out." So that's what mine did. Like Anthony Quinn in Requiem for a Heavyweight, the old pancreas gave it one last shot, one last fight, with everything on the table, and then gave out.
"How do you feel about insulin?" she asked. "Well, I voted for it in '96 but felt it didn't live up to it's campaign promises," I joked appropos of nothing, just trying to be Reagan-esque about it all ("Honey, I forgot to duck.") She smiled and said I would have to go to 'the pens.' The pens are the syringes. They're called 'insulin pens.'
While Angie and I waited for what seemed like hours and in fact WAS hours, I kept picturing the 'insulin pens' in my head. After a while they took on a diabolical shape in my mind. Finally, a very petite and earnest young lady called us in and showed us how to inject myself. I almost wrote 'inject ourself.' And that's because during the wait I think Angie was more upset about the whole ordeal than I was. She kept saying 'this is a GOOD thing, this will mean you won't feel so bad all the time.' But I'm observant if nothing else, and I could hear the faint strains of the whistle as we both quietly padded by the graveyard. So the earnest and petite RN showed me how to stick needles in my stomach. How to carefully acquire three or five cc's of insulin and then, at a 45 degree angle, push a needle into my stomach. This is where the fleeting glimpse-of-mortality-thing took place.
Fitting that this entire episode happened on Halloween, because it certainly had a grotesque quality to it.
I remember some years ago in Chicago, a friend had a bunch of us over for a Super Bowl party. The beer and sodas were in the fridge, of course, and as I entered his house, he said as much. "Just help yourself," he said, "beer and whatever else you want is in the fridge." So I wandered into the kitchen and grabbed myself a Dr. Pepper. And I noticed as I grabbed my soda that there on the inside shelf of the fridge, next to the ketchup and soy sauce were vials of clear liquid, small ones, with little rubber tops, scientific-looking, slightly dangerous - insulin bottles. They seemed to say something ominous, just sitting there out of place among the Dijon mustard and half-empty jar of dill pickles. They seemed to carry an importance not altogether welcome in that atmosphere of football and corn chips. They seemed to say, "Even today, right in the middle of all this laughing and joviality and witty friendship, I'm here to remind you that you're broken."
I learned long ago that self-pity has a shelf life. That way there be dragons. So I allowed myself a half hour or so, as we were driving home from the doctor, and then put it aside. One image the doctor left me with was particularly on my mind. She said, "If you're out at a restaurant, just excuse yourself right before you eat, preferably once the food is actually in front of you, and slip off to the bathroom and give yourself an injection." For some reason this image made this whole Type I Diabetes thing real for me. The tall weeds were suddenly very tangible.
So last night, once the last trickle of trick or treaters had left, Angie prepared my shot. I injected it myself. It didn't hurt, really. I took a handful of my stomach, pinched it between my fingers and slid the needle into it. Fortunately I've become a huge, fat pig the last few years and it wasn't difficult to grab hold. It was the fourth shot of the day, ostensibly, the last one, with 10 cc's of insulin, 'to be given at bedtime.' I did it standing alone in the kitchen, quickly, not thinking about it, just following the directions of the earnest, petite girl nurse. And I thought to myself, I have to do this four times a day for the rest of my life. Which meant absolutely nothing to me. Kind of like a prisoner's first day in jail, "Well, I'm here for the rest of my life." What does that even mean?
Angie tells me of a lady she knew back in Missouri when she was younger - someone named Sharon - who, after a troubled time with Diabetes, lost her legs and finally died. She's mentioned this a few times, actually. Well, I have my legs, they're just fine, thank you very much, and they don't seem particularly concerned with my Diabetes. They don't act up in any why whatsoever and they most certainly don't seem to be in any danger of being 'cut off.' I listen to this story, depressing as it is, and I think, 'well, maybe my diabetes is a less violent strain, a type not quite so malignant.' Of course, that's just hooey, it's all the same strain.
It's going to take a while to incorporate this whole sticking-myself-with-a-needle thing into my lifestyle. A whole different set of rules are on the table now. And I despise rules, always have. So it'll take some concessions on my part, obviously. And I'm fond of my legs. I often use them for walking. So I'll figure it out. I'll make it work. And as I reached into the fridge to grab our cannister of Trader Joe's coffee this morning I noticed the two vials of clear liquid, sitting there, unassuming, next to the hot sauce and the mayonaise, silently reminding me that something just got rotten in Denmark. And the weeds in my own kitchen were too high to see over.
See you tomorrow.
I also had a fleeting glimpse into my own mortality which, all things being equal, I could have done without.
I have a buddy, in years past very close, but like all buddies eventually, now far away and emotionally remote, who used to say about stuff like this, 'you're in the tall weeds now.' He's right. I felt the weeds were very tall for a while yesterday. So tall, in fact, I couldn't quite get my mind around them for a bit.
Type I Diabetes means I have to take four shots a day for the rest of my life, all in my stomach. I was given a little pamphlet when I left, with stick figures and cartoon characters representing sugar and insulin and various cells and abstract hyperglycemia drawings. The figures drawn to represent the cells hungry for sugar are particularly cute. One has the hard-working insulin, smiling of course, feeding the grateful cell as it shepherds the sugar through the bloodstream. It's comforting to know there's a whole Electric Company segment taking place inside me on a daily basis, teaching the kids the alphabet and overseeing my blood sugar.
A couple weeks ago I had a battery of blood tests run over at Cedar's Sinai, a hoity-toity hospital facility here in Southern California. Although I can't say I was particularly surprised, one of the conclusions apparently indicated my pancreas was no longer producing any insulin. "It happens," my doctor said. "Sometimes when you're older (that would be me, 'older') the pancreas gives one last push, one last surge and then gives out." So that's what mine did. Like Anthony Quinn in Requiem for a Heavyweight, the old pancreas gave it one last shot, one last fight, with everything on the table, and then gave out.
"How do you feel about insulin?" she asked. "Well, I voted for it in '96 but felt it didn't live up to it's campaign promises," I joked appropos of nothing, just trying to be Reagan-esque about it all ("Honey, I forgot to duck.") She smiled and said I would have to go to 'the pens.' The pens are the syringes. They're called 'insulin pens.'
While Angie and I waited for what seemed like hours and in fact WAS hours, I kept picturing the 'insulin pens' in my head. After a while they took on a diabolical shape in my mind. Finally, a very petite and earnest young lady called us in and showed us how to inject myself. I almost wrote 'inject ourself.' And that's because during the wait I think Angie was more upset about the whole ordeal than I was. She kept saying 'this is a GOOD thing, this will mean you won't feel so bad all the time.' But I'm observant if nothing else, and I could hear the faint strains of the whistle as we both quietly padded by the graveyard. So the earnest and petite RN showed me how to stick needles in my stomach. How to carefully acquire three or five cc's of insulin and then, at a 45 degree angle, push a needle into my stomach. This is where the fleeting glimpse-of-mortality-thing took place.
Fitting that this entire episode happened on Halloween, because it certainly had a grotesque quality to it.
I remember some years ago in Chicago, a friend had a bunch of us over for a Super Bowl party. The beer and sodas were in the fridge, of course, and as I entered his house, he said as much. "Just help yourself," he said, "beer and whatever else you want is in the fridge." So I wandered into the kitchen and grabbed myself a Dr. Pepper. And I noticed as I grabbed my soda that there on the inside shelf of the fridge, next to the ketchup and soy sauce were vials of clear liquid, small ones, with little rubber tops, scientific-looking, slightly dangerous - insulin bottles. They seemed to say something ominous, just sitting there out of place among the Dijon mustard and half-empty jar of dill pickles. They seemed to carry an importance not altogether welcome in that atmosphere of football and corn chips. They seemed to say, "Even today, right in the middle of all this laughing and joviality and witty friendship, I'm here to remind you that you're broken."
I learned long ago that self-pity has a shelf life. That way there be dragons. So I allowed myself a half hour or so, as we were driving home from the doctor, and then put it aside. One image the doctor left me with was particularly on my mind. She said, "If you're out at a restaurant, just excuse yourself right before you eat, preferably once the food is actually in front of you, and slip off to the bathroom and give yourself an injection." For some reason this image made this whole Type I Diabetes thing real for me. The tall weeds were suddenly very tangible.
So last night, once the last trickle of trick or treaters had left, Angie prepared my shot. I injected it myself. It didn't hurt, really. I took a handful of my stomach, pinched it between my fingers and slid the needle into it. Fortunately I've become a huge, fat pig the last few years and it wasn't difficult to grab hold. It was the fourth shot of the day, ostensibly, the last one, with 10 cc's of insulin, 'to be given at bedtime.' I did it standing alone in the kitchen, quickly, not thinking about it, just following the directions of the earnest, petite girl nurse. And I thought to myself, I have to do this four times a day for the rest of my life. Which meant absolutely nothing to me. Kind of like a prisoner's first day in jail, "Well, I'm here for the rest of my life." What does that even mean?
Angie tells me of a lady she knew back in Missouri when she was younger - someone named Sharon - who, after a troubled time with Diabetes, lost her legs and finally died. She's mentioned this a few times, actually. Well, I have my legs, they're just fine, thank you very much, and they don't seem particularly concerned with my Diabetes. They don't act up in any why whatsoever and they most certainly don't seem to be in any danger of being 'cut off.' I listen to this story, depressing as it is, and I think, 'well, maybe my diabetes is a less violent strain, a type not quite so malignant.' Of course, that's just hooey, it's all the same strain.
It's going to take a while to incorporate this whole sticking-myself-with-a-needle thing into my lifestyle. A whole different set of rules are on the table now. And I despise rules, always have. So it'll take some concessions on my part, obviously. And I'm fond of my legs. I often use them for walking. So I'll figure it out. I'll make it work. And as I reached into the fridge to grab our cannister of Trader Joe's coffee this morning I noticed the two vials of clear liquid, sitting there, unassuming, next to the hot sauce and the mayonaise, silently reminding me that something just got rotten in Denmark. And the weeds in my own kitchen were too high to see over.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Halloween, Green Screens and Coyotes
Halloween is tomorrow night as everyone knows. We don't do a lot when it comes to Halloween, although Angie does have a giant, plastic pumpkin out front indicating we at least acknowledge its existence. We still have yet to buy candy for the gaggle of trick-or-treaters we'll undoubtedly get. I suggested to my wife a few days ago that we should get something out of the ordinary for Halloween - to give to the kids, I mean. And, no, I didn't mean anything clever or anti-candy. I meant COOLER candy AND a little something extra, a little something off the beaten path. Something they wouldn't normally get. The grocery stores are full of standard candy; bags and bags of your normal, everyday candy - Snickers, Hershey's, M & M's, what have you.
Last year I was completely caught off guard by the singleness of purpose our trick-or-treaters exhibited. I quickly became intimidated by the voraciousness of their approach, their hungry eyes and baleful, pleading voices. Instead of jumping into the psuedo-holiday spirit, I felt like I was being fleeced. My feelings were justified when, toward the end of the evening, we had a few adults dressed up in simple masks come to the door demanding candy. They looked to be in their mid-thirties. But, hey, times are tough so I let it go.
But this year I want to get something out of the ordinary for the little buggers. Yes, some candy of some sort, but something useful as well. I'm thinking reading glasses. There is a 99 cent store not far from us that has reading glasses for a buck. All different types, of course; 1.25, 1.5, 1.75, etc. We usually get around a hundred kids, if last year was any yardstick. I'm thinking maybe we go ahead and get some candy to throw in there, some little bags of tiny Butterfingers, perhaps, but we also throw in a pair of reading glasses. Angie hasn't signed off on it yet, but I think she's considering it. Anything to shut me up for a while.
Last night I wrested control of the TV clicker for a bit. While my wife made an amazing dinner of Mexican stuff, I watched Battle: Los Angeles. And I loved it. I suspected I'd turn it off after a bit, disappointed with Hollywood as usual, but I didn't. Decent script, good work from a handful of unknowns, and wisely, a director who steered clear of almost any sort of dialogue and just put a bunch of explosions on screen. It was sort of a Black Hawk Down meets Aliens. Plus I like the fact that one of the newspaper headlines in the movie said, "BURBANK UNDER ATTACK!" Which, with the exception of the headline, "GEORGE W. BUSH EMBRACES HINDUISM!" may be the most incongruous headline I've ever seen.
I also got a call to come audition for a new film yesterday. Well, not a call exactly, but an invitation. But here's the thing - it's a 'green call.' I'd never heard of this before, but Angie had. It's where I get the script and set up and shoot the scene myself and then send it to NYC or wherever and the producers watch it. It's a terrible idea and one, apparently, we're seeing more and more of. Eventually, all actors will be required to have a camera, studio, mixing board and green screen in their own homes. Hell, I can barely afford a computer. I decided not to play ball. I won't be auditioning for this film.
All three of my scripts currently on the table have entered the land that time forgot. That is to say, they are all on some producer/director laptop somewhere waiting to be read, reread, or optioned. This could take anywhere from 12 to 30 years. In the meantime, I'm making Raman Noodles and the California Lottery MegaMillions a lot of money.
When it comes to getting a film made, Hollywood works in dog years.
So, in an odd reaction, I spend a great deal of time these days being angry about the response to Occupy Wall Street movements around the globe. I gnash my teeth a lot. I subject Angie to long, passionate diatribes about the end of justice as we know it. I fantasize about being an all-powerful Deity with the ability to smash Citibank with one clenched, metaphorical, cloud-like fist. And I post as many pro-OWS stories as I can find on Facebook. Sad, I know. But I'm waiting to hear about these damn scripts and I can't help myself.
Speaking of dog years, I also find myself taking extraordinary enjoyment from our two dogs, Franny and Zooey. Angie and I live on the cusp of Griffith Park and the Los Angeles Equestrian Center. We are literally yards away from a myriad of trails and hiking jaunts leading up into the mountains. Yesterday, while taking a long walking excursion with Franny and Zooey, we happened across a rogue coyote, just sashaying around by himself in the middle of the day. Our dogs are small and perfect mid-morning snacks for a coyote. Thankfully, I saw him from a distance and called F and Z back into our protective circle before he spotted them. And then spent the rest of the day, being bored and powerless about the script development, fantasizing about an epic battle between myself and this ghoulish coyote, a hand-to-hand, or hand-to-paw, titanic struggle as I fended him off, protecting my dogs from an unstoppable, giant canine. In my fantasy I win, but come away bloodied and wounded but with a lifelong gratitude from our puppies. And every so often, during this fantasy, I check my cell phone to see if any of the three producers might have called.
My wife is not entirely comfortable with me when I'm between gigs. I think she finds me to be a little unreasonable. For one thing I don't live in the real world. She notices that I can't seem to stay interested in anything for too long, about 9 seconds or so. And I routinely promise her ridiculous things, like a brand new car or a trip to London. And then I check my cell again. She much prefers it, I think, when my mind is occupied.
Now, this reading glasses idea. I really am convinced it could work.
See you tomorrow.
Last year I was completely caught off guard by the singleness of purpose our trick-or-treaters exhibited. I quickly became intimidated by the voraciousness of their approach, their hungry eyes and baleful, pleading voices. Instead of jumping into the psuedo-holiday spirit, I felt like I was being fleeced. My feelings were justified when, toward the end of the evening, we had a few adults dressed up in simple masks come to the door demanding candy. They looked to be in their mid-thirties. But, hey, times are tough so I let it go.
But this year I want to get something out of the ordinary for the little buggers. Yes, some candy of some sort, but something useful as well. I'm thinking reading glasses. There is a 99 cent store not far from us that has reading glasses for a buck. All different types, of course; 1.25, 1.5, 1.75, etc. We usually get around a hundred kids, if last year was any yardstick. I'm thinking maybe we go ahead and get some candy to throw in there, some little bags of tiny Butterfingers, perhaps, but we also throw in a pair of reading glasses. Angie hasn't signed off on it yet, but I think she's considering it. Anything to shut me up for a while.
Last night I wrested control of the TV clicker for a bit. While my wife made an amazing dinner of Mexican stuff, I watched Battle: Los Angeles. And I loved it. I suspected I'd turn it off after a bit, disappointed with Hollywood as usual, but I didn't. Decent script, good work from a handful of unknowns, and wisely, a director who steered clear of almost any sort of dialogue and just put a bunch of explosions on screen. It was sort of a Black Hawk Down meets Aliens. Plus I like the fact that one of the newspaper headlines in the movie said, "BURBANK UNDER ATTACK!" Which, with the exception of the headline, "GEORGE W. BUSH EMBRACES HINDUISM!" may be the most incongruous headline I've ever seen.
I also got a call to come audition for a new film yesterday. Well, not a call exactly, but an invitation. But here's the thing - it's a 'green call.' I'd never heard of this before, but Angie had. It's where I get the script and set up and shoot the scene myself and then send it to NYC or wherever and the producers watch it. It's a terrible idea and one, apparently, we're seeing more and more of. Eventually, all actors will be required to have a camera, studio, mixing board and green screen in their own homes. Hell, I can barely afford a computer. I decided not to play ball. I won't be auditioning for this film.
All three of my scripts currently on the table have entered the land that time forgot. That is to say, they are all on some producer/director laptop somewhere waiting to be read, reread, or optioned. This could take anywhere from 12 to 30 years. In the meantime, I'm making Raman Noodles and the California Lottery MegaMillions a lot of money.
When it comes to getting a film made, Hollywood works in dog years.
So, in an odd reaction, I spend a great deal of time these days being angry about the response to Occupy Wall Street movements around the globe. I gnash my teeth a lot. I subject Angie to long, passionate diatribes about the end of justice as we know it. I fantasize about being an all-powerful Deity with the ability to smash Citibank with one clenched, metaphorical, cloud-like fist. And I post as many pro-OWS stories as I can find on Facebook. Sad, I know. But I'm waiting to hear about these damn scripts and I can't help myself.
Speaking of dog years, I also find myself taking extraordinary enjoyment from our two dogs, Franny and Zooey. Angie and I live on the cusp of Griffith Park and the Los Angeles Equestrian Center. We are literally yards away from a myriad of trails and hiking jaunts leading up into the mountains. Yesterday, while taking a long walking excursion with Franny and Zooey, we happened across a rogue coyote, just sashaying around by himself in the middle of the day. Our dogs are small and perfect mid-morning snacks for a coyote. Thankfully, I saw him from a distance and called F and Z back into our protective circle before he spotted them. And then spent the rest of the day, being bored and powerless about the script development, fantasizing about an epic battle between myself and this ghoulish coyote, a hand-to-hand, or hand-to-paw, titanic struggle as I fended him off, protecting my dogs from an unstoppable, giant canine. In my fantasy I win, but come away bloodied and wounded but with a lifelong gratitude from our puppies. And every so often, during this fantasy, I check my cell phone to see if any of the three producers might have called.
My wife is not entirely comfortable with me when I'm between gigs. I think she finds me to be a little unreasonable. For one thing I don't live in the real world. She notices that I can't seem to stay interested in anything for too long, about 9 seconds or so. And I routinely promise her ridiculous things, like a brand new car or a trip to London. And then I check my cell again. She much prefers it, I think, when my mind is occupied.
Now, this reading glasses idea. I really am convinced it could work.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Becoming Paul
A couple days ago I was sent in for a one-liner on a major network television show. Just one line. The character even had a name: Paul. I was sent to an office in Hollywood (when I say 'sent' I mean my management set up the reading and I sashayed over for it) and upon arriving sat with ten or fifteen other men of a certain age and waited to go in and be captured on camera saying the one line. So I did. I waited and after six or seven of the other guys my name was called and in I went. Even carried my script with the one line meticulously yellowed out, so I could see it better. Highlighted so I wouldn't confuse it with another line on the page.
But before I could go in and interpret the line, infuse it with all the subtext and facial expression it so richly deserved, I had to sit and wait my turn. Apparently the line could be read by a vast ethnic quiltwork of characters. The producers were opening it up to a whole spectrum of race and age types. As I walked up the short flight of stairs to the waiting room, I noticed black, white, Asian, Latino and a guy in a wheelchair. Which made sense, because the line certainly didn't indicate one had to run or jump while saying it.
Actually, it was two lines. The first part was very short. "Um, excuse me." That was the first part. The second part demanded a little more exploration, sense-memory work, substition, varying shades of intensity. The second part was, "Is anyone else here concerned with his lack of experience?" This part of the line was obviously the chunk that would separate the men from the boys. It was the part of the line where the rubber met the road. This was the part where my thirty-some years of training would pay off. I was undaunted. I can see where a lesser talent might be intimidated by this part of the line. I was not.
Others in the room, probably not as far along as I was as an actor and not yet comfortable with their craft, wrestled with it right up to the last moment, their lips moving silently, saying the tricky line over and over, getting it JUST right in their heads, building a backstory for the character, Paul, who utters the line, finding a nuance perhaps unthought of by anyone else in the room, putting themselves THERE, in the moment, making the line their own, OWNING the line, really. One man next to me in a chair, said the line over and over to himself the better part of fifteen minutes. Occasionally he would glance back at the script he held tightly in his hands, just to make sure he didn't stray with the tense, or God forbid, add anything to the tightly constructed piece of writing. When his name was called, just before mine, he sprang to his feet and practically jogged into the room. He was ready. The line was so firmly embedded within him, it was as though he'd written it his own damn self. He was like a sleek, powerful racehorse pushing at the gate, eager to run, run like the wind, and say that line with the conviction of a Brando or a Streep or an Olivier. The line didn't stand a chance in his mouth. I've seen this type of confidence in a waiting room before. In New York once, I auditioned for the part of Iago in Othello. It came down to three of us...it was for a major Shakespearean producer. I didn't get it. But the guy that did had the same confidence as this guy. He WAS Iago. He attacked Iago like a Tazmanian Devil. Iago was a mere hurdle to be jumped for this guy. He wanted it more than me, I guess. He became Iago. But I was younger then, and not quite so prepared for the awesome talent one has to contend with in this business. And the same was true for this guy. Paul was his. In his mind, he already WAS Paul. And that open-ended second part of the line, the part open to a dozen or more interpretations, the complicated part of the line, "Is anyone else concerned with his lack of experience?" was meat in his hands. Just bloody, uncooked, seasoned MEAT ready to be cooked in his hands, his brain, his creative soul.
There was another guy there, too. He was a little smug for my taste. He wasn't reading for Paul. No, he was reading for "The Guy at the Basketball Game." Huh? Why was he there with us 'Pauls?' And frankly, after a bit, he explained to no one in particular that he didn't particularly care to be lumped with the assorted 'Pauls' in the room. Clearly, he felt he was a little higher on the food chain as 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' than we 'Pauls' were. We all glanced about, a little wary now, we Pauls, not quite certain where this guy stood in the hierarchy of things. Not Paul? And not WANTING to be Paul? What was going on?
After a bit the casting associate came out. I'll call her Susan, although that was, in fact, her actual name. Susan was about 12 or so. So 'Susan' comes out and tells us a little about 'Paul.' Turns out, according to the breakdown Susan got, 'Paul' is maybe a college professor, maybe a tweed jacket kind of guy, an intellectual of sorts. I glanced around the room. A few crestfallen faces. I could see their pain. They owned tweed jackets, they had outfits that indicated an 'intellectual' Paul, but instead they had worn 'business' jackets. I could see the five stages of grief wash over them. Clearly some agents were getting some speed-dialed calls immediately after the reading. "Bob Jones, please. What? No I will NOT hold! I just walked out of this audition for 'Paul!' Yeah, over here in Hollywood. I'm wearing a suit. A plain, gray suit. Neutral tie. And guess what the casting lady just told me? Okay, I'll tell you. She said Paul was 'A College Professor!' Maybe. She said, "MAYBE Paul is a college professor." And I'm sitting there, I'M SITTING THERE, in a business suit! You tell Bob, I HAVE a tweed jacket. I HAVE a bow tie. I COULD HAVE combed my hair to indicate a COLLEGE PROFESSOR. I have fake glasses. Horn-rimmed! HORN-RIMMED, COLLEGE PROFESSOR GLASSES! But tell Bob it's too late now. Too late, I say! I read the goddamned line looking like a BUSINESS GUY! What? No, I can't hold. Just give him the message, okay?"
Anyway.
The guy waiting to read for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' soon revealed why he was disdainful of the Pauls in the room. As Susan finished her quick speal about who Paul 'maybe' was, he quickly said to her, before she could exit into the room with the camera, "Uh, excuse me. I'm not here for 'Paul.' (I swear he smirked) My agent said she called you and you said I could come in and read early for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' because I have another audition later. 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' has three lines so I'll probably be taking a little more of your time than the 'Pauls'"
Ah! There it was. He was there to say THREE lines. Not just the measly one and half that we Pauls had. You could smell the superiority on him. His arrogance permeated the room of Pauls. Some of us, the less confident Pauls, visibly shrank in their seats. They were in the presence of someone who had THREE lines. I, of course, was unfazed. Even though, and I'm only saying this because it's true, I WAS a little intimidated by 'The Guy at the Basketball Game.' He, in some earlier secret meeting of the casting associate and the casting director and the producers, had been chosen as someone who deserved THREE lines instead of the ONE AND A HALF that Paul had. And he had just spit out all that information IN FRONT OF US right into the room there. The information laid there on the threadbare carpet like a sizzling piece of star power. I can see how a less confident actor would blanche at such an admission. And even though I suddenly felt a little awe-struck at the additional two lines The Guy at the Basketball Game had, I tried to stay focused. I fantasized, just a little, about what his lines might be, The Guy at the Basketball Game. But I MADE myself snap out of it.
Eventually, Susan called my name. She came out, glanced at the sign-in sheet and said, deceptively casually, 'Okay, uh, Clifford?'
I got up and followed her, not too closely, not too eagerly, just a simple, medium distance follow. My face revealed nothing. I specifically didn't glance in the direction of The Guy at the Basketball Game. Now was not the time to suffer a crises of confidence. Just stay focused, go in, be peppy but not inferior, strong but not overbearing, eye on the prize, eye of the tiger. Plus I had an ace up my sleeve. I had on my 'college professor' glasses. Entirely by coincidence! Not thought out, just something I decided to wear at the last second! Oh, ho, a delicious moment. I had beaten the odds, fate had intervened. I, through no deliberate action of my own, had DRESSED SORT OF LIKE A COLLEGE PROFESSOR!
When Susan had mentioned that 'maybe' Paul was a college professor I don't think I'm imagining anything when I say there were SEVERAL clandestine glances my way. "He's wearing something that might be construed as a 'college professor,' the faces said. What information did HIS agent get that mine didn't? Is he pre-cast? Is he the 'Paul' they wanted all along?' No, I don't think I'm making any of that up. I could see it in their eyes. Even The Guy at the Basketball Game looked at me with a little new-found respect.
I don't usually boast in this blog but this one time, I'm gonna let it out...I ATTACKED Paul. I SLAM DUNKED Paul. I would put my Paul up there with any fucking Paul ever done, anywhere, anytime. I mean that, too. I'm not just blowing smoke. I fucking NAILED Paul!
When I finished (Susan: "I don't think I need to see any more." I swear by all that's holy, that's what she said: "I DON'T THINK I NEED TO SEE ANY MORE!" Huh? Huh?) I strolled from the room, not too smugly, but with a nearly imperceptable smile on my face, strolled past the 'business dressed' Pauls, past The Guy at the Basketball Game, past the smell of fear and defeat infesting the room, past all the 'wannabe' Pauls and swaggered, not overtly, just a HINT of a swagger, and down the short set of stairs and into the welcoming, cleansing, heat of Southern California. It was done. As Luke, the physician, said when our Lord Jesus Christ took his last breath, "It is finished." And it was. It was. Paul was mine.
There are days I really hate this fuckin' town.
See you tomorrow.
But before I could go in and interpret the line, infuse it with all the subtext and facial expression it so richly deserved, I had to sit and wait my turn. Apparently the line could be read by a vast ethnic quiltwork of characters. The producers were opening it up to a whole spectrum of race and age types. As I walked up the short flight of stairs to the waiting room, I noticed black, white, Asian, Latino and a guy in a wheelchair. Which made sense, because the line certainly didn't indicate one had to run or jump while saying it.
Actually, it was two lines. The first part was very short. "Um, excuse me." That was the first part. The second part demanded a little more exploration, sense-memory work, substition, varying shades of intensity. The second part was, "Is anyone else here concerned with his lack of experience?" This part of the line was obviously the chunk that would separate the men from the boys. It was the part of the line where the rubber met the road. This was the part where my thirty-some years of training would pay off. I was undaunted. I can see where a lesser talent might be intimidated by this part of the line. I was not.
Others in the room, probably not as far along as I was as an actor and not yet comfortable with their craft, wrestled with it right up to the last moment, their lips moving silently, saying the tricky line over and over, getting it JUST right in their heads, building a backstory for the character, Paul, who utters the line, finding a nuance perhaps unthought of by anyone else in the room, putting themselves THERE, in the moment, making the line their own, OWNING the line, really. One man next to me in a chair, said the line over and over to himself the better part of fifteen minutes. Occasionally he would glance back at the script he held tightly in his hands, just to make sure he didn't stray with the tense, or God forbid, add anything to the tightly constructed piece of writing. When his name was called, just before mine, he sprang to his feet and practically jogged into the room. He was ready. The line was so firmly embedded within him, it was as though he'd written it his own damn self. He was like a sleek, powerful racehorse pushing at the gate, eager to run, run like the wind, and say that line with the conviction of a Brando or a Streep or an Olivier. The line didn't stand a chance in his mouth. I've seen this type of confidence in a waiting room before. In New York once, I auditioned for the part of Iago in Othello. It came down to three of us...it was for a major Shakespearean producer. I didn't get it. But the guy that did had the same confidence as this guy. He WAS Iago. He attacked Iago like a Tazmanian Devil. Iago was a mere hurdle to be jumped for this guy. He wanted it more than me, I guess. He became Iago. But I was younger then, and not quite so prepared for the awesome talent one has to contend with in this business. And the same was true for this guy. Paul was his. In his mind, he already WAS Paul. And that open-ended second part of the line, the part open to a dozen or more interpretations, the complicated part of the line, "Is anyone else concerned with his lack of experience?" was meat in his hands. Just bloody, uncooked, seasoned MEAT ready to be cooked in his hands, his brain, his creative soul.
There was another guy there, too. He was a little smug for my taste. He wasn't reading for Paul. No, he was reading for "The Guy at the Basketball Game." Huh? Why was he there with us 'Pauls?' And frankly, after a bit, he explained to no one in particular that he didn't particularly care to be lumped with the assorted 'Pauls' in the room. Clearly, he felt he was a little higher on the food chain as 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' than we 'Pauls' were. We all glanced about, a little wary now, we Pauls, not quite certain where this guy stood in the hierarchy of things. Not Paul? And not WANTING to be Paul? What was going on?
After a bit the casting associate came out. I'll call her Susan, although that was, in fact, her actual name. Susan was about 12 or so. So 'Susan' comes out and tells us a little about 'Paul.' Turns out, according to the breakdown Susan got, 'Paul' is maybe a college professor, maybe a tweed jacket kind of guy, an intellectual of sorts. I glanced around the room. A few crestfallen faces. I could see their pain. They owned tweed jackets, they had outfits that indicated an 'intellectual' Paul, but instead they had worn 'business' jackets. I could see the five stages of grief wash over them. Clearly some agents were getting some speed-dialed calls immediately after the reading. "Bob Jones, please. What? No I will NOT hold! I just walked out of this audition for 'Paul!' Yeah, over here in Hollywood. I'm wearing a suit. A plain, gray suit. Neutral tie. And guess what the casting lady just told me? Okay, I'll tell you. She said Paul was 'A College Professor!' Maybe. She said, "MAYBE Paul is a college professor." And I'm sitting there, I'M SITTING THERE, in a business suit! You tell Bob, I HAVE a tweed jacket. I HAVE a bow tie. I COULD HAVE combed my hair to indicate a COLLEGE PROFESSOR. I have fake glasses. Horn-rimmed! HORN-RIMMED, COLLEGE PROFESSOR GLASSES! But tell Bob it's too late now. Too late, I say! I read the goddamned line looking like a BUSINESS GUY! What? No, I can't hold. Just give him the message, okay?"
Anyway.
The guy waiting to read for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' soon revealed why he was disdainful of the Pauls in the room. As Susan finished her quick speal about who Paul 'maybe' was, he quickly said to her, before she could exit into the room with the camera, "Uh, excuse me. I'm not here for 'Paul.' (I swear he smirked) My agent said she called you and you said I could come in and read early for 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' because I have another audition later. 'The Guy at the Basketball Game' has three lines so I'll probably be taking a little more of your time than the 'Pauls'"
Ah! There it was. He was there to say THREE lines. Not just the measly one and half that we Pauls had. You could smell the superiority on him. His arrogance permeated the room of Pauls. Some of us, the less confident Pauls, visibly shrank in their seats. They were in the presence of someone who had THREE lines. I, of course, was unfazed. Even though, and I'm only saying this because it's true, I WAS a little intimidated by 'The Guy at the Basketball Game.' He, in some earlier secret meeting of the casting associate and the casting director and the producers, had been chosen as someone who deserved THREE lines instead of the ONE AND A HALF that Paul had. And he had just spit out all that information IN FRONT OF US right into the room there. The information laid there on the threadbare carpet like a sizzling piece of star power. I can see how a less confident actor would blanche at such an admission. And even though I suddenly felt a little awe-struck at the additional two lines The Guy at the Basketball Game had, I tried to stay focused. I fantasized, just a little, about what his lines might be, The Guy at the Basketball Game. But I MADE myself snap out of it.
Eventually, Susan called my name. She came out, glanced at the sign-in sheet and said, deceptively casually, 'Okay, uh, Clifford?'
I got up and followed her, not too closely, not too eagerly, just a simple, medium distance follow. My face revealed nothing. I specifically didn't glance in the direction of The Guy at the Basketball Game. Now was not the time to suffer a crises of confidence. Just stay focused, go in, be peppy but not inferior, strong but not overbearing, eye on the prize, eye of the tiger. Plus I had an ace up my sleeve. I had on my 'college professor' glasses. Entirely by coincidence! Not thought out, just something I decided to wear at the last second! Oh, ho, a delicious moment. I had beaten the odds, fate had intervened. I, through no deliberate action of my own, had DRESSED SORT OF LIKE A COLLEGE PROFESSOR!
When Susan had mentioned that 'maybe' Paul was a college professor I don't think I'm imagining anything when I say there were SEVERAL clandestine glances my way. "He's wearing something that might be construed as a 'college professor,' the faces said. What information did HIS agent get that mine didn't? Is he pre-cast? Is he the 'Paul' they wanted all along?' No, I don't think I'm making any of that up. I could see it in their eyes. Even The Guy at the Basketball Game looked at me with a little new-found respect.
I don't usually boast in this blog but this one time, I'm gonna let it out...I ATTACKED Paul. I SLAM DUNKED Paul. I would put my Paul up there with any fucking Paul ever done, anywhere, anytime. I mean that, too. I'm not just blowing smoke. I fucking NAILED Paul!
When I finished (Susan: "I don't think I need to see any more." I swear by all that's holy, that's what she said: "I DON'T THINK I NEED TO SEE ANY MORE!" Huh? Huh?) I strolled from the room, not too smugly, but with a nearly imperceptable smile on my face, strolled past the 'business dressed' Pauls, past The Guy at the Basketball Game, past the smell of fear and defeat infesting the room, past all the 'wannabe' Pauls and swaggered, not overtly, just a HINT of a swagger, and down the short set of stairs and into the welcoming, cleansing, heat of Southern California. It was done. As Luke, the physician, said when our Lord Jesus Christ took his last breath, "It is finished." And it was. It was. Paul was mine.
There are days I really hate this fuckin' town.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Occupy Wall Street and the Futile Insurrection.
There is a quote I rather like, and I'm paraphrasing, "Never doubt that a small, passionate band of men can change the world. Do you know why? Because it is the only thing that ever has."
I was thinking of that last night as I was surfing the web and getting all the reports of the arrests and tear gas and alleged police brutality in Oakland and San Francisco and Phoenix in response to the Occupy Wall Street movement. Almost at the same time I watched a story on NBC news about the high price in overtime being paid to police officers in the major cities because of the uprisings. And, the police union declared they would sue any individual who injured an officer while being attacked by the police in these gatherings. Which, even in it's ironic grotesquery, amused me. Apparently the overtime costs in NYC alone are closing in on 3 million dollars.
So as my wife and I watched a bit of television last night at the end of a long day, my mind kept wandering. I kept trying to put myself in the shoes of the police, the city administrators and mayors, the local governments opposed to the demonstrations. And asking myself, "Why is this particular movement, unorganized and shoddy at times as it is, garnering so much malevolent resistance?" And I began thinking on the phrase used to describe the NAZI's following the holocaust: the banality of evil. The cops are not to blame in the clearer, bigger picture, really. They are, as tedious and worthless as it sounds, simply following orders. Of course, as history has proven time and again, it is a defense that doesn't hold water. Nonetheless, it works at the time. Until later, in 20/20 hindsight, it is condemned. However, always too late for the average Joe who's had his head bashed in.
So those of us, the fabled 99%, well, what are we to do in the meantime? And with whom, exactly, should we be angry?
Often times the criminal spends his jail time being angry with the cop that arrested him rather than the judge who condemned him. It's a pedestrian anger, an ill-conceived anger, a sophomoric response. And yet, sometimes it is the only tangible anger possible.
Declaring war on cops is not the answer, as satisfying as that approach might be. Occupy Wall Street must engage the larger issue. The people and institutions the cops represent. The cops are only the drones. The queen ant is congress. Bought and paid for, Democrats and Republicans alike. There is but one weapon left, and frankly, it was always the only weapon, really: one vote, one man. Although the OWS movement is quite noble on a grass-roots level, it is ultimately inconsequential. It is a no-win situation, good for stirring the water but in the final analysis, moot. There must be an electoral revolution. One man, one vote. Oust Ceaser. Vote Louis 14 out of the palace. Overturn Tojo's Diet. Strip the fascists of their power legally. And demand the one thing, in the end, that will resolve the current horror: regulate Wall Street and end political lobbying once and for all. Clean house.
When the Nixon tapes were released in the late eighties, there was one segment, largely overlooked, that scared the bejesus out of me. The conversation in late July, 1974, between Nixon and Halderman in the Oval Office when Tricky Dick asked what steps needed to be taken to MILITARILY hold onto power. Awesome. Nixon wanted to know, as Commander-in-Chief, if the United States military would follow his direct order to seize absolute power in Washington, DC, and disband both congress and the courts as an emergency measure. Simply astounding. The idea was discarded in the end of course, but the thing is, NIXON CONSIDERED IT.
Of course, perhaps even scarier than the idea of a bought and paid for congress, is the idea of a bought and paid for fifth column, a national press taking orders from the almighty dollar, an entire system of free press being manipulated by a nation in the throes of a plutocracy. This is called propoganda. And it is the single most terrifying result a democracy can face. Once the press is corrupted, a nation is stricken with an incurable disease because information, not money, is the final step to absolute power. Once information is taken away, all resistance is, indeed, futile.
Like the peasants before the Bastille, the Occupy Wall Street movement doesn't stand a tinker's damn of a chance. But also, like the peasants before the Bastille, the inhabitants of the structure are eyeing them ever-so-warily. Politicians across the country, from mayors to representatives to senators to the president himself are, late at night, when no one is watching, when the rubber meets the road, actually pondering the unthinkable: money or votes. Because money has always insured votes. Always. And now, unspeakably, that particular philosophy is under scrutiny. What if...what if money, in this case, does NOT insure votes? Which way do I step off the fence? What if, heaven help me, I have to make a choice? What if one man, one vote actually WORKS this time?
No, cops are not the target. Although I personally believe in Machiavelli's concept of power corrupting, they should not be the target. The target should be November, 2012. The weapon that must be picked up, the rusted sword lying on the ground, unused for decades, maybe more, is the Constitution of the United States. It hovers over the bought politicians and the unsavory, greed-stricken, cowering bankers, traders and regulators and lobbyists like a hot sun threatening to burn Orpheus to the ground. One man, one vote. November, 2012. Therein lies salvation. Not in the day to day, senseless struggle over inches at the political Maginot and Seigfried lines. November, 2012.
There is a phrase often used in boxing gyms around the world: kill the body and the head will die. It is not meant to be metaphorical. But I can't think of anything quite as apt at the moment.
November, 2012.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Cars and Screenplays.
For a few months there I put aside a screenplay I had been working rather dilligently on because the producer was in Europe doing an entirely different project. Also, I coudn't make the damn thing work in my head and just needed some time away from it. And aside from a few small things, nothing much was happening on the acting front. So in an effort to remain constructive I did a couple of things: I wrote a pilot for a new series I'm attempting to get off the ground and pulled out my old chestnut, Praying Small, and turned it into a screenplay. The pilot was a labor of love because it is about boxing. Boxing in the 1960s, to be precise. And Praying Small was less difficult than one might imagine because it is so episodic to begin with.
So imagine my surprise when I threw it out there on the end of my pole and suddenly I'm struggling to land a really, really big leaping, turning, twisting, giant, open-water swordfish. Which is exactly what happened almost immediately. Naturally, it wouldn't be prudent to go into details yet except to say it's in the hands now of a highly visible producer and a very recognizable star type at this very moment.
My wife and I always joke about something she said right after I moved to Los Angeles. We were yapping back and forth about some acting gig that was on the horizon. It didn't pan out. But in the middle of the conversation (and I'm taking this completely out of context) she said, "Listen, honey, the only way you're gonna make a dime in this town is as a writer." She didn't mean it the way it came out, but that's what was said. These days, of course, that has proven not to be true, thank God, but I always drag it out and remind her. We laugh about it, of course, because it wasn't meant the way it sounded. I bring this up because we laughed about it again last night after all the Praying Small stuff was going down in back and forth phone calls and texts and emails.
I've always known Praying Small could be a very powerful piece in the right hands and productions in Chicago, New York and here in Los Angeles over the years have proven me right. I also knew it wouldn't be a terribly long leap to turn the damn thing into a screenplay. So while I was procrastinating and avoiding the other project, the one I couldn't make work in my head, I sat down and started writing non-stop on Praying Small for a few weeks. I sent it to a producer/director here in Hollywood last week. This week I get a message saying, "I love this script and I want to produce and direct it." I love it when a plan comes together.
So last night I get a call about the script going to yet another producer (to add to the budget) and the afore mentioned star. I said, 'Let me clean it up a bit and make sure the formatting is just so.' Which is what I did last night for several hours. And upon re-working it I realized what a tight script it is for the big screen. I don't know why I didn't do this years ago.
Funny story: one of the actors who had performed in one of the stage productions of the piece wrote me some time back (I was still in Chicago, in fact) and asked my permission to rework the script into a screenplay. Since at the time I had no inclination to do it myself I said, 'sure.' About a year later, after I'd come to LA, I asked him if he'd ever done that. He said yes. So I asked if I might see it. He said yes and showed me what he had written. It was EXACTLY, word for word, scene for scene, the same script except at the end the main character is seen walking through a park playing frisbee with a dog with the words 'Fade to' written before it. I said, 'Well, I see you've really opened it up.'
In any event, I'll know more next week how it all stands.
Off this morning to read (again) for a guest starring thing on 'Parks and Recreation.' It's a funny show, I've always thought so, and I wouldn't mind doing one. Not as funny as 30 Rock, but funny. So...we'll see. It's an AFTRA contract and like just about any actor in LA will tell you, AFTRA is, well, um, a bit ghetto when it comes to unions.
I started watching a film last night called 'Stone' with DeNiro and Edward Norton. Norton is always interesting to watch even when he's not ('The Illusionist' comes to mind) but I was reminded all over again how very, very good Robert DeNiro is in the right role. He's a marvel of subtlety in this. I have always contended that one of the great American screen performances is his Michael in 'The Deerhunter.' It is one of those performances that, no matter how many times I see it, I see something new in DeNiro's work in it. I didn't finish 'Stone' because, well, I got sleepy. But what I saw was good. Very good.
And finally, we're looking at new cars. Well, not NEW cars but new to us. And yesterday, just for shits and giggles, we were talking to a dealer about an incredible 750i BMW. We didn't test drive it because I suspect if we had all my defenses would have crumbled and I would have written the check on the spot, even though it would have bounced. Angie, although impressed with it, too, simply said, 'It's too much car for us.' And when she said that I had another of those terrible moments of clarity making me realize I'm fifty years old. She's right. It is too much car for us. After talking to the dealer awhile about what kind of deal we could make we wisely moved on to looking at a Volvo. The Volvo is not too much car for us. But as we looked at the trim, spare, utilitarian Volvo, my eyes kept wandering over to the big, black, smokin' BMW, my youth zipping around in my head, my mind's eye imagining myself behind that dark wooden wheel, my wife beside me, maybe taking a daytrip up to Santa Barbara or heading over to Vegas at the spur of the moment, no cares, no responsibities, finding myself on a deserted stretch of highway and crankin' that big, black bastard up to about 105. The Volvo was nice, though.
See you tomorrow.
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