Matching the Medium Shot...

I finished my last day of filming yesterday with this new film.  I had one last interior scene to be shot.  I play a very smarmy, dismissive, asshole of a guy, an office boss, the kind of guy that doesn't even respond to 'good morning' because he thinks it's beneath him to talk to underlings about anything except work.  I've had bosses like that in my life, probably most of us have.  Really unhappy, miserable, soul-sucking people. 

Working in film is relatively new to me.  I've done fillm and television work periodically throughout my life, but it was always incidental.  It was never something I sought out.  Of course, that comes from a general way of thinking prevalent in both NY and Chicago.  But LA is not NY or Chicago.  Film is what people do here.  Theatre is incidental.  God knows the money is a helluva lot better for film and TV work.

I was chatting with a buddy of mine late last night after filming all day.  He's done quite a bit more of it than I have.  And I confessed to him that I really love it.  And I do.  I am, however, really, really ignorant about it.  I like to consider myself a fast learner, though, and I'm learning a great deal about it every time I do something new.  And I learned something new yesterday.

Now, when I say 'I love it', I'm talking about the actual filming.  As one might guess, it's all about conserving one's energy until the word 'action' is shouted.  Sometimes hours go by between shots.  Yesterday was no different.  We were shooting in an office in downtown Burbank all day.  Myself and another guy in the scene and dozens of extras.  Technicians were scurrying around doing technicial stuff.  The principal actors (me and this other guy) were parked in a plush room by ourselves and the extras were in a big, break room on the other side of the offices.  The continuity person and the Second AD were coming and going throughout. 

But anyway, back to what I learned. 

In this particular case, and I don't know if it always works like this, the 'medium shots' were done first and then all the close-ups, over the shoulder shots and coverage shots later.  In the first 'medium' shot, I'm in a conference room with a group of young executives and I"m being an asshole at the front of the table.  Being generally negative and saying things like, "If you wanna keep your jobs..."  They are all brow-beaten and a bit anxious because I'm the kinda guy that likes to make everyone feel inferior...again, I've known so many people like that in my life.  It wasn't, to say the least, an acting stretch for me.

But I was using glasses in the shot and put them on and took them off three times.  Reading glasses. 

After that shot we started on the coverage shots.  The continuity person (a very nice woman with an incredible eye for detail) was on me like white on rice.  Everytime, for the rest of the day, that we did another shot of that scene she was right beside me telling me exactly where I took my glasses off, on which word, when I put them back on, with what hand, which hand I used to pick up a folder, etc.  My, oh, my.  While not exactly distracting, it did give me a whole new level of things to think about. 

So what I learned, that I suppose I already knew but hadn't given a lot of thought to, is that whatever I do in the first 'medium' shot, I'm locked into for the all the other shots.  It's really just common sense, but I'm a sort of a 'let's just turn on the camera and see what happens' kinda guy.  Even though it obviously behooves the actor to know exactly where the camera is and what the frame looks like, I tend to get focused very quickly and then ignore all that to the degree that it's possible.  Eventually, I treated it all as a sort of intellectual exercise.  And rather than be annoyed by all the constant reminders of when I did what and on what word, instead I found it utterly fascinating. 

Also, as I mentioned earlier in this blog, the old adage, 'save it for the close-up' is so, so true.  That is the moment when absolute, precise, exact concentration and honesty is demanded.  For this project, the director (and I know this isn't always true), a veteran of many films (I can't say his name until the film is released...I signed a legal document saying I couldn't publicly discuss the director, plot or production company), was a really easy going guy that trusts actors.  His focus was about 90-10: 90 percent on all the technical stuff and 10 percent on molding the performance.  At the end of the day he never invited the actors to see what he filmed.  But for some reason he and I really hit it off.  We ate lunch together and chatted about films and plays and whatnot.  He told me something interesting.  He said if he's casting a film and looking through a resume, he skips all the TV and film credits and looks for extensive stage credits.  Why?  Because he says those are the actors, generally speaking, he's not going to have to baby-sit.  Stage actors are trained to do it alone.  To immediately swallow themselves in the work itself and not worry about the camera and the crew watching and all those other things that jerk an actor out of a scene.  And, as an added compliment, when the final, 'let's print that one' was uttered, he asked me to come back and look at the scene.  He told me he never does that, for the most part, but he knew I didn't have a huge background with the camera and wanted me to see what I had done.  When we finished watching all the 'rushes' he said, "You're going to be doing a lot of this.  You're completely natural in front of the camera.  I wanted you to see that."  And while not terribly comfortable watching myself work, I have to admit, it looked pretty good.  That is to say, I wasn't watching with a critical eye of what I did, but rather was watching to see what 'that guy on the screen' was doing.  And I didn't like that guy, that character.  I wasn't critically watching me at all, but rather some nefarious, suit and tie guy, being an ass.

So despite all the tedious waiting and standing around, I really loved the actual spurts of filming.  And, as I said, when all is said and done, the money ain't bad.

I'm off today to audition for a stage play in Redondo Beach.  Big, big theatre.  Great contract.  A play I've done many times before.  It plays right up until Christmas which is perfect because then Ange and I are flying back to Missouri for the holidays.  The timing couldn't be better.  The day after I would close (assuming I get the part, and egotist that I am, I always assume that) we fly out to the Ozarks.

And Thursday I'm called back for a small, supporting role in a film that would require me to fly to the mountains of Utah to do some work on location there.  The trick these days is to keep juggling all the balls in the air and hope there aren't too many conflicts.

Plus next Saturday and Sunday we're auditioning abour a hundred actors for two of my plays that are going up in a staged reading capacity.  The name of our new company is 'The Gathering.'  These reading will be our first venture.  It's all very exciting, actually.

LA is in the sixties these days, gloomy and overcast.  Native LAers are treating it like a blizzard, all bundled up and wearing sweaters and uggs and trench coats.  I'm treating like good sleeping weather.

See you tomorrow.

Two New Plays Going Into Production: Bachelor's Graveyard and The Promise.

It's been a whirlwind week.  I love whirlwind weeks.  Nothing beats a good whirlwind week.

I'm doing rewrites on a new piece called 'The Promise' today.  It came about rather odd.  About six months ago I was having lunch with a buddy of mine at my favorite 'sit around and chat and smoke cigs and kvetch' diner here in LA called Sittons and I was despairing the fact that there were no plays that a whole group of my 40-something actor friends and I could do.  Unlike NYC and Chicago, LA is a place that uses theatre to stay sharp between 'real' gigs.  Actually, I was having lunch with Jim Barbour and John Bader.  Jim said, "You're the damned writer.  WRITE something for us."  So I did.  And it's called 'The Promise.'

There are several themes in my life I seem to be obsessing over these days: aging gracefully, forgiveness, emotionally driven, spiritual paradigm shifts, and reliance on a higher power.  The latter of these themes is a sure way to get my dander up.  There is a plethora of spiritual ideas concerning this.  All of which I summarily dismiss.  The most prevelant being that if one only 'surrenders' one achieves a semblence of a 'state of grace.'  I'm utterly confounded and annoyed by this line of thought.  AA, perhaps the most altruistic social movement of the twentieth century, bases it's entire existence on this train of thought.  It has always seemed purposely elusive to me.  I do not deny it's power, however, and I'm all for doing what makes one a better person.  I mean, it's difficult to argue with success.  Nonetheless, the sheer ambiguity of it always leaves me cynical.

Therin lies the premise for 'The Promise,' alliteration intended.

So I began writing the piece.  It's finally nearing completion and will be done as one of two, full-length staged readings that will launch our new company in early November. 

Personally, I've always preferred a more 'hands on' higher power.  You know, the kind that parts seas and feeds thousands with a loaf and a fish and strikes down invading armies and gets pissed off and floods the world out of childish pique.  The 'absentee landlord' higher power has always sort of bored me.  I don't believe a word of it, however, but it makes for good drama.  The Jeffersonian thinking now called 'classical deism' has always been my pesonal way of sorting through life's hurdles.  Also, I have an inordinate number of friends that subscribe to the science of mind teachings.  Wayne Dyer, those kinds of guys.  I'm all for it.  But to be honest, that stuff bothers me, too.  I find it to be insufferably optimistic.  Nonetheless, some very smart people I know are neck deep in it.

A couple of my friends are unabashed Scientologists, an organized teaching religion that has gotten a very bad rap in the press, undeservedly so, as far as I can tell.  From what I've read, it's really rather altruistic, too.  Although they do tend to hammer home the money part of it a lot.  And L. Ron Hubbard was a little too Norman Rockwellish for me in his writings.  Very Republican, this guy was.  However, having said that, if one is able to approach the teachings with a clear and unbiased mind, it's pretty cool stuff.  At least it's practical, which is more than I can say for the Christian guys.  As Salinger points out in nearly all of his writing, Jesus was one smart F-ing guy.  Just a bit deluded.  Updike also has a great book out there on this subject called 'A Month of Sundays' if you're so inclined to search it out.

But I digress. 

The very foundation of Christianity is the idea that God forgives us.  The guys that thought this up weren't just whistling Dixie.  It's an enormously smart thing to base a belief on.  Because if all I have to do to make that happen is join the team, well, I'm joining.  The Catholics, those wily Vatican plotters, took it a step further:  they added guilt to the mix.  Of course, it's a lot more complicated than that, but in the final analysis, that's the upshot.

So I started with that idea.  Suppose the simple act of surrendering to a notion of thought that, once adhered to, releases one from the bondage of sin is possible?  That's a corker, that is.  And more, suppose one man had the power to do this?  And suppose that man were with us today?  Let's, for the moment, forget all the trappings and myth that go along with that line of thinking.  Let's dismiss all the miracles and harps and angels and demons and flowing, white hair, and whale swallowing.  Let's just put the whole scenario on a back porch in rural Missouri.  And then let's borrow a page from GB Shaw and play Devil's Advocate for the whole story.

Well, that's what the new play is about. 

Yes, yes, a little esoteric, but fascinating nonetheless, I think.  So I've created five characters, all smart, educated guys, all seeking peace of mind, all gathered together to finally clear the air so as to allow a little grace to enter their lives.  Cast it with five really, really fine actors.  Make it real.  Don't airbrush the warts and scars.  Give them a contemporary language to use.  Focus on their ability to choose free-will over antiquated, paranormal beliefs, and see what happens.  It is so much more interesting to write questions than answers, I've found.

This Saturday we're holding auditions for a couple of the roles for the initial staged reading in NoHo.  A few of the roles are cast with the actors I had in mind when I wrote it:  Jimmy Barbour, Kyle Puccia, Rob Arbogast and John Bader.  All enormously gifted actors. 

We're also casting four of the five roles in Bachelor's Graveyard, my homage to growing up in the small, King's Row-influenced town of Fulton, Missouri.  For those of you who don't know, King's Row was sort of the test run for Peyton Place, a novel that came out decades later.  But King's Row, written by Henry Bellamy, was actually written and set in small town Missouri.  I think that's his name, anyway.  It's not a very good read, but it's claim to fame is that it was later made into a movie with a very young actor named Ronald Reagan. 

Bachelor's Graveyard, a play I wrote in 2004 and worked on periodically through 2009, is set in a graveyard outside the very small, rural town of Bachelor, Missouri, a town that actually exists, as does the graveyard itself.  When I was a senior in high school it was an exclusive place that only the 'in' crowd knew about.  And on some weekends we would go there and drink a ton of beer and tell lies and sometimes unspeakable trutths to each other as the evening wore on and the beer did it's work.  Bachelor's Graveyard is about the last night these blessed and cursed young ne'er-do-wells, these goofy scofflaws meet there before real life swallows them up and they all leave their homes and lives to embark on a world of harsh realities.  It is my favorite play.  It is not my best play.  But it is my favorite. 

We're casting that this Saturday and Sunday, too.

So...rewrites today on 'The Promise,' meeting with my business and artistic partner, Jim B., taking my wife to lunch, learning a song for a big audition I have on Monday and memorizing a couple of short scenes I have to shoot tomorrow for this little film I've committed to.  A good day.  They're all good days, really. 

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a walk and think.

See you tomorrow.

October Tenth, Two Thousand Ten...One of the Best Days of My Life.

I apologize for my lack of blogging.  Our old, circa 1947 computer had a hard drive crash and we had to put it down.  It was sad, of course, but it had a long and good life.  It wrote a couple of plays, in fact, with a little help from me.  But it finally gave up the ghost and we brought in a Science of Mind preacher and gave it the last rites.  He told it to 'visualize' a beautiful computer heaven and it will happen.  Life is so easy for those guys.  Today I'm going to visualize a Big Mac and hope for the best.
Oh, and I got married.

We found this guy, Reverend Chuck, on the internet.  In addition to being a Notary that marries people he's also the Vice President of his local Harley Davidson Club.  Perfect.  Actually, the big reason we chose Reverend Chuck is because he offered a 'one stop' deal...marriage license, ceremony and chapel.  He had a 'first come, first serve' deal on 10/10/10 so we just did it.

We were pleasantly surprised, to say the least.

We got to the small office/chapel about 9:30 with our bridesmaids and best men.  It wasn't early enough.  There were four other couples ahead of us.  So we sat and drank Starbucks and laughed a great deal while waiting next door.  Finally, our names were called and Angie and I went in and filled out all the pre-requisite papers, etc.  Then we brought in the rest of the gang and commenced.  Now, I had every intention of treating the whole thing with a certain amount of levity.  I mean, come on, it's not like we were in the Sistine Chapel.  But I was caught off guard when we saw what a lovely little chapel it was and Reverend Chuck turned out to be a soft-spoken, sincere, gentle little man with the best of intentions.  He lent the whole scene a surprising amount of gravitas.  I had written our vows beforehand and we opted for the non-religious ceremony.  It turned out, much to my delight and surprise, to be a really beautiful and thoughtful ceremony.  I'm sure Angie will be posting pictures today.  One of my best men, Jim Barbour, is one of those guys that has every cool gadget known to man.  And one of them is a camera that costs about ten million dollars.  So he acted as the unofficial photographer throughout the day and the pictures, which I saw yesterday, are incredible.  He took about three hundred, all told, including the ceremony and the party, which we had later that day.

Again, I was prepared to treat the party with as much cynicism as I could muster.  And again, I was pleasantly foiled.  Tammy Jackson-Lipps, one of Angie's dearest and longest friends, is a world-class caterer.  She did the whole shebang for us.  As soon as we got home, all married up, we began to work.  My other Best Man, John Bader, and I began setting up.  We had carefully selected 30 people to attend the wedding dinner.  And every single one showed up.  I somehow had it in my mind that we would have a bunch of chairs scattered about the back yard with maybe some 7-layer dip and that would be that.  Oh, contraire, my dear.  Angie and Tammy had something else altogether in mind.

It was an 'Italian Country Dinner' complete with a long table we stretched out endlessly into the back yard complete with exquisite dinner settings, elegant decorative touches and absolutely astonishing food; filet mignon, stuffed chicken breasts, arugala salad with goat cheese, tons of appetizers so fancy I didn't even know their names, dozens and dozens of bottles of top-notch wine, all kinds and shapes of incredible desserts.  It was a beatiful and moveable feast.  Again, pictures forthcoming, I'm sure.  Toasts were made deep into the night.  Our horses were just a few feet away, neighing happily.  Franny and Zooey were in heaven.  They got lots of attention.  White, gleaming table cloths, all my oldest friends in Los Angeles there, may from my NY days.  And Angie's, too.  It turned out to be, and I apologize for sounding corny but, a magical night.  The kind of night we will talk about when we're in the 'home' together many years from now. 

John and Jim and Tammy and Angie's other 'Best Woman,' Glenna Norris, all gave beautiful and enormously touching speeches, glasses raised, profundity galore, deep and heart felt speeches, tears and laughter.  I was very moved and I know Angie was, too.

Both Angie and myself were, quite simply, overwhelmed.  So much so, in fact, that I kept trying to break into 'The Theme From Ice Castles' at every opportunity, only to be shushed into silence.

Then our computer died and I was cut off from the civilized world.  But we have a new one now and all is as it should be.

Jim and I finally decided, few days ago, to not only go forth with our acting workshop on November 6 and 7 but also to produce two staged readings of my plays, Bachelor's Graveyard and The Promise.  The former had been scheduled for full production with the last theatre company in which I was involved but after the very difficult rehearsal process of Praying Small with that company, was discarded.  The latter is a piece, a murder mystery of sorts, that I've been working on for a long time for several close friends and wonderful actors: John Bader, Jim, myself, Brad Greenquist, Kyle Puccia and the remarkable Rob Arbogast.  We plan to include both plays in the debut season of our new theatre company and just decided to get the ball rolling with both of these world-premiere plays.  They're both pretty good, if I don't say so myself.
So we posted the auditions on Actors Access and now I am inundated with actors looking for a slot to audition.  I love it.  I'll say this much, it may take Jim and I awhile to make a decision about something but once it happens it goes forth like a dam breaking.  Every second of my days are filled with preparations for the workshop and the readings now.  Plus I still have one more day to shoot on the film I'm doing.  They've called me in for more interior scenes on Sunday. 

My wonderful agents at Schiowitz, Clay, et al, have sent me up for an audition on Monday for the prestigious Civic Light Opera Company of South Bay Cities...quite possibly the longest name for a professional, Equity theatre in history.  They're doing 1940's Radio Hour, a show I've done six, count 'em, six times in six different venues.  Suffice to say, I know that show fairly well, so I think I might have a good shot at it.  It's a terrific Equity contract and the timing is perfect. 

We also posted a whole gaggle of new shots on LA Casting, a website for commercial actors, and picked up new pictures from a cracker-jack photo-guy in Burbank.  They look great.  As I told Angie, I don't want anything special out here in LA as an actor, I just want to compete on a level playing field.  Well, that's about to happen. 

So there you have it.  Optimism has always been a strain for me.  I don't trust it.  But it is upon me.  So much to do and I am incredibly fortunate to love every moment of it.  To quote Mr. Sondheim, "So many...possibilities."  Ah, in love and working.  What more can anyone ask for?  But I'm still 'visualizing' that Big Mac.

See you tomorrow.

...Get me to the church on time...

Angie and I are getting married this Sunday, October 10, 2010, at 10am.  Yes, that's right, 10/10/10 at 10.  Initially, we had planned to wait till November, but the idea of all the tens was just too inviting.  The rings are on the wash table in front of me as I write.  Angie has a beautiful, understated, diamond-studded, petite and slim ring that perfectly matches her engagement ring (a re-set ring from her grandmother) and I have a black, silver-lined ring with pure silver lines through it.  I confess to not being a ring wearing kinda guy.  I don't know why.  I've just never liked wearing rings.  So it will take some getting used to on my part.

We're having a private, very small wedding in a little chapel in the exclusive Sherman Oaks area of Los Angeles.  We've decided to be ultra-casual about it.  We've both been around the block a few times and neither one of us is interested in a big wedding.  On Angie's side will be her dear and lifelong friends, Tammy Lipps and Glenna Norris.  On my side will be my old and close buddy's Jimmy Barbour and John Bader. 

I met Jim in Kentucky, of all places, back in the summer of 1988.  The show was that old warhorse, Camelot, and I was playing King Arthur to Jimmy's Lancelot.  We were instantly close friends.  I had just pulled up to the parking lot out in front of the theater and was standing beside the car yapping with some other actors in the show that I knew.  Jim was up by the box office and someone told him, "That guy getting out of his car is your King Arthur." So he came down to meet me and as I stood there chatting, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.  I turned around to see Jim, all 6'4" of him and he said, "Hi, I'm Jim Barbour.  I studied with the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts in London."  He claims I said, "Hi, I'm Clif Morts and I don't give a shit." I don't remember it that way, but Jimmy swears that was the exchange. 

Between us we have about a thousand stories of that summer and that show together.  We still laugh about them today.  We went on to do a whole gaggle of shows together at a number of professional theatres up and down the east coast:  Funny Girl,  Drood, West Side Story, 1776, 1940's Radio Hour, Hello, Dolly, a couple of others.  Eventually, it became difficult to work together because we both had a niche for making each other break on stage.  Very few people can make me break on stage, Jim is one.  For some reason we got to the point where just looking at each other on stage put us both in danger of dissolving into laughter.  I don't know why.  Doing 1776 with Jimmy was almost painful every night because of it.  If you've ever tried to keep from laughing in church, you know exactly the kind of pain I'm talking about.  I sort of moved into writing a lot of plays and Jim, of course, became a few years later one of the most sought after musical theatre leading men in the country, doing mafor roles in Broadway's Carousel, Jane Eyre, A Tale of Two Cities, Assassins, Beauty and the Beast and many others.  And somehow, without planning it, we both ended up in Los Angeles, 22 years later, living about five minutes from each other.  In fact, we're co-teaching a workshop this November in NoHo. 

John Bader has been a close friend even longer.  Right after I graduated undergraduate school in Springfield, MO, I travelled to Iowa, of all places, to a little dung hole of a theater called The Old Creamery, run by a psychopath of an artistic director.  John and I were both doing our Equity Internship there at the same time.  That was October of 1984.  We ended up going on a bus and truck tour of the show The Fantasticks, with me as El Gallo and John as The Man Who Dies.  We both ended up moving to NYC at approximately the same time and over the course of the next fifteen years drinking most of the beer and tequila in that city.  In fact, John ended up directing my first produced play in New York called Changing It To Brando. He moved to Los Angeles in 1999 and lives about ten minutes from me now in the other direction.  John went on to do about 100 commercials out here, a few films, some TV shows (most notably a long stretch on the network series, The Practice) and a couple of plays.  He, like Jim, is a very, very good actor.  One of the best I know, in fact.  It's funny, but I seem to be incapable of being close friends with bad actors.  All of my best buds are really good at what they do.   I'm sure that says something about me, just not sure what.

So those are the two guys standing up with me in Sherman Oaks this Sunday.  And I couldn't be happier about it. 

John has organized a Bachelor's Party of sorts for this Friday night.  Seeing how neither of us drink anymore, we'll probably be in bed by ten that night.  We're heading over to a bowling alley with a group of my closest friends out here on the west coast, John, Jim, Brad Blaisdell, Brad Greenquist, Joe Hulser, Jim Petersmith and Rob Arbogast, all incredibly talented actors.  It's shaping up to be a fun night.

Afer the small ceremony (yes, I've written the vows myself) we're heading back here to the cottage to have a big dinner party, about 25 people or so.   Angie's friend, Tammy Lipps, a professional caterer here in LA, is doing the whole spread.  She's been written up in lots of magazines and stuff for her work and it promises to be a very tasty afternoon.  Lots of old friends are coming over and a few new ones, too.  It seems I was nearly the last of my generation of actors to make the move to LA.  We all started out in NY years ago, and one by one made the journey west.  I guess I sort of did, but I had a decade-long, pit-stop in Chicago.

I have to teach this workshop and finish filming the little movie I'm doing now, so our honeymoon is going to have to wait a bit.  But when we have the time our plan is to simply rent an RV and take out on the open road for a couple of weeks stopping off at places like The Grand Canyon (Old Dean Martin joke:  Í went to the Grand Canyon yesterday and it was closed!) and Vegas (oddly, I've never been).  We decided on this because we wanted to take our dogs, Franny and Zooey, with us.  Plus, I've always had a sort of obsessive preoccupation with RVs.  Don't know why.  I just like the idea of a mobile "fort," I guess, like when I was a kid.  We went to look at some awhile back and we think we've found the perfect one:  a 28 footer that looks like a small, upper west side apartment on the inside without the great view.

So after nearly a year of talking about it, we're finally doing the deed.  Getting married. 

How do you make God laugh?  Tell him your plans.

See you tomorrow.

Ali - Part VII...What He Meant.

ALI

It's difficult to convey what Muhammad Ali meant to me as I was growing up.  There are three figures in my life that have captivated my imagination throughout many years.  Muhammad Ali, Marlon Brando and Frank Sinatra.  I have a theory about them and their respective genius.

This is the theory: all three of them didn't display their genius until AFTER they lost their original gift.  Brando, although a shockingly talented actor, didn't give us his masterpiece until he'd lost his beauty, his startling physical physique.  It just wasn't acceptable that someone so beautiful could also be so talented.  Not to mention unfair.  And yet it wasn't until he became, yes, fat, balding and crusted, that he let us see inside his soul in Last Tango in Paris.  I believe it to be, arguably, the finest performance on film I have ever seen. 

Sinatra had a voice to make nightingales jealous and yet, it wasn't until he'd lost that gift, in the mid-fifties, and was forced by practicality to sing in another style, that we finally enjoyed his real genius.  When he teamed with Nelson Riddle and Gordon Jenkins we finally were introduced to the one thing that stood him apart from hundreds of other melifluous crooners:  his determination, his arrogance, his swaggering vulnverability, his reluctant sensitivity. 

And the same is true of Ali.  It wasn't until after he'd lost the one thing that set him apart from every heavyweight on the planet, his nearly inhuman speed, did we see his brilliance as a fighter.  It wasn't until after his forced lay off from 68 to 71, that we saw the real Ali gifts emerge.  Suddenly, like Thor stripped of his deity by Odin, Ali was forced to fight like other mere mortals.  And then, and only then, did we see his other gifts show themselves.  His ability to always, always, find a way to win.

Angie and I were having dinner the other night and I was yammering on about the crap my agent was submitting me for.  She said, "Oh, come on, you're never really happy anyway unless you have something to prove, something to overcome, someone to shock."  She's perceptive sometimes, I'll give her that, Dancing with the Stars notwithstanding.

I think, on some deep and unexplored level, she's absolutely right and I also think, in some high falutin' way, I learned that from my fascination with Muhammad Ali throughout my life.  I'm not at my unadulterated best unless I find myself, in my mind, at least, cast in the underdog role. 

I spent nearly a decade in self-exile as I privately battled inner demons.  I'm not alone in this, nor am I the only one to follow this undesirable path.  Some never stop battling the forces of chaos that keep us from being who we can be.   Some refuse to acknowledge that the original gifts the great traffic cop in the sky gave us are gone.  I was fortunate enough to meet someone that, through sheer kindness and acceptance, pointed all of that out to me.  Once I'd reached the point where I could honestly say to myself, 'The battle is over and I lost.  Time to take up a new battle,' was I able to move on.  Angie did that.  Singlehandedly.

Watching Ali from 1962 to 1968 was tantamount to watching a fixed race.  His skills as a fighter were so overwhelmingly superior that the only drama occurred in wondering when he would win, not how.  But watching Ali from 1971 to 1979 gave us the 'how.'  And that is the only way for true drama to exist. 

Who would have thought he'd finally recapture his golden crown not from once again exhibiting his remarkable gifts as a fighter, but rather from his willingness to take the hardest shots ever thrown from another heavyweight and then spring off the ropes from obscurity and fire the last and unexpected volley?

His 'second period' fights were almost all like that.  Enigmatic forrays into the drama of winning.  Forever wearing the mantle of underdog.  Seemingly unable to rise to the occasion unless he was surrounded by doubt.  His later fights were all like Greek Tragedy without the fatal flaw. 

I met him once, you know.  In a little diner on the corner of 36th and Lexington Avenue in New York City in 1989.  It was early, about eight a.m. and I'd just gotten out of bed when the phone rang.  At the time I was living on the Upper West Side near Amsterdam and 74th.  A buddy of mine called and said, "I'm standing at my window right now watching Muhammad Ali walk into a diner."  He lived across the street.  He knew, of course, of my lifelong fascinaion with Ali.  I didn't hesitate.  I threw on some jeans and a t-shirt, ran out of the apartment and grabbed the first cab I could flag downtown.  By the time I got there, word had already spread and there was a small crowd of maybe ten or twelve people sort of standing in line to meet him.  He was at a table with two other Black Muslims, complete with fez and colored outfits, eating some scrambled eggs and chatting amicably with the next person in line to meet him.  The owner of the diner wasn't too thrilled to have people just standing around not eating in his little joint and was sort of trying to shoo everyone out.  But after a couple of minutes I got to close enough to Ali to say something.  Parkinson's Syndrome had not yet had a chance to entirely rob him of his physical dignity.  His hands shook a little and he spoke very softly, but he was not incapacitated by any means.  Like most people, I was startled at his sheer size.  Because Ali had impounded himself in the collective mind of the public as a jester, a humorist, yes, an underdog, I think people expect him to be smaller than he is.  He's a big man with very big hands.  I intended to ask him about George Foreman's comeback (George was just beginning his long march back to the title, at the time) but instead surprised myself by saying, "I wanted you to know how much you've meant to me over the years.  I grew up in an abusive home and you were a way to escape that." To this day I have no conveivable idea why that came out of my mouth, even though it was true.  My voice had cracked a little at the end.  I didn't plan it.  It just came out that way.  He stopped eating for a moment and put his fork down and turned to look at me.  He, too, somehow intuitively realized I was experiencing a watershed personal moment.  He didn't say anything, just looked at me.  I said, "You were really something, Muhammad."   And then the twinkle in the eyes, the hint of a smile.  "I was, wasn't I?  I was really something."  So softly I could barely hear it.

I smiled at him a second longer and then turned and left. 

You were really something.

You are really something.

It has been a privilege to watch your life unfold.

See you tomorrow.

Ali - Part VI - The Last Image.

Muhammad Ali versus Ernie Shavers - The Final Statement.

Muhammad Ali was at last through the fires of 'The Fight of the Century' and 'The Broken Jaw Fight' and 'The Rumble in the Jungle' and finally, 'The Thrilla in Manilla.'  He now found himself in an odd position:  there was no one left to beat.  It was early 1976 the Frazier saga was over and, if one goes back and looks at The Ring Magazine Top Ten listings for that time, he had soundly and definitively beaten ALL ten of the fighters listed except for Ernie Shavers.  But Shavers was listed number eight on the list.  He was what is called a "spoiler" in the boxing biz.  A guy that fighters don't want anything to do with.  Not because he was such a great fighter; he wasn't.  But he had a rocket of a right hand and the highest knockout percentage in the heavyweight division.  Other fighters, like Jerry Quarry and Ron Lysle, tough, rough fighters, claimed Shavers had the hardest punch in the division, even harder than Foreman.  But he also carried a whole gaggle of losses on his record.  By 1976, at the age of 32, Shavers had already lost ten fights.  But he was a slugger.  A guy that could end a fight at any time.  His right cross was legendary in boxing gyms around the country.

So Ali's handlers decided to give him some easier pickings first.  He casually ran through fighters like Richard Dunn (former British Champion) and Alfredo Evanglista (Latin American Champion from Uruguay) and Jean-Pierre Coompan (Belgian Champion), beating them all without too much effort.  In fact, looking back on those fights, watching them on DVD, they allowed Ali to do what he does best: be Ali.  They're more like exciting exhibitions rather than actual contests.  Even though none of those fights are ever in doubt of who might win, they're enormously entertaining simply to see Ali show, like a magician displaying a whole trunk full of old tricks, all of his greatest hits.  One moment we see the storied left jab, right hand dangling at his side, then we see the Ali Shuffle, then he shows us the impossibly quick combinations, then he plays with his opponent, joking, talking to the crowd, playing possum and then slapping the man at will, and incredibly he seems to win the fights as good-naturedly as possible.  There is never any anger, no focus, no drama.  It is Ali on tour, saying, in effect, "Remember this one?  Here's one you might recall.  Oh, yeah, and don't forget this old trick..." 

I don't see the need to recount the 76 rubber match with Ken Norton in Yankee Stadium.  And here's why:  Norton was only a good fighter on his best day.  His great moment came in 1972 with that early shot that broke Ali's jaw.  He was not and never would be in the same league as Formean and Frazier and Ali.  While all of his fights went the distance with Ali, they were not epic fights.  Yes, they were all very close, but not because Norton was remotely of the same calibre Ali was, but because he quite simply had a style - that cross-armed, crab-like, forward shuffle - that confounded Ali.  In their trilogy of fights they faced each other over 42 rounds.  Ali won 28 of them.  And not one moment of real drama occurred.  Norton never once took the fight to Ali.

So Muhammad Ali finally faced Ernie Shavers, if for no other reason than he was the last man left to fight.  Even at 36, Ali was clearly the best fighter in the division (although there was a young, up-and-coming, straight jab artist by the name of Larry Holmes who was looking awfully good, but he was still a few years away from being taken seriously). 

The Ernie Shavers/Muhammad Ali fight itself is not one for the diary.  Ali was comfortably ahead on points going into the 15th round.  Shavers had landed some great shots (in fact, later Ali was to say, "Everytime Ernie landed it felt like a mule had kicked me." Fortunately for Ali, Shavers didn't land that many shots).  The champion had fought a smart and conservative fight.  Clinching when necessary, pulling Shavers head down when he could, staying at long range and stinging Ernie with the jab and occasionally launching those famous flurries of combination punches too fast for Shavers to get away from.  Another win from a coasting Ali.  The novels had been written, these were just short stories.  But then something inexplicable happened.

It's as if Ali knew somehow that this would be his last moment of glory in a career filled to the brim with glorious moments.  All he had to do was stay away from Ernie in that last round, coast through it, just keep him off and take the fight.  Instead, following the uneventful 14th round, he refused to sit in his corner between rounds.  He stood and stared at Shavers across the ring.  He clearly seems to be ignoring the yapping advice from his corner.  He is in his own world.  Looking back at the tapes of that fight, Ali seems to be a little disgusted with himself at that moment, although he was way ahead of Shavers on points. 

When the bell rang he went straight at Shavers, flat-footed, planted, weight forward.  And he doesn't back up.  Unbelievably, he has chosen to go toe to toe.  And so he does.  Shavers starts throwing bombs.  He lands several shattering punches to Ali's head.  He drives him across the ring.  He throws and lands a right cross that has Ali wobbling.  And instead of grabbing Shavers and clinching his way out of trouble, Ali uncharacteristically fires back.  And suddenly, halfway through the round, both men are standing stock still in the exact middle of the ring trading cannon shots.  Ali throws one and then takes one, throws one and then takes one.  Shot for shot.  No dancing, no moving, no angles, no quick, peppering jabs, no head movement, no combinations.  Just tit for tat.  And then, as the entire arena stands and screams in disbelief at the unexpected development, Ali begins to beat Shavers back.  Ernie starts backing up, he takes massive shots to the head, one to the mid-section, another to the temple, a hard right hook to the jaw.  He stops trading blows and starts covering up.  Ali is overwhelming him.  He is, amazingly, out punching the puncher.  And these arén't typical Ali stinging shots.  They're the big guns, the Howitzers, these are shots thrown from the hips, not the shoulders.  At the bell, Ernie Shavers is leaning on the ropes, gloves up, eyes glassy, head down.  He is moments from being knocked to the canvas.  He is beaten.  Beaten at his own game.  The bell rings.  Ali stays in the middle of the ring and looks around the arena.  The full house of on-hand spectators (22,000) going bat shit nuts.  He glares at the media in the first row.  He raises his arms above his head and simply stands there.  It is as though he is saying, "This is it.  This is the last of me.  I am and always have been the greatest." A look of stern defiance on his face.  This is not a portrait of the smiling, joking, poet-king of the past fifteen years, this is an unforgiving, rageful stance, a tableau of the best fighter of the era silently telling the world, 'I have beaten everyone.  There is no one left.  There is only me.'

It is the image I often think of when I picture Muhammad Ali in my mind.  His final, wordless statement to the world, a statement not about what he stood for as a political, social, historical figure of the times, but rather his final declaration of who he was as a fighter.  The best in the world.  Possibly the best there ever was.  He is, conciously or not, stating to all, you can take away everything else, you can add all you want, you can turn me into any symbol you might conjure, you can even make me the lightning rod for all that America wants in this generation, but what you can't do is say I can't fight.  

Shavers was the last of the top ten fighters left to fight.  He had beaten them all.  Sometimes twice.  He had dominated every heavyweight alive for two decades.  He stood alone at that moment in 1977 as the best fighter on the planet.  There was, literally, nothing left to prove.  In my mind, it was his finest hour.

See you tomorrow.

Ali - Part V...The Thrilla in Manilla.

Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier in Manilla, October, 1975.

The most brutal, back-and-forth, kill-or-be-killed, non-stop action, nail-biting fight I've ever seen is the 'Thrilla' in Manilla' between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier in the Phillipines on October first, 1975, exactly 35 years ago today.  It was Ali's last great fight, his final miracle and marked the end of Joe Frazier's fine, noble and heroic career as well.  Frazier went on to fight a few more times, but this was really his last hurrah.  And Ali had a number of challenges in front of him, too, most notably the rematch with Kenny Norton in Yankee Stadium, the loss and comeback victory to Leon Spinks and one of his finest hours, a 15th round slugfest with Ernie Shavers.

But it is the fight in Manilla that both men gave their last ounce of courage.  And, oddly, at the time no one expected it.  Both men were past their prime.  Ali, while still the fastest heavyweight in the division, was not nearly as lightning quick as he was a few years earlier.  And Frazier had taken a savage beating from George Foreman a couple of years before and hadn't quite gotten over it.

But the world wanted to see one more Ali-Frazier contest.  They wanted, one last time, to see these two men battle for heavyweight supremecy.  They wanted the rubber match. 

Frazier, as I outlined in Part II of this series, had beaten Ali fair and square in their first encounter in Madison Square Garden in 1971.  He'd ended the night and the fight with a left hook from the ninth circle of Dante's Hell and deposited Ali flat on his back.  He'd taken the fight to the old poet-warrior as no one before.  And he'd done it without doubt, without second-guessing.  He'd won that fight.  Yes, Ali had gotten up, but the moment had passed.  He'd lost the fight to a better fighter that night.

In the second fight, both men were contenders.  Mighty George Foreman was the champion and both were scrambling for a title fight.  But Ali had learned his lessons well in the first battle and fought a fight specifically designed to beat Frazier.  Hold, clinch, move, circle, long range jabs, quick, end-of-round combinations.  He refused to fight Frazier's fight.  He adapted to Frazier's tank-like style and won the unanimous decision.

Following that he'd beaten the unbeatable George Foreman (See Part IV) in one of the most unusual and exciting fights of the century, The Rumble in the Jungle.  So here it is, 1975, and Ali is once again at the top of the pile, the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world.  And the truth is, as Ali later admitted, he didn't want the third fight with Frazier.  He'd already had 27 brutal rounds with him and didn't relish the idea of 15 more.  Frazier had the perfect style to confound Ali.  Head down, no retreat, get in close, hammer the body, stay low.  That's why I think the oft-asked question about Tyson in his prime and Ali in his prime is so interesting to me.  Tyson was essentially a bigger, stronger, faster, more savage version of Joe Frazier.  He would have given Ali fits.  I still think Ali would have found a way to beat him, that was Ali's remarkable gift as a fighter - much more so than his speed - but it would not have been easy.  It would have been a war.  But I think the deciding factor would have been psychological.  Tyson never took pre-fight banter very well.  His temper nearly always got the best of him.  And having said that, can you IMAGINE what Ali would have said to and about Tyson leading up to the fight?  Tyson would have been too enraged to fight a smart fight by that point and I truly believe Ali would have picked him apart because of it.

But back to Frazier and Ali.  The final battle.  The Armegeddon of boxing.  The Holy War of pugilism.  The last and final measure of these men.

In the pre-fight build-up Ali was even more caustic than the first time.  He called Frazier every name in the book, 'gorilla' being the one that stuck in Frazier's craw the most.  He called his children ugly.  He berated his wife.  Ali had an impish, almost evil side to him and it came out now.  As Red Smith, the great sports writer wrote, "Frazier didn't want to just win the fight, he didn't just want the title back, he wanted Ali's heart."

As I said, no one really expected the fight to be great.  Ali was 33 and Frazier was 31, ancient by boxing standards.  Ali had clearly lost his god-like speed and Frazier was not the juggernaut he once was...Foreman had taken that out of him.  It didn't figure to be too exciting.

From the opening bell, Ali took the fight to Joe Frazier.  He knew from experience that Joe was a slow starter.  History indicated that if Frazier could be caught early, before he had a chance to really get warmed up, he could be stopped.  And Ali, contrary to his usual style, tried to end it at the outset.  He went out and tried to knock Frazier out before he could find his range. 

So, not surprisingly, the first five rounds belong overwhelmingly to Ali.  He sets his feet, comes down off his toes, plants his 6'3", 218 lbs, and throws every shot in his arsenal.  In those first five rounds he hit Frazier with shots that would take a barn down.  He hammered Frazier's head and eyes relentlessly.  And in the third and fourth rounds it looks like a mismatch.  It is a startling display of organized fury.  Frazier can't find his pace, he is off guard, he can't get to Ali, and he takes bomb after bomb straight on the chin.  Ali seems to be channeling his younger self at times.  He throws some of the most perfect, pin point accurate shots of his career.  In short, he seems to be pummeling the hapless Frazier.  It is frightening to watch.

But in the sixth, Frazier finally finds his rhythm.  And all of a sudden, we have a real fight.  He begins to cut the ring off (the only way to fight Ali when he's on his game), to land crushing left hooks to the body, to set the pace.  He starts making Ali fight his fight, trading shots without fear or quarter. 

And it is then that the two men dig inside themselves and refuse to lay down.  At that moment, the sixth round, both fighters make a silent pledge to themselves to either die or win.  The next 8 rounds are magnificent, the finest display of boxing I've ever seen.  At one moment Ali appears to be in trouble as Frazier bludgeons him all around the ring.  A minute passes and Ali tees off at long range, stinging and cutting Frazier with impossible combinations.  I have never seen anything like it before or since.

But in the 13th round things begin to change.  And the reason is simple: Ali is blinding Frazier.  Literally.  Joe's eyes are shutting from the ceaseless pounding around them.  He's having trouble seeing Ali.  And if he can't see Ali he can't get away from the punches.  Both men are beyond exhaustion.  Ali later said, "It's the closest to dying I've ever come."  Even Frazier, after the fight, says uncharacteristically, "Lawdy, Lawdy, Lawdy, he's a great champion."

As the 13th wears on, Ali begins to punch with impunity.  Nearly every shot lands.  Frazier has had to stand up and fight, a posture he's not familiar with, because he can't see from his usual crouch.  He thus becomes a perfect target for Ali's style. 

The 14th round is almost painful to watch.  Ali is picking Frazier apart.  The blinded Frazier keeps coming forward, never retreating, never backing up, and Ali treats him like a training bag.  Blood is flowing freely from cuts around Frazier's eyes.  His left eye is completely shut and his right is a mere slit.  And he keeps coming.  He keeps walking straight into Ali's sniper fire.  It's beautiful and tragic and ugly and perfect and inhuman. I have never seen more 'heart' from a fighter than Joe Frazier exhibited that night in the 14th round in Manilla 35 years ago this month.

Between rounds 14 and 15 will go down in boxing lore.  In the films of the fight, one can clearly see Ali holding his gloves out to Angelo Dundee, his trainer, and mouthing the words, "Cut them off." Dundee refuses to do so.  Later, Ali says he told Dundee, "I can't go back out there.  I can't fight that man anymore."

In the other corner, Frazier's corner, Eddie Futch, Frazier's long-time close friend and trainer, is moving his index finger around in front of Joe's face.  Frazier can't see it.  He tries to get up, to rise off his stool and move toward Ali.  Futch stops him.  Physically pushes him back on the stool.  He says, "This is over.  No one will ever forget what you did here tonight.  But it's over."

Literally moments before Ali can quit, Frazier's handlers toss a small, white towel into the middle of the ring signalling the end of the fight.  Frazier is blind and Ali is spent.  But the contest was over.  Frazier had lost by TKO.  And that's what's listed in the record books: Ali - W - TKO - 15.  But it doesn't begin to tell the story.  It doesn't begin to tell the story of 42 minutes of the most astounding boxing ever witnessed.  Ali had regained his title.  The two men never fought again.  That was the last sound of the cannons.

Ali said, later that night, "If I ever have to fight a Holy War, I want Joe Frazier at my side."

Frazier said, "I hit him with shots that would take down the walls of Jericho.  He just wouldn't fall.  He's the greatest fighter I've ever seen."  Frazier, who still today hates Ali, would later deny he said that.  But cameras recorded it minutes after the fight in his dressing room.  He said it and he meant it.

Joe Frazier spent ten days in the hospital.  Muhammad Ali spent six days in the hospital.  Ali couldn't walk for two weeks, actually used a wheelchair privately, because of the massive and damaging blows he took to his hips and kidneys.  Frazier wore two eyepatches for four days.  His vision never fully recovered.   Ali's hands were so swollen he couldn't even feed himself for days.  Frazier was officially diagnosed with a concussion.

A terrible and awesome night.

The best fight I've ever seen.

See you tomorrow.

First day of shooting.

Setting up a shot.  Tedious.

I just finished doing some of the exterior shots for a new film called "Solution."  Unfortunately, I'm not at liberty to say more about it because of a paper I signed saying I couldn't.  And they take that very seriously, I'm told.  It's fairly SOP.  Which is fine.  This weekend we start on some of the interior shots, most of the dialogue stuff I have, etc.  Also knocked out a couple of close-up shots.  And when I say 'close up,' I mean close up.  Wide lens, about five inches from my face, REALLY close up.  But having done that much on it, I have some thoughts.

I'm doing a large supporting role, a bad guy (which is always more fun), and, everything being equal, I'm always shocked at what film and television pays as opposed to live theatre.  I guess I shouldn't be by now but for some reason it always catches me off guard.  "You wanna pay me HOW MUCH to do WHAT?"

As most actors know, the ones that have done both film and TV, that is, camera work is just tedious, for the most part.  The greatest asset a film actor can have is the ability to muster his concentration very quickly when it's needed.  One sits around waiting for the light to be right, or the cameras to be moved, or the APM to move the extras around and give them their marks, or continuity to remind one of what just happened, or the director to see the shots he just did, or the wardrobe and make-up people to get an actor physically exactly right after the last take, or any number of things and then all of a sudden one is back to 'one,' that is to say, the first position of the shot, and then, very quickly, one is in the middle of the scene again.  The trick, I'm discovering, is not to waste concentration on the shots that don't require it.  The old adage, "Save it for the close-up," is very true, indeed. 

I had a conversation with a friend of mine, someone you'd recognize instantly from television if you saw his face, about camera versus stage work a little while back.  Like most people who do almost excusively camera work, he insisted it was 'the hardest kind of acting.'  And for a certain type of actor, I suppose that could be true.  I'm treading on a delicate subject matter here for some actors, so I'm choosing my words carefully, but I think if an actor has the ability to immediately immerse himself in his imagination, it's not so demanding.  If the actor, on the other hand, has to work himself up to a fevered pitch before the word, 'action,' I suppose it could be really difficult.  A buddy of mine did a film with the late Jason Robards, an actors' actor if ever there was one, and he said Mr. Robards was once listening to the director go on and on about a scene he was about to start when Robards cut him off and just said, "Oh, for Christ sake, just tell me what you want, the happy face or the sad face."

So yesterday I had about five hours of filming right smack dab in the middle of downtown Los Angeles in front of a seedy hotel.  We were really only trying to nail one shot, that of me rounding a corner with a large group of pedestrians (the film is set in NYC), breaking off from the crowd, walking to a newstand, telling the old guy in the kiosk to give me a newpaper, being a bit snotty to him, glancing at the paper, seeing something I don't like, and then moving on.  For something like that, which will take about 15 to 20 seconds, probably less, in the film, we did 'coverage' shots, 'medium' shots, 'two angle' shots, two 'over the shoulder' shots and finally several close-ups.  The camera was following me closely, but there were still somewhere between 50 or 60 extras in the shot, too.  The streets were closed off and the LAPD was redircting traffic.  Once, right in the middle of a long 'tracking' shot, that is to say, the camera on a dolly and moving backwards while I walked down the sidewalk with about thirty extras carefully choreographed to pop in and out of the scene all around me, a car about a block way crossed the intersection, slowed down a bit, and the driver stared curiously at what was going on.  Cut.  Do it again.  The PD talked to the cops a block away, instructions were re-given, the extras all had to do it again and again to make sure they had their exact marks, I stepped back inside the seedy hotel to have a bottle of water (remember it was about 105 yesterday in LA), and after an eternity, was called back out to do it again.  And again.  And again.  And again. 

There was a crane there, too, so the director could get one quick shot from above me.  So every time they did the 'from above' shot or whatever it's called, the crane had to be carefully choreographed. 

Anyway, none of this is new stuff to anyone who's ever been on a film set.  Personally, I haven't been on a lot of film sets, a few but none as large-scale as this one, and I was reminded all over of how easily it would be to simply stop caring.  I've heard stories of early DeNiro never breaking character over a two month shoot, of other actors sitting off camera and working themselves into a silent, angst-ridden frenzy for the next shot, of all sorts of tricks to get 'into the moment' before the camera rolls.  I'm a little in awe of that sort of behavior.  One, because unless the scene is really, really emotionally demanding, I don't see the point, and two, because they rarely are.  Yes, of course, if you're Meryl Streep and you're filming the 'choice' scene in Sophie's Choice, by all means, yes, do what needs to be done. 

In any event, after getting the coverage shots that were needed, there was a close-up that had to be shot.  In this particular case, it was a non-speaking close-up, just a reaction shot, really, and the director simply put the camera, quite literally, in my face and said things like, "Look slightly to your left.  Now right." And that was that.  Then he would go inside and watch those shots, come back out and do it again.  As I said, tedious.  Very tedious.  Mostly, in cases like this, I am concerned with making the extras do it again, knowing how tired they must be.  A friend of mine called me yesterday and said, "to hell with the extras, they're getting good money to stand there."  Perhaps so, but not if it's 105 in the shade.  That's not good money, regardless of what you're doing.

So this weekend we move to a studio in the Glendale/Burbank area for a scene in an office.  I have to get a bit angry and contemptuous in the scene and, most likely, will be told to shout.  Fine.  I like to think I'm fairly adjustable as an actor, generally speaking, and won't have a problem finding the why's and wherefor's of the directed anger in the scene.  Motivation, most of the time, is another word for, 'Í'm not very good at this'.'

In any event, the upshot of all this is to simply say, I disagree with my friend.  Cordially so.  I admit, I'm not a camera actor by training.  It's not what I've spent a lifetime learning to do.  But what I HAVE spent a lifetime learning to do is quickly and totally envelop myself in my imagination.  Regardless what acting teachers may say, the primary difference between doing it for film and doing it for stage is the amount of time involved.  There is no such thing as 'over acting' and 'under acting,' there is only honesty and dishonesty.  For the camera it takes total concentration and focus for seconds, sometimes minutes at a time.  For stage it takes two hours plus, with no break.  For the camera, one has only to ignore that it's even there while at the same time remembering that it IS there and for the stage the same is true of the audience (unless one is doing a comedy and then all rules are off, but that's another story).  The trick, for either venue, is the ability to immediately grasp the inner life of the character instantly and not just 'pretend' something is happening.  Rather employ the mind-set that it IS actually happening at that very second, that very instant. 

This probably sounds like a lot of gobbledy-gook to the non-actor.  And I'm sure it sounds like that to some actors, too.  And maybe, just maybe, some day I'll be on set and discover that I'm completely and absolutely wrong in everything I've just written.  If and when that day comes, I promise to admit it immediately.  But here's the thing, I think a lot of actors that make their living exclusively from camera work actually feel bad that they're making so damn much money doing it.  So they invent scenarios about how difficult it is to 'get inside the character,' or to 'emotionally' rake themselves over the coals to find a moment.  All of that is fine and honestly, I do respect it.  And I also have to admit to times when that would be true.  For example, watching Brando in Last Tango in Paris, where so much of the dialogue was deeply personal and improvised, THEN I can imagine the work being almost impossibly emotional.  But 99 percent of the time, Spencer Tracy was dead on target when he said, "Just remember your lines and try not to bump into the furniture."

In the final analysis, there's a reason, aside from the astronomical amount of money involved, that most camera actors don't do stage work.  And it's not popular to utter it.  The reason is this:  it's too hard.

On a personal note, Angie and I are getting married on October 10. 2010, in a little chapel in Sherman Oaks.  A private ceremoney with a few very close friends.  After that a catered dinner at the old homestead for a lot of people we both know out here in LA.  Since I'm so busy these days, our honeymoon will most likely be a night at the bowling alley down the street.  That's a joke.  Yes, it is.  It's a joke. 

When things slow down a bit, maybe we'll take Franny and Zooey and just head out in an RV and see some sights.  Who knows.  Life, unlike film and stage acting, has no rules.  We can do anything we want.  Just don't take it so seriously.  That's a pretty good thing to adhere to whether it's acting OR living, I think.

See you tomorrow.

Ali - Part IV...The Rumble in the Jungle.

Muhammad Ali throws the shot that knocks out George Foreman in 'The Rumble in the Jungle.'

Even after three long fights, Ali never quite figured out Ken Norton's awkward style of fighting.  Nonetheless, he took the immediate rematch (as soon as his jaw healed) and beat Norton in a unanimous decision in their second fight.  Again, it's not an exciting fight.  More so than most heavyweight contests, but still not one of the epic battles that Ali would be remembered for.  To this day, Norton claims to have won all three of the fights he had with Ali.  And to be fair, there's some merit to his objectives.  But I have scored the second fight several times myself and believe the fight is clearly Ali's. 

So the first hurdle is out of the way.  The second is a rematch with Frazier.  It is the only time the two met when neither was champion.  Again, of the three fights, it is the least exciting.  But again, I have scored the fight several times and clearly the night belongs to Ali.  In fact, there is a moment early in the fight when Ali has Frazier in deep trouble.  A possible knockout looms.  But referee Tony Perez mistakenly thinks he hears the bell a full minute early and separates the two fighters to check with the officials.  He realizes his mistake and waves the two fighers back together.  By then Frazier has had a chance to pull his wits together and the moment is gone.  It is the closest to an actual knockout we will ever see between the two fighters.

So now it is just George Foreman and Muhammad Ali at the top of the heap.  Both fighters are asking for two and a half million dollars for the fight and in 1974, that's a lot of money for a boxer.  Madison Square Garden passes, Yankee Stadium passes, even Las Vegas wants no part of that astronomical sum.  Finally, from the most unexpected place in the world, the fight is signed:  Zaire, Africa.  The former Belgian Congo.  The nation itself, is footing the bill.  This has never been done before or since for a heavyweight fight.

And so the second 'miracle fight' in Ali's career is set.  In my play, Bachelor's Graveyard, I describe the night.  And I think it's a pretty good round by round narrative.  Here is that excerpt from the play:

First round, everybody thinkin’ Big George was not only gonna win, he might HURT the man, fuckin’ MAIM Ali, maybe put him in a wheelchair. Ding, ding. After all the hype, all the words, all the ballyhoo, it’s finally on. It’s finally ON!  Ding, ding. Nobody’s ever come close to whuppin’ Big George, hasn’t gone past two rounds in YEARS. Big George is like this six foot four, two hundred twenty pound, walkin’GILA MONSTER. Beat the shit out of Smokin’ Joe, beat the shit out of Kenny Norton, hell, beat the shit out of EVERYBODY. Ding, ding. Ali’s 32, past his prime, not as fast, not as quick, not as sharp. Ding, ding. Been trainin’ for a year, lookin’ sleek, like a champion racehorse. And he’s mad, he wants his title back, he wants it ALL back. Ding, ding. Augh! Zaire. Africa. The Congo. A hundred and ten degrees in the shade. Witch doctors, voodoo, the heart of the black continent! Ding, ding. Rushes out, man, fucking RUNS to the center of the ring to meet Big George. SLAP. Right hand lead! NOBODY throws a right hand lead at Big George. Slaps the sweat right off his face. Swivels his neck around. Dances away. Back in. RIGHT HAND LEAD! Swap. Like a wet towel on your ass in the locker room. Hits Foreman right in the nose. Hits him harder than anybody’s ever DARED to hit him. Big George is furious. FURIOUS! Wants Ali’s blood, wants his head, wants his heart. Ali grabs him, pulls him in, ties him up. WHAT’S THIS? WHAT’S THIS? Nobody ever thought of it before, but there it is, right in
front of them, right in the middle of the ring, everybody’s mouth hangs open. What’s this? Ali and Big George are the SAME SIZE. Big George is no giant, he’s no Goliath, he’s no gila monster - he’s the same size as Ali. They go to the ropes, Big George throwin’ these big telegraph punches. None of ‘em gettin’ through. And Ali pushes him off, reaches up and puts his gloves on George’s shoulders and SHOVES him to the middle of the ring. MANHANDLES HIM!  What’s this? Ding, ding. The fuckin’ African crowd is goin’ crazy!  It’s three o’clock in the fuckin’ morning! What the fuck is going on? Ding, ding! Round two. George charges out, steam coming from his ears, got death in his eyes. NO ONE embarrasses big George in the ring. Gonna fucking KILL this man! And Ali, the old warrior, the poet-king, the poet-warrior: he . . . goes . . . to . . . the . . . ropes. The ROPES? Oh, no! Oh, no. Not Ali.  Not the king. Not Ali. The fix is in. He’s layin’ down. He’s a dead piece of meat. You can’t go to the ropes with Big George. He kills people on the ropes. That’s the killing zone. That’s where he takes people to butcher them. Oh, FUCK! Big George can’t believe it. He can’t believe it. The dancing master, the speed freak, Muhammad Ali, ON THE ROPES, where he’s always wanted him, where he tossed and turned in his sleep, DREAMING to get him. On the ropes. The place where old boxers go to die. And so he comes for him. Stomps, step by step, toward Ali leaning on the ropes. Big, heavy, awkward steps. Like an executioner wearily trudging up the steps of the gallows. Ali peaking through his gloves, staring at George like a rabbit stares at a hawk, like a mouse stares at a cat, like old, homeless, black men stare at cops. And George goes to work. This is his house, now. He’s home.  And Ali, twitching like the last kid on a dodge ball team, swaying and twisting on the ropes, taking those cannon shots on his arms, his elbows, his chest, his shoulders, everywhere but his head.  Twisting like a corpse hanging from a tree branch in the wind. It’s all over. An entire STADIUM of people gone quiet, an entire WORLD of underdogs watching the last car wreck they ever wanna see, can’t turn away, can’t stop the pictures, can’t make sense of it all anymore. (Beat. Quietly:) Ding, ding.  (Beat.)  Ali walks slowly to his corner. Refuses to sit on his stool. Head down. Looks up. Worry on his face. Sweat dripping off his chin. Eyes focused on George less than twenty feet away. And . . .and . . . smiles. And in that heartbeat, that eye blink, that moment of clarity, he knows. He KNOWS. And
for Ali, it’s the best-kept secret on the earth. He’s the ONLY one that knows. He’s smiling ‘cause he knows, deep in his heart, deep in his soul, so deep in himself only a handful of men have ever been there, he knows . . . it’s over. He knows the long fight is his. And like a book that repeats itself, paragraph after paragraph, chapter after chapter, so predictable, so mind-numbing, so sad, and so the fight plays itself out.  Ding, ding. Ali leans on the ropes. Foreman follows. Ali protects his head. Foreman swings. And swings. And swings. And . . . Jesus Christ, swings. And Ali talks to Foreman, explaining things, teaches school, lessons of life, talks, pours out his philosophy, makes Foreman understand, recites, demands, scolds, pontificates, talks to him, puts his mouth right up to his ear, drags him into clinch after clinch and lectures quietly into his ear. He says, "My name is Muhammad Ali. You’ve been hearin’ about me since you was a scared, little boy. My name is Muhammad Ali. I been walkin’ in your dreams for years. My name is Muhammad Ali and, listen good, boy, I want it all BACK." Round five, round six, round seven. Ding, ding. Big George can’t even walk to his corner without staggering. He’s so tired of hittin’ on Ali. No man can hit something all night long. Doesn’t matter what it is: a pillow, a tree, a wall. Why won’t he go down?  Why won’t he fall? Why won’t he lay down, goddamnit. Who IS this man? And Big George is praying, oh, yes he is. Not big prayers, not even to win anymore. George is praying small now, just get me through another round. Oh, God, I’m so tired. (Beat.) Ding, ding. George pushes himself off his stool. God, I just want this to be over. I’m just so . . . so tired. Ali. To the ropes. Waves George in. C’mon. This is not over yet. You gotta finish me. If you want me to lay down, you gotta kill me, George. Can you do that? You got that in you? Can you kill me? Don’t you know that might isn’t always right? Don’t you KNOW that?  (Beat.) On the ropes. Always on the ropes. He looks like a man leaning out his bedroom window to see if there’s a cat on the roof. Big George stumbles toward him. This is all cosmically written. God’s puppets.  There’s nothing else for him to do. Just swing. Put his head down and swing. Just swing. (Beat.) And then. Like a flash of heat lightning in the middle of the blackest night in the middle of the loneliest field in the middle of nowhere. Ali starts punching. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight perfect shots to the face. Like a sniper, patient and blindingly fast, firing round after round of ammo. Each punch whips George’s head from left to right, from right to left, from east to west. Each punch hard enough to knock out most men alive. Each punch so fast George can only feel them, not see them. And he starts a slow spin, downward, arms twirling, like a man on a tightrope. He can’t feel his legs. All he can see are lights in his eyes. He’s in the queer room now. Where alligators play trombones and bats sing choruses of hallelujia and time slows to nothing. Stay down, George. Stay down. It never really belonged to you anyway. (Beat. Quiet.) Nine, ten. And Ali raises his hands high above him. Fists clenched. And walks leisurely around his fallen foe, the fallen despot, all the fallen ghosts, a fallen decade. (Whispers.) Ding . . . ding. And it was finished. (Pause.) And nobody knew it, not then, not right then anyway, that it was ALL finished, everything: the sixties, Vietnam, Watergate, Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Nixon, Kent State, The Beatles, Wounded Knee, Bobby Seales, Civil Rights, Truth, Justice and the American way. It was finished. The end of a fixed race. And for a few moments, a few days maybe, a few happy, happy moments, everything was as it should be. The crown had been returned to the king and we were a few and a happy band of brothers, the Holy Grail was close and God’s Grace was upon us. (Beat.) October 30, 1974. Three in the morning. (Beat.) And yes, sometimes, sometimes things worked out okay

See you tomorrow.

The Rope-a-dope is born...Ali versus Foreman, 10/31/74, Zaire, Africa

Ali - Part III...Foreman, Frazier and Norton.

Muhammad Ali lands a sharp right cross on the jaw of Ken Norton.

So suddenly Muhammad Ali found himself in a very foreign role, that of a contender.  It had been a long while since he had been cast in this role.  And Frazier was not about to give him a rematch until the public absolutely demanded it.  The first fight, in the Garden, had proved to be simply too costly.  For even though Ali had taken that gargantuan left hook late in the fight, Frazier had been horribly beaten about the head and eyes during the struggle.  In fact, unlike Ali, he'd spent nearly a week in the hospital recovering.  So unless his hand was forced, there would be no immediate rematch.  There were far easier pickings out there than another battle with Ali.

So Ali went on the road.  He fought everywhere.  He fought anyone.  He even took a world tour, of sorts, fighting other contenders in South Africa, Belgium, London, Tokyo, Berlin and even Tokyo.  And he, slowly, kept improving.  Getting his timing back after three and half years out of the ring.  He learned something about himself.  He realized he could no longer dance for twelve or fifteen rounds straight.  Age had taken that away from him.  He learned to 'sit back on his heels and punch' as Angelo Dundee said.  For the first time in his career he was forced to use a rusty talent he had rarely employed...he began to punch.  Most people forget that Ali was a very big and strong man.  They forget because Ali didn't show them that part of his arsenal.  He never needed to.  He was so fast and so unbelievably gifted as a lightning quick, defensive fighter that no one ever saw him simply sit down and do some toe-to-toe punching.  So we began to see that unexpected side of him.  He began to rack up KO after KO.  He went through every single major conternder in the world.  He beat everyone. 

In the meantime, Smokin' Joe Frazier had the great misfortune of stepping into the ring with someone he expected to handle with ease.  A very young Olympic champion named George Foreman.  Foreman was expected to be another easy payday for Frazier.  But instead, he was lucky to escape with his life.  Foreman gave Frazier one of the great beatings in modern pugilistic history.  He knocked him down seven times in two rounds.  One mammoth uppercut actually lifted Frazier nearly four feet off the mat.  It was a massacre.  And suddenly the world had a new champion, Sonny Liston reborn, a six foot four, two hundred twenty pound behemoth of a fighter.  George Foreman was an awesome figure.  In hindsight, probably the hardest puncher in the history of the game and that includes Dempsey, Louis, Marciano and Liston.  He damn near killed Joe Frazier that night in early '73.  And all of a sudden there was new sheriff in town.

So the continuing saga of the golden age of the heavyweights (the 1970s) began to unfold.  The stage was set with Foreman as the unbeatable world champion.  An awesome puncher.  Frazier was the number one contender.  And Ali sat behind Frazier.  The question was, who would Foreman agree to fight?  Give Frazier a rematch or take on Ali, whom he considered the less dangerous of the two fighters?  But again, like all great epic novels, another twist, another turn, another shocking develpment entered the chapters:  his name was Ken Norton.

Norton was a middle-of-the-road, crab-like fighter out of San Diego.  A former marine and college football player with a physique like Adonis.  Not a devastating puncher but not a powder puff, either.  Ali agreed to fight him as he continued to slash his way through the heavyweight ranks.  And in a twist-of-fate kind of fight, Ali took him on in what was thought to be just another training fight.

I've seen the fight many times.  It's not an especially exciting fight because Norton had a style, his cross-armed, shuffling, forward gait, that confused Ali.  But that wasn't the reason he upset the heavyweight apple cart.  Early in the second round, Norton connected with a quick right hand cross that gave Ali a hairline fracture of the jaw.  His cornermen immediately realized it.  Dundee wanted to stop the fight.  Ali refused to.  He fought the rest of the night with an unimaginably painful broken jaw.  And the fight, even then, was very close.  But Norton walked away with a split decision and suddenly Ali found himself once again in the role of struggling underdog.

Foreman was calling the shots by then and could afford to take his time with his next big fight.  So he decided to let Ali and Frazier scramble through the other heavyweights and take on the winner.  Suddenly, much to his chagrin, Ali found himself not one, but two fights away from recapturing the crown.  First he had to beat Norton in a rematch and then beat Frazier in a non-title fight.  A long road.  And after all that, should he succeed, he had to take on the most frightening fighter in the history of boxing, George Foreman.  Not until a decade later, when Mike Tyson first came onto the scene, had the sport seen anyone so completely dominate the heavyweight division.  Louis had dominatated to a point, but had been beaten early in his career so didn't have the same mystique as Foreman.  Marciano had dominated, too, but his time was filled with less than stellar heavyweights.  Only Foreman was considered invinceable.  As Red Smith, the venerated sports writer had written, "George Foreman will remain champion until he decides to quit.  Or the end of time.  Whichever comes first."

It was halfway through the great dramatic novel.  The protagonists and antagonists were set.  The plot had been a twisting, unexpected page-turner.  And, like all great fictional characters, Ali found himself in deep, deep trouble.  His chances were slim, at best.  And, like all great novels, the stage was about to explode with surprises.

See you tomorrow.