Had a callback for a feature yesterday that went reasonably well. One can never second guess these things as I've learned over the years. Sometimes the worst readings can turn into jobs and vice versa.
But this particular callback was at a place here in LA that I loathe. I won't mention any names, but there are a lot of places to audition in LA and this one is one of the more common ones. Every time I go there for a read it just sucks the energy out of me. There are a dozen or so rooms in this place with a large communal area out front. So actors for all the different projects, some wildly disparate, are all sitting together waiting to be called into their respective rooms. Well known actors from film and television are sitting beside five year old girls with their stage mothers. It's a little surreal.
So yesterday I walk in, find my project on the huge board on the wall as one enters, sign in and take a seat. A couple of chairs down, in loud and attention seeking voices, I hear the following conversation from two early twenty-something surfer/waiter/actor type guys:
First Guy: Dude, so, you got a process, you know, like, a process that you work?
Second Guy: Dude, I just do what works, you know? Just put it all out there, Dog.
First Guy: Yeah, cool. I'm doin' a lot of Strasberg stuff these days, you know, really getting deep inside the character. You know, Stanislavsky, that German dude or whatever.
Second Guy: Yeah, I did that once. Dude, that's gnarly stuff.
First Guy: It's so rad. I, like, don't even know who I am anymore I get so deep into character. I'm like, okay, I'm so somebody else right now.
Second Guy: Yeah, me, too. But see, dude, I do it without all the books, you know? I'm just naturally into it. I go there, man, and, whoa, 'Look Out!' People don't even know who I am when I go there.
First Guy: Oh, man, dude, me, too. Dude, I'm so far in character I'm like, 'Who Am I?'
Second Guy: Yeah, that's what it's all about. Gotta go deep, dude. Gotta go real deep.
At this point I embarrassed myself with a bucket of vomitous spew which I projectile wretched all over the walls and floor.
Anyway.
I'm getting too judgemental in my old age, I think. Live and let live, all that. I'm a little worried I might start yelling out our bedroom window soon, screaming at the neighborhood kids to 'get off my lawn!'
So the callback read went well. For this one, the actual director was there and he was very specific about what he wanted and asked me to do it three or four different ways. I like that. And I did the best I could. We'll see.
I have absolutely no name when it comes to film, really. Consequently I don't drag an ego in there with me. Hell, I'm lucky to be there in the first place.
Today is all about taking yet another swipe at a big writing project I've been hired to do. The needs for this project are very specific, indeed, and it's a new ballgame for me. My stuff over the past few decades has all been semi-autobiographical for the most part; personal writing, if you will. So this is altogether new for me. It requires a great deal of research and interviews and the like. Very exciting in an academic sort of way. And the project is starting to shape up into something fairly cool, I think. In any event, the producers, the money guys, are convinced I'm the one to write this, so I'm giving it my all.
I have so much respect for the playwrights of the portable typewriter era because of this new project. Today, because of the miracle of computer software, one can cut, paste, rewrite, slice out, add, delete, copy, quote and rearrange to one's heart's content. I was thinking yesterday about how, back in the day, one had to spend countless hours doing that. Hours, hell, months are saved because of it today.
So, coffee in hand, a little Miles Davis on the headphones, thinking cap (or in my case, 'thinking thimble') on, hands poised aggressively over the keyboard, discerning face assembled...off we go.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
East of Eden and The King's Speech.
Amidst the whirlwind writing sessions as I keep two big projects juggling in the air at the same time, on my down time I caught a couple of films over the past few days. The first was one I hadn't seen in about twenty five years or so, East of Eden with James Dean and Raymond Massey. And the other was the winner of this year's acadademy award, The King's Speech.
The 1950's, I think it safe to say, was a revolutionary decade in the history of the cinema in terms of actors and acting. With the possible exceptions of Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn, our finest American actors were introduced in that ten year span; Brando, Dean, Clift, a few others. Although, in retrospect, I'm not so sure about Dean.
Brando was once asked what he thought of Dean once the younger man had risen to fame and he replied, "He's using my last year's talent." And after watching East of Eden, I'm not so sure he wasn't on to something. Dean is great in the smaller moments, natural and quirky, but his big scenes, his emotionally expansive scenes, are, to me anyway, almost unwatchable. Unlike Brando and Clift, his idols, he doesn't seem to have any sense of the camera when he's in all-out 'acting' mode. It comes across as too much. He seems to be trying to ring the 'acting bell.' Now, to be fair, Elia Kazan, the director of the piece, might be responsible for this because otherwise Dean is fascinating. He has an uncanny knack for finding the slightly off kilter approach to a scene. But there are moments in the film where, if one closes one's eyes and simply listens, he sounds exactly like Brando, inflections and all. And knowing Dean's fascination with the older actor (Brando was six years his senior) it makes sense. Regardless, in the final analysis, his work becomes terribly dated once he gets to the big scenes in the film. I have to confess, I was disappointed because I remembered the movie being so powerful.
In the other film, which we watched last night, The King's Speech, I found myself admiring the pretty pictures on the screen rather than following the thin plot. Colin Firth won the Best Actor nod for it, but the movie clearly belongs to Geoffrey Rush. The whole endeavor sort of loses steam when Rush is not onscreen. I read a review last year on it and remember the catty critic, I forget which one, writing, "The cast of Harry Potter performs The King's Speech." He was more on the mark than I anticipated. Every good British character actor around is thrown into the mix with this one, including my very favorite, Derek Jacobi.
Nonetheless, the film is exceptionally well directed and I most certainly stayed with it all the way through. And the period stuff - England circa 1932 to 1939 - is utterly fascinating. Rush is, as I said, particularly good as the renegade speech teacher.
In other news, back to the drawing board with the writing projects today. I've entered the period with both pieces that I usually find tedious, the actual rewriting part. Strangely, in the case of these projects, that's not true, however. I'm just as energized now as I was when I started. Most of the time, when I'm working on a larger canvas, I get the whole thing on paper and then let it sit for a few weeks, sometimes a few months, and then come back at it with an unsullied eye. Well, I simply don't have the time for that with these. So I'm charging forward and throwing ink on the paper whether I want to or not. Figuratively speaking, of course.
In much the same way when I was younger I was enthralled with the way various actors approached their work, these days I'm equally interested in the way various writers approached theirs. For example, O'Neill despised rewriting. Once he had it on the page, he was satisfied, for the most part, hence his unfortunate habit of repeating himself thoughout a long play. Sam Shepard was the same way. Didn't much care for rewriting. Later, of course, once Shepard had matured, he rewrote constantly, but not at first. Tennessee Williams, on the other hand, agonized over the rewriting process and I think his work bears that out. I've always thought he was the far superior writer to O'Neill. Arthur Miller, too, rewrote ad nauseum until he was satisfied. I just happen to think his subject matters, with the exception of Salesman, were often rather boring in the long run. Miller was more interested in changing the world and advancing his politics than he was in telling a good story. In any event, I'm actually having fun with these rewrites, shaping and molding on a deadline.
Angie and I finally broke down and bought a tester for my blood sugar yesterday. My nutritionist had advised against it saying, "You will become a slave to it." Be that as it may, it has been fluctuating wildly over the past few months and at my last visit to the doctor, she expressed deep concern. So we bought one. Problem is, it takes two or three 'pokes' to draw blood from my finger. Maybe I have freakishly thick finger skin, I don't know. Whatever the reason, it's annoying to have to keep pricking the finger over and over to get a drop of blood for the meter. And naturally I yelp and wail during the entire process, mostly for Angie's benefit.
My diet, for obvious reasons, has become incredibly restricted these days and Angie has been pouring over diabetes books to find new and interesting ways to cook. She's finding them, too. Make no mistake, I'm unbelievably lucky to have someone cooking for me with such great imagination in the kitchen. She is, quite simply, the best chef I've ever seen or met. She's fearless in the kitchen. And with my 'silent killer' hanging over me, this is no small thing. Fortunately for me, I think she, for the most part, enjoys it and sees it as a challenge. Her culinary gifts are, quite possibly, saving my life. and to that I say, huzzah.
Another early morning at the keyboard. Another day of battle between the white, clean page and myself. I relish it. Indeed, I do.
See you tomorrow.
The 1950's, I think it safe to say, was a revolutionary decade in the history of the cinema in terms of actors and acting. With the possible exceptions of Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn, our finest American actors were introduced in that ten year span; Brando, Dean, Clift, a few others. Although, in retrospect, I'm not so sure about Dean.
Brando was once asked what he thought of Dean once the younger man had risen to fame and he replied, "He's using my last year's talent." And after watching East of Eden, I'm not so sure he wasn't on to something. Dean is great in the smaller moments, natural and quirky, but his big scenes, his emotionally expansive scenes, are, to me anyway, almost unwatchable. Unlike Brando and Clift, his idols, he doesn't seem to have any sense of the camera when he's in all-out 'acting' mode. It comes across as too much. He seems to be trying to ring the 'acting bell.' Now, to be fair, Elia Kazan, the director of the piece, might be responsible for this because otherwise Dean is fascinating. He has an uncanny knack for finding the slightly off kilter approach to a scene. But there are moments in the film where, if one closes one's eyes and simply listens, he sounds exactly like Brando, inflections and all. And knowing Dean's fascination with the older actor (Brando was six years his senior) it makes sense. Regardless, in the final analysis, his work becomes terribly dated once he gets to the big scenes in the film. I have to confess, I was disappointed because I remembered the movie being so powerful.
In the other film, which we watched last night, The King's Speech, I found myself admiring the pretty pictures on the screen rather than following the thin plot. Colin Firth won the Best Actor nod for it, but the movie clearly belongs to Geoffrey Rush. The whole endeavor sort of loses steam when Rush is not onscreen. I read a review last year on it and remember the catty critic, I forget which one, writing, "The cast of Harry Potter performs The King's Speech." He was more on the mark than I anticipated. Every good British character actor around is thrown into the mix with this one, including my very favorite, Derek Jacobi.
Nonetheless, the film is exceptionally well directed and I most certainly stayed with it all the way through. And the period stuff - England circa 1932 to 1939 - is utterly fascinating. Rush is, as I said, particularly good as the renegade speech teacher.
In other news, back to the drawing board with the writing projects today. I've entered the period with both pieces that I usually find tedious, the actual rewriting part. Strangely, in the case of these projects, that's not true, however. I'm just as energized now as I was when I started. Most of the time, when I'm working on a larger canvas, I get the whole thing on paper and then let it sit for a few weeks, sometimes a few months, and then come back at it with an unsullied eye. Well, I simply don't have the time for that with these. So I'm charging forward and throwing ink on the paper whether I want to or not. Figuratively speaking, of course.
In much the same way when I was younger I was enthralled with the way various actors approached their work, these days I'm equally interested in the way various writers approached theirs. For example, O'Neill despised rewriting. Once he had it on the page, he was satisfied, for the most part, hence his unfortunate habit of repeating himself thoughout a long play. Sam Shepard was the same way. Didn't much care for rewriting. Later, of course, once Shepard had matured, he rewrote constantly, but not at first. Tennessee Williams, on the other hand, agonized over the rewriting process and I think his work bears that out. I've always thought he was the far superior writer to O'Neill. Arthur Miller, too, rewrote ad nauseum until he was satisfied. I just happen to think his subject matters, with the exception of Salesman, were often rather boring in the long run. Miller was more interested in changing the world and advancing his politics than he was in telling a good story. In any event, I'm actually having fun with these rewrites, shaping and molding on a deadline.
Angie and I finally broke down and bought a tester for my blood sugar yesterday. My nutritionist had advised against it saying, "You will become a slave to it." Be that as it may, it has been fluctuating wildly over the past few months and at my last visit to the doctor, she expressed deep concern. So we bought one. Problem is, it takes two or three 'pokes' to draw blood from my finger. Maybe I have freakishly thick finger skin, I don't know. Whatever the reason, it's annoying to have to keep pricking the finger over and over to get a drop of blood for the meter. And naturally I yelp and wail during the entire process, mostly for Angie's benefit.
My diet, for obvious reasons, has become incredibly restricted these days and Angie has been pouring over diabetes books to find new and interesting ways to cook. She's finding them, too. Make no mistake, I'm unbelievably lucky to have someone cooking for me with such great imagination in the kitchen. She is, quite simply, the best chef I've ever seen or met. She's fearless in the kitchen. And with my 'silent killer' hanging over me, this is no small thing. Fortunately for me, I think she, for the most part, enjoys it and sees it as a challenge. Her culinary gifts are, quite possibly, saving my life. and to that I say, huzzah.
Another early morning at the keyboard. Another day of battle between the white, clean page and myself. I relish it. Indeed, I do.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The Rapture...silly but ultimately mean-spirited.
My time in Los Angeles has finally reached the point where I need to keep a calendar. That's a cool thing. In Chicago, before I moved here, I actually had a person responsible (working for me at Naked Face Studios) whose sole job it was to keep my various projects juggling in the air for me: mostly teaching, but also writing and acting and directing gigs. Of course, when I moved to the City of Angels, that was, um, not necessary, to put it mildly. I knew very few people and was lucky to have one gig happening, much less several on different artistic fronts.
Well, now it is.
I spend my days alternating my time between two writing projects, one for a German producer and a new film and the other a stage production with infinite possibilities. The former is nearly done and the latter falls under the category of 'top secret.' Not for long, though. Soon, we'll be workshopping it and, I suspect, dealing with a great deal of publicity. But we'll see.
Also in rehearsal, as an actor, for 'The Interlopers,' Gary Lennon's cutting edge new play about the world of transgender love. That's going just swimmingly and I suspect, again, it will get a lot of ink once it's available to the public.
And finally, much to my great satisfaction, I've finally tied up my representation on all three performance fronts: theatre, commercials and film and tv. It took me awhile to find the right fit for all three, but I think I finally have.
On another note, I was watching a bit of a documentary last night about 'the rapture.' It's supposed to happen today, according to a whole gaggle of blithering idiots that have completely missed the point of Christianity. You know the ones, the ones that think religion is based on good and bad, that it's about the meek and faithful getting their just dues in the end and that anyone remotely considered unfaithful will be left behind to wallow in their arrogance. The very notion is maddeningly smug.
The whole idea has been met with a great deal of derision from the local and national press, as well it should be. It's the part of Christianity that galls me: the part that dwells on 'revenge.' Yes, it's funny. Yes, it's ludicrous. Yes, it's even embarrassing. But above all it's mean. Biblical literalists, mean-spirited to the last, masking their 'faith' in false humility, living an entire spiritual life in the very bowels of a passive-aggressive mentality. It sickens me. An unspoken lifestyle that reeks of a B movie theme...'Ooooh, you're gonna get yours.' Jesus, whatever he may mean to anyone individually, was very specific about this: change yourself and the world will follow. It's a lesson easily preached but infinitely difficult to implement. And, as Salinger says in Franny and Zooey, the one thing about Jesus, regardless of one's belief in his diety, was this...he was incredibly smart. Too smart to base a life's teachings on the philosophy of revenge.
Okay, got that out.
In any event, Angie and I finally shelled out for a new computer, seeing as how I was suddenly involved in a bunch of writing gigs. It's a bit of Nirvana for me. I love it and my work has quite literally doubled in speed because of it. I'm staring at the huge, new LED monitor right this very minute, in fact.
Another good day in SoCal. They're all good days, really. Life is good.
See you tomorrow.
Well, now it is.
I spend my days alternating my time between two writing projects, one for a German producer and a new film and the other a stage production with infinite possibilities. The former is nearly done and the latter falls under the category of 'top secret.' Not for long, though. Soon, we'll be workshopping it and, I suspect, dealing with a great deal of publicity. But we'll see.
Also in rehearsal, as an actor, for 'The Interlopers,' Gary Lennon's cutting edge new play about the world of transgender love. That's going just swimmingly and I suspect, again, it will get a lot of ink once it's available to the public.
And finally, much to my great satisfaction, I've finally tied up my representation on all three performance fronts: theatre, commercials and film and tv. It took me awhile to find the right fit for all three, but I think I finally have.
On another note, I was watching a bit of a documentary last night about 'the rapture.' It's supposed to happen today, according to a whole gaggle of blithering idiots that have completely missed the point of Christianity. You know the ones, the ones that think religion is based on good and bad, that it's about the meek and faithful getting their just dues in the end and that anyone remotely considered unfaithful will be left behind to wallow in their arrogance. The very notion is maddeningly smug.
The whole idea has been met with a great deal of derision from the local and national press, as well it should be. It's the part of Christianity that galls me: the part that dwells on 'revenge.' Yes, it's funny. Yes, it's ludicrous. Yes, it's even embarrassing. But above all it's mean. Biblical literalists, mean-spirited to the last, masking their 'faith' in false humility, living an entire spiritual life in the very bowels of a passive-aggressive mentality. It sickens me. An unspoken lifestyle that reeks of a B movie theme...'Ooooh, you're gonna get yours.' Jesus, whatever he may mean to anyone individually, was very specific about this: change yourself and the world will follow. It's a lesson easily preached but infinitely difficult to implement. And, as Salinger says in Franny and Zooey, the one thing about Jesus, regardless of one's belief in his diety, was this...he was incredibly smart. Too smart to base a life's teachings on the philosophy of revenge.
Okay, got that out.
In any event, Angie and I finally shelled out for a new computer, seeing as how I was suddenly involved in a bunch of writing gigs. It's a bit of Nirvana for me. I love it and my work has quite literally doubled in speed because of it. I'm staring at the huge, new LED monitor right this very minute, in fact.
Another good day in SoCal. They're all good days, really. Life is good.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Hepburn.
Turner Classic Movies, or TCM, recently had a wonderful three-part, three-hour interview from 1973 with Katherine Hepburn and Dick Cavett in Hepburn's very first television appearance. It was utterly fascinating. And not just because it was Hepburn, although the old gal is pretty damn fascinating all by herself. But because it's a 'test' interview. That is to say, Cavett had been desperately trying to land this coup and had been calling Hepburn incessantly, calling in favors from a myriad of famous friends, wooing her, essentially. Finally, after many months, she agreed to come in and do a 'test' interview, just to see if she was at all comfortable doing something like this. She schlepps in to the studio (it was done in NY) wearing what appears to be her gardening clothes, sandals, old khakis, a turtleneck, her hair amiss. Cavett, the old sly dog, tells the camera guy to turn his camera on and not tell her. Hepburn didn't notice. What happens is remarkable; an interview with Katherine Hepburn sans audience, being stunningly candid.
About halfway through the interview, Hepburn decides she's having fun and leans over to Cavett and says, "Oh, goddamnit, let's just do it. Turn on the camera." Of course, the camera has been on the entire time. At that point, she stops cursing so much (Hepburn cursed like a sailor) but is still magnetic and always surprising.
Word of the event spreads like wildfire and by the end of the three hours what had been an empty studio is now filled with people who have rushed over to see it from all over the building.
Personally, I've always been fascinated with 'old time' Hollywood. And Cavett has always made it no secret that he was, too. Later that same year he also managed to get Brando to sit down in his first ever television interview. He says the only other he tried to get on camera was Cary Grant, but it never happened. (I recall the famous telegraph that Jack Parr sent to Grant when they were trying to set up an interview a few years before that never quite panned out: "How Old Cary Grant," it said. Grant sent one back that said, "Old Cary Grant just fine. How you?")
Anyway, with Hepburn it becomes clear just how much she absolutely adored Spencer Tracy (remember, he had only died a few years earlier). Not only as the love of her life but as an actor. Of course, she wasn't alone in that respect. Every actor worth his salt genuflected to Tracy's astonishing ability to be honest on screen. Even Brando, who for the most part had no respect for the old time movie acting tradition, was in awe of Tracy saying, "He doesn't seem to be capable of not telling the truth."
Hepburn talks fondly of working with John Huston and Humphrey Bogart on 'African Queen,' "They were both drunks, of course." On Garbo: "The camera loved her like no one else, before or since." On Brando, "He is not limited as an actor, a brilliant actor. Limited, perhaps, as a person, but not as an actor." On Bette Davis, "I liked her. A wonderful actress." On Olivier, "Completely different approach from myself. Brilliant in his own way." On the difference between acting for the camera and acting on stage, "No difference whatsoever. It all comes down to concentration."
She is tremendously charming when she wants, exhibiting that odd mixture of supreme confidence and yankee dediation to hard work. She says of Tracy at one point, "He was better than I was, it's as simple as that." She drops little tidbits of history here and there saying at one point about 'Gone With the Wind,' "They sent the script to me first. But I knew I was never really in the running for it." About her inability to handle her own finances, "I sent my father all my money and he kept me on an allowance until his death in 1962."
Hepburn has always been considered our greatest film actress (with the possible exception of Streep now) and seems to be keenly aware of her own stature within the acting community. She's enormously competitive saying at one point, "I have, on occasion, taken a part simply to keep someone I didn't like from being offered the role."
And through it all her complete disdain for the public perception of her 'fame' becomes clear. She has no use for it. One gets the idea she'd rather play a few games of tennis ("I was never very good at it.") than suffer through a conversation about movies. On Brando's refusing to accept the Oscar ("Bullshit.") which was still a hot topic in 1973. On her own Oscar statues, "I never bothered to pick them up."
The interesting thing to note is that she still had a magnificent career in front of her. At the time of the interview she had already been in the business for some 41 years and she was just getting started. She had several great film roles in front of her at that point ('On Golden Pond,' Glass Menagerie,' 'A Little Romance,' 'Long Day's Journey Into Night').
Cavett is clearly in awe of her the entire time although he doesn't become a sycophant about it. His questions are on the money. The great thing about Cavett is he always had a knack for asking what other people might ask. He's clearly a fan and Hepburn's undisguised self-confidence amuses him no end.
'Twas a wonderful way to spend a lazy Sunday night. Katherine Hepburn is an icon. Not a 'made up' icon, but the real deal. And now, even after all these years, her work holds up. She wasn't a passing fancy. She was good. She was very good at what she did.
See you tomorrow.
About halfway through the interview, Hepburn decides she's having fun and leans over to Cavett and says, "Oh, goddamnit, let's just do it. Turn on the camera." Of course, the camera has been on the entire time. At that point, she stops cursing so much (Hepburn cursed like a sailor) but is still magnetic and always surprising.
Word of the event spreads like wildfire and by the end of the three hours what had been an empty studio is now filled with people who have rushed over to see it from all over the building.
Personally, I've always been fascinated with 'old time' Hollywood. And Cavett has always made it no secret that he was, too. Later that same year he also managed to get Brando to sit down in his first ever television interview. He says the only other he tried to get on camera was Cary Grant, but it never happened. (I recall the famous telegraph that Jack Parr sent to Grant when they were trying to set up an interview a few years before that never quite panned out: "How Old Cary Grant," it said. Grant sent one back that said, "Old Cary Grant just fine. How you?")
Anyway, with Hepburn it becomes clear just how much she absolutely adored Spencer Tracy (remember, he had only died a few years earlier). Not only as the love of her life but as an actor. Of course, she wasn't alone in that respect. Every actor worth his salt genuflected to Tracy's astonishing ability to be honest on screen. Even Brando, who for the most part had no respect for the old time movie acting tradition, was in awe of Tracy saying, "He doesn't seem to be capable of not telling the truth."
Hepburn talks fondly of working with John Huston and Humphrey Bogart on 'African Queen,' "They were both drunks, of course." On Garbo: "The camera loved her like no one else, before or since." On Brando, "He is not limited as an actor, a brilliant actor. Limited, perhaps, as a person, but not as an actor." On Bette Davis, "I liked her. A wonderful actress." On Olivier, "Completely different approach from myself. Brilliant in his own way." On the difference between acting for the camera and acting on stage, "No difference whatsoever. It all comes down to concentration."
She is tremendously charming when she wants, exhibiting that odd mixture of supreme confidence and yankee dediation to hard work. She says of Tracy at one point, "He was better than I was, it's as simple as that." She drops little tidbits of history here and there saying at one point about 'Gone With the Wind,' "They sent the script to me first. But I knew I was never really in the running for it." About her inability to handle her own finances, "I sent my father all my money and he kept me on an allowance until his death in 1962."
Hepburn has always been considered our greatest film actress (with the possible exception of Streep now) and seems to be keenly aware of her own stature within the acting community. She's enormously competitive saying at one point, "I have, on occasion, taken a part simply to keep someone I didn't like from being offered the role."
And through it all her complete disdain for the public perception of her 'fame' becomes clear. She has no use for it. One gets the idea she'd rather play a few games of tennis ("I was never very good at it.") than suffer through a conversation about movies. On Brando's refusing to accept the Oscar ("Bullshit.") which was still a hot topic in 1973. On her own Oscar statues, "I never bothered to pick them up."
The interesting thing to note is that she still had a magnificent career in front of her. At the time of the interview she had already been in the business for some 41 years and she was just getting started. She had several great film roles in front of her at that point ('On Golden Pond,' Glass Menagerie,' 'A Little Romance,' 'Long Day's Journey Into Night').
Cavett is clearly in awe of her the entire time although he doesn't become a sycophant about it. His questions are on the money. The great thing about Cavett is he always had a knack for asking what other people might ask. He's clearly a fan and Hepburn's undisguised self-confidence amuses him no end.
'Twas a wonderful way to spend a lazy Sunday night. Katherine Hepburn is an icon. Not a 'made up' icon, but the real deal. And now, even after all these years, her work holds up. She wasn't a passing fancy. She was good. She was very good at what she did.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
127 Hours. The Movie That Wouldn't End.
In the 'better late than never' category, I watched '127 Hours' last night. To say I was underwhelmed would be putting it mildly.
As nearly everyone knows the film is based on a true story of a man rock climbing in a deserted area in Colorado, meets an unfortunate series of, um, rock climbing events and ends up in a shallow ravine with his arm under a rock. After, well, 127 hours or so, he cuts the offending arm off with a rusty nail and sashays away. Well, okay, perhaps not 'sashay' but he does get away and back to safety and civilization. And in the process learns, I think, that everybody needs the love and support of other people. Or maybe he learns to always leave a note as to where he's going, even if it's to the store to buy some yams. Or maybe he learns to never leave his Swiss Army Knife at home. Or maybe he learns to buy American. I'm not sure what he learns but he apparently learns something.
First of all, unlike the real story of this guy (I watched him on Dateline one night), I couldn't have cared less. There is absolutely no exposition or 'backstory' for this guy. We don't don't know who he is, what he's about, what his loves and fears are, we don't know squat about him. He just ups and runs off on a bike one day and falls in a ditch. And then spends the rest of the movie halucinating about a life we know nothing about. Finally, he gets all sassy and cuts his arm off.
I am not now nor have I ever been terribly impressed with James Franco as an actor. For me, he's always been sort of the 'poster boy' for generation X. There's a detachment to his work, emotionally, that I find appalling in the intimate confines of film making. You could turn this film into a drinking game. Every time Franco changes expressions everyone has to take a drink. I'm guessing the entire room would be stone cold sober by the end of the movie.
And I'd be curious to know what executive watched this film and said to himself, "You know, after seeing this, I'm thinking James Franco is a perfect choice to host the Oscars."
Yes, there is some drama, in a wincing sort of way, when he finally gets around to sawing his appendage off. And, like The Alamo, this comes as no surprise when he does finally get around to it. We're all waiting for the 'cut off the arm' moment. In fact, we're all waiting forever, it seems like. And then, when he does cut the damned thing off, instead of feeling the rush of catharsis, instead we look at our wristwatches and calculate the time to the credits rolling. We think, "Well, okay, the arm is gone. Now they've got no choice but to end this thing." But, no. After he leaves the arm back at the ranch, he staggers around in the badlands for another half hour or so looking for an ambulance.
Danny Boyle has directed the whole fiasco like an MTV video, clearly not trusting the attention span of his audience. And then, shockingly, tries to add a moral lesson at movie's end.
Aside from his 'Naked Lunch' style flashbacks and his chance meeting with two Rubenesque female hikers early in the film, it's essentially a one-man show. But it's kind of like watching your accountant in a one-man show. Franco is a dismal choice for the role. Physically, he's the right age, the right stature, whatever, but his performance lies somewhere between David Duchovny in his most emotionally bereft X Files period and a badly scripted Olive Garden commercial in which a gaggle of thirty-somethings sit around a table and laugh for no apparent reason as salad and bread is being passed around.
The whole device of using the camcorder to record his thoughts and water-deprived ravings is interesting for about a minute and a half but it's been done to death starting as far back as Beckett's 'Krapp's Last Tape.' The good thing, I suppose, is the driving club music throughout. It has a good beat and is easy to dance to, is what I kept thinking.
I also noticed (my wife, Angie, and my buddy John were watching it with me) that once Boyle gets to the only dramatic moment of the film, the actual amputation of the arm, everyone turns away anyway. It's kind of like stepping out to smoke a cigarette the moment before Oprah finally asks, "So, tell me, why did you decide to drown all 36 of your wife's inlaws?"
Eventually, as I said, he gets out of the ditch and wanders off armless. It's at this point that I learned losing your arm also makes you deaf because he can't hear anybody for the rest of the movie. See, this is why I love going to the cinema, to learn things like this.
The movie, staying true to its MTV genesis, begins and ends with a sixties, Don Knotts in 'The Love God,' split screen motif with a kind of blinking computer font over it all. This made me feel very hip for watching it. Sort of as if I were in on a happenin' new webisode.
This film was one of ten Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. And Franco was nominated for Best Actor. This made me idly wonder why 'Saved By the Bell' never got an Emmy nomination.
On a wholly different note, Angie and I are off to purchase a new computer today. The one I'm writing on now, the circa' 1954 model complete with dilithium crystals to run it, is about to be retired. I wrote some good scripts on this thing but finally had to look into getting a new one when it started calling me 'Dave.'
See you tomorrow.
As nearly everyone knows the film is based on a true story of a man rock climbing in a deserted area in Colorado, meets an unfortunate series of, um, rock climbing events and ends up in a shallow ravine with his arm under a rock. After, well, 127 hours or so, he cuts the offending arm off with a rusty nail and sashays away. Well, okay, perhaps not 'sashay' but he does get away and back to safety and civilization. And in the process learns, I think, that everybody needs the love and support of other people. Or maybe he learns to always leave a note as to where he's going, even if it's to the store to buy some yams. Or maybe he learns to never leave his Swiss Army Knife at home. Or maybe he learns to buy American. I'm not sure what he learns but he apparently learns something.
First of all, unlike the real story of this guy (I watched him on Dateline one night), I couldn't have cared less. There is absolutely no exposition or 'backstory' for this guy. We don't don't know who he is, what he's about, what his loves and fears are, we don't know squat about him. He just ups and runs off on a bike one day and falls in a ditch. And then spends the rest of the movie halucinating about a life we know nothing about. Finally, he gets all sassy and cuts his arm off.
I am not now nor have I ever been terribly impressed with James Franco as an actor. For me, he's always been sort of the 'poster boy' for generation X. There's a detachment to his work, emotionally, that I find appalling in the intimate confines of film making. You could turn this film into a drinking game. Every time Franco changes expressions everyone has to take a drink. I'm guessing the entire room would be stone cold sober by the end of the movie.
And I'd be curious to know what executive watched this film and said to himself, "You know, after seeing this, I'm thinking James Franco is a perfect choice to host the Oscars."
Yes, there is some drama, in a wincing sort of way, when he finally gets around to sawing his appendage off. And, like The Alamo, this comes as no surprise when he does finally get around to it. We're all waiting for the 'cut off the arm' moment. In fact, we're all waiting forever, it seems like. And then, when he does cut the damned thing off, instead of feeling the rush of catharsis, instead we look at our wristwatches and calculate the time to the credits rolling. We think, "Well, okay, the arm is gone. Now they've got no choice but to end this thing." But, no. After he leaves the arm back at the ranch, he staggers around in the badlands for another half hour or so looking for an ambulance.
Danny Boyle has directed the whole fiasco like an MTV video, clearly not trusting the attention span of his audience. And then, shockingly, tries to add a moral lesson at movie's end.
Aside from his 'Naked Lunch' style flashbacks and his chance meeting with two Rubenesque female hikers early in the film, it's essentially a one-man show. But it's kind of like watching your accountant in a one-man show. Franco is a dismal choice for the role. Physically, he's the right age, the right stature, whatever, but his performance lies somewhere between David Duchovny in his most emotionally bereft X Files period and a badly scripted Olive Garden commercial in which a gaggle of thirty-somethings sit around a table and laugh for no apparent reason as salad and bread is being passed around.
The whole device of using the camcorder to record his thoughts and water-deprived ravings is interesting for about a minute and a half but it's been done to death starting as far back as Beckett's 'Krapp's Last Tape.' The good thing, I suppose, is the driving club music throughout. It has a good beat and is easy to dance to, is what I kept thinking.
I also noticed (my wife, Angie, and my buddy John were watching it with me) that once Boyle gets to the only dramatic moment of the film, the actual amputation of the arm, everyone turns away anyway. It's kind of like stepping out to smoke a cigarette the moment before Oprah finally asks, "So, tell me, why did you decide to drown all 36 of your wife's inlaws?"
Eventually, as I said, he gets out of the ditch and wanders off armless. It's at this point that I learned losing your arm also makes you deaf because he can't hear anybody for the rest of the movie. See, this is why I love going to the cinema, to learn things like this.
The movie, staying true to its MTV genesis, begins and ends with a sixties, Don Knotts in 'The Love God,' split screen motif with a kind of blinking computer font over it all. This made me feel very hip for watching it. Sort of as if I were in on a happenin' new webisode.
This film was one of ten Academy Award nominees for Best Picture. And Franco was nominated for Best Actor. This made me idly wonder why 'Saved By the Bell' never got an Emmy nomination.
On a wholly different note, Angie and I are off to purchase a new computer today. The one I'm writing on now, the circa' 1954 model complete with dilithium crystals to run it, is about to be retired. I wrote some good scripts on this thing but finally had to look into getting a new one when it started calling me 'Dave.'
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
The First Read.
Had the first table read for this new piece I'm involved in as an actor, The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, last night. Directed by Jim Fall. Feel free to google both of those names and you'll see for yourself the level of talent involved.
First readings are always kinda interesting. Sort of the 'first day of school' feeling for everyone. Hard to make any firm conclusions about anything at such an early juncture but it does give an idea, scant to be sure, of the level of competence in the room. One impression I got last night is undeniable; there are some really fine actors involved with the piece. Michael Testa, who served as casting director for the piece (and, incidentally, also cooked an amazing dinner for everyone last night) told me afterwards the casting process for this play had been over two months. That's a lot for a play. And I can see it in the choices, actually. If ever there were a gaggle of actors that fit their roles like a glove it's this bunch.
Once I got home I was telling Angie all about it, as is my habit, and the one thing I kept coming back to was, at first impression anyway, how damn good the actors were. As I understand it, the script will undergo some cutting and rewrites, as always happens with a brand new piece, and then rehearsals will start in earnest.
The first readthru is always an exciting time. For one thing, it's the first time the playwright gets to hear the words out loud from pros (although as I understand it, this piece was subject to a staged reading in NYC last year). For another, and perhaps more importantly, it gives everyone - playwright, director and actors - an idea of the flow and ebb of the piece and a chance to sort of visualize where one fits into it all.
I've had, over a long career, some fairly interesting first reads. When I did 'Lost in Yonkers' in Chicago some years back, the entire cast had done the play in other venues and everyone came in off book. When the director said, 'okay, let's read it,' no one at the table opened their script.
Olivier, of course, was legendary for coming into the first read off book, even for the big ones (Othello, Lear, Hamlet, Richard).
One of the things I've learned over the past century of doing this kind of stuff is to be wary of the actor that gives his opening night performance at the first read. This happens more than one might think. It doesn't happen all that often, to be sure, but it does happen. Sometimes what you get at the first read is what you get...period. The actor has made all of his choices already and will stick to them come hell or high water. This is not always necessarily a terrible thing, but it's not the way I, personally, like to work.
A buddy of mine, a very fine actor who has since left the business, would come in at first read and do the entire thing in a monotone. The first time I worked with him it scared the bejesus out of me. Happily, it turned out he was a wonderful actor but simply chose to do that so as not to dig a ditch for himself too early.
Other actors I know and admire come in and just let it all fly. No holding back, top volume, energy cranked, deadly serious. That's more in line with the British tradition and there's certainly something to be said for that, too. I tend to do more rather than less at a first read myself, not so much for my own exploration but so the writer (if he's on hand) and director can get a better feel for the piece as a whole.
This play, The Interlopers, delves deeply into the one area of mystery, the proverbial 'undiscovered country' of the stage world, the final frontier of live theatre, and that is sex. The two leads (both wonderful, incidentally) are two transgendered people; a male wanting to become a female and a female wanting to become a male. The play follows them as they fall in love. As one might imagine, the complications of romantic love and physical sex gets very complicated, indeed, and in fact, this might even be the overwhelming thesis of the play. Albee explored a similar theme in 'Sylvia, or, The Goat' and lesser playwrights have certainly taken a swipe at it as well, but all in all, it's a taboo subject for stage. One reason is because film does sex so much better. Film has been grappling with the issue as far back as Bertolucci's 'Last Tango in Paris.' Americans, even today in the year of our Lord 2011, are mired in a Victorian era of exploring sex, both physically and in the mind, where it actually counts. This is primarily the reason I took the gig, even though frankly it's not a very large role, because the subject matter fascinates me. Even last night, knowing the script as I do, I was hard pressed to keep it all straight in my head: a girl who is waiting to become a guy but likes girls is falling in love with a guy who is becoming a girl but likes girls...the mind reels. As one character says late in the play, "Jesus, you need a flow chart to keep up with you people." But that's the fascinating part of this whole thing. Where are the rules that say one can't love whoever one wants? And who, exactly, wrote these rules? It is most definitely a hot button right now in the political and social arenas in this country, exacerbated by our morally entrenched Tea-Party right.
Gary Lennon, who penned the piece, is clearly a smart guy. And he doesn't pander with this complicated and revealing subject matter. In lesser hands it would be easy to let the piece slip into the genre of soft porn. This is not the case here, I'm delighted to say. Instead, like GB Shaw at his very best, the play asks questions rather than supply answers. I like that very much.
It's all very exciting and on a purely selfish note, I'm beside myself with the fact that, like the last two outings on the stage for me, I don't have to carry the piece. I have a small role. And I'm happy with that. And I'm equally happy with the fact that the actors who do have to carry it are apparently more than up to the task.
See you tomorrow.
First readings are always kinda interesting. Sort of the 'first day of school' feeling for everyone. Hard to make any firm conclusions about anything at such an early juncture but it does give an idea, scant to be sure, of the level of competence in the room. One impression I got last night is undeniable; there are some really fine actors involved with the piece. Michael Testa, who served as casting director for the piece (and, incidentally, also cooked an amazing dinner for everyone last night) told me afterwards the casting process for this play had been over two months. That's a lot for a play. And I can see it in the choices, actually. If ever there were a gaggle of actors that fit their roles like a glove it's this bunch.
Once I got home I was telling Angie all about it, as is my habit, and the one thing I kept coming back to was, at first impression anyway, how damn good the actors were. As I understand it, the script will undergo some cutting and rewrites, as always happens with a brand new piece, and then rehearsals will start in earnest.
The first readthru is always an exciting time. For one thing, it's the first time the playwright gets to hear the words out loud from pros (although as I understand it, this piece was subject to a staged reading in NYC last year). For another, and perhaps more importantly, it gives everyone - playwright, director and actors - an idea of the flow and ebb of the piece and a chance to sort of visualize where one fits into it all.
I've had, over a long career, some fairly interesting first reads. When I did 'Lost in Yonkers' in Chicago some years back, the entire cast had done the play in other venues and everyone came in off book. When the director said, 'okay, let's read it,' no one at the table opened their script.
Olivier, of course, was legendary for coming into the first read off book, even for the big ones (Othello, Lear, Hamlet, Richard).
One of the things I've learned over the past century of doing this kind of stuff is to be wary of the actor that gives his opening night performance at the first read. This happens more than one might think. It doesn't happen all that often, to be sure, but it does happen. Sometimes what you get at the first read is what you get...period. The actor has made all of his choices already and will stick to them come hell or high water. This is not always necessarily a terrible thing, but it's not the way I, personally, like to work.
A buddy of mine, a very fine actor who has since left the business, would come in at first read and do the entire thing in a monotone. The first time I worked with him it scared the bejesus out of me. Happily, it turned out he was a wonderful actor but simply chose to do that so as not to dig a ditch for himself too early.
Other actors I know and admire come in and just let it all fly. No holding back, top volume, energy cranked, deadly serious. That's more in line with the British tradition and there's certainly something to be said for that, too. I tend to do more rather than less at a first read myself, not so much for my own exploration but so the writer (if he's on hand) and director can get a better feel for the piece as a whole.
This play, The Interlopers, delves deeply into the one area of mystery, the proverbial 'undiscovered country' of the stage world, the final frontier of live theatre, and that is sex. The two leads (both wonderful, incidentally) are two transgendered people; a male wanting to become a female and a female wanting to become a male. The play follows them as they fall in love. As one might imagine, the complications of romantic love and physical sex gets very complicated, indeed, and in fact, this might even be the overwhelming thesis of the play. Albee explored a similar theme in 'Sylvia, or, The Goat' and lesser playwrights have certainly taken a swipe at it as well, but all in all, it's a taboo subject for stage. One reason is because film does sex so much better. Film has been grappling with the issue as far back as Bertolucci's 'Last Tango in Paris.' Americans, even today in the year of our Lord 2011, are mired in a Victorian era of exploring sex, both physically and in the mind, where it actually counts. This is primarily the reason I took the gig, even though frankly it's not a very large role, because the subject matter fascinates me. Even last night, knowing the script as I do, I was hard pressed to keep it all straight in my head: a girl who is waiting to become a guy but likes girls is falling in love with a guy who is becoming a girl but likes girls...the mind reels. As one character says late in the play, "Jesus, you need a flow chart to keep up with you people." But that's the fascinating part of this whole thing. Where are the rules that say one can't love whoever one wants? And who, exactly, wrote these rules? It is most definitely a hot button right now in the political and social arenas in this country, exacerbated by our morally entrenched Tea-Party right.
Gary Lennon, who penned the piece, is clearly a smart guy. And he doesn't pander with this complicated and revealing subject matter. In lesser hands it would be easy to let the piece slip into the genre of soft porn. This is not the case here, I'm delighted to say. Instead, like GB Shaw at his very best, the play asks questions rather than supply answers. I like that very much.
It's all very exciting and on a purely selfish note, I'm beside myself with the fact that, like the last two outings on the stage for me, I don't have to carry the piece. I have a small role. And I'm happy with that. And I'm equally happy with the fact that the actors who do have to carry it are apparently more than up to the task.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Fun in the City of Angels.
Ah, showbiz. 'Tis been a frenetic week in the City of Angels for me. Mostly good stuff with a couple of dark clouds here and there.
Finally got my blood work back from a couple of weeks ago (had to go in for further tests regarding the old 'silent killer'). Most of it came back looking quite peachy with the exception of the numbers indicating the proper functioning of my kidneys. Not so good. Correctable, but not so good. All a bit of a wake up call, actually. So...new diet, new excercise regime, all that. This diabetes thing is a pain in the ass. Not to mention the kidneys.
Aside from that diabolical piece of information, however, it's been a grand week.
I've been commissioned to do some writing, two projects, actually. The first I can't really talk about yet, it's still too early in the proceedings and there are other people involved that don't want the information out there yet. Which is fine, because it's the harder of the two pieces. Frankly, I'm not sure how to proceed. But it'll come. Just a matter of time. It's a huge gig, one that'll recieve a great deal of press throughout the next year, I suspect, with some real heavyweights attached to the project. I just have to figure out how to write the damned thing.
The other has been a labor or love. A friend of mine, a guy that works a great deal in Europe in a number of different capacities in the entertainment industry, has hired me to write a short, festival-bound film about the futility of war. Kind of a high-falutin' subject, but thankfully, he already had a storyline. He just wanted me to fill it out. Which I did over three long days and nights of nearly non-stop writing.
Yesterday, after this marathon writing session, I sent off a fairly comprehensive first draft to him (he's in Berlin). It's not bad, I think, and that in itself is encouraging because I usually always hate my first drafts of anything I write. But I rather like this, and I spent a lot of time on it, relatively speaking.
We're looking to shoot in late summer and then submit to various and sundry festivals here and there. It was a fascinating excercise for me, I have to admit. I was given a very loose outline in terms of plot, a heavy handed theme to explore, the added complications of a love triangle and a premeditated opening shot. That's it. From that scant information I set out to write a half hour to forty minute screenplay, trying to avoid cliche'. I'll most likely hear from the producer today as to what he thinks of what I've written. Hopefully, he'll like what's on the page. And if he doesn't, that's okay, too. I'll simply go back to the drawing board and start from scratch. All of this was accompanied with a healthy check so I don't mind in the least. And, I probably shouldn't say this because most writers are always yammering on about how hard it is to write, yada yada yada, but I thoroughly enjoy it. I like writing. Always have. In fact, if I could make a living solely through my writing, there's a good chance I'd never step on stage or in front of a camera ever again. Alas, professionally speaking, I'm not at that point yet.
Also, this past Saturday we finished filming a new short in which I got to play a lunatic, Irish, rogue assassin. I had a remarkable amount of fun with that one. Late yesterday, I got a VERY rough cut from the director after initial edits. It's a great little film. Still a lot of work to do in 'post', as they say, but it's all there: dangerous, funny, unpredictable. And in addition, I had the opportunity to work with one of my oldest and dearest friends, John Bader, on it. John played a corrupt, super-tense, bad-guy police captain in the film. John and I have known each other so long (about 26 years) that we sort of communicated through verbal short hand with each other, sensing what the other was gonna do before he did it. I think that history was captured on film, too, which makes it all the richer.
Today is the first table read of a new play I'm doing a supporting role in called 'The Interlopers,' written by Gary Griffin, a former writer for the television series, 'The Shield.' It's being directed by Jim Fall, another film guy primarily. It's a very good script and I look forward to diving into it. We open at The Bootleg Theatre here in LA in June and run it through July.
So, all in all, health issues aside, I couldn't be more pleased. Ridin' high in April, shot down in May. The old Sinatra tune is never far from my mind as I wend my way through the various daily surprises and opportunities here in Tinsel Town. To be honest, it's all a buttload of fun.
And on top of all that, my new management team has been sending me out all over the place for auditions. Mostly the big ones, too, the network stuff and feature films. Of course, as I've mentioned before in this blog, most of the time in this town, it's simply a numbers game when it comes to auditions. It's not about how 'good' you are, or how 'prepared' you are. No, it's mostly about are you 'exactly what they're looking for?' Consequently, it becomes a numbers game. You might not book something for ten, fifteen reads, and then all of a sudden you land one you're not expecting because by some trick of fate you happen to look exactly like the guy the producer had in mind. And so it goes.
The old treacherous and unwelcome insomnia has reared its ugly head today so I'm up inordinately early. Thought I'd catch up on some blogging.
It's a good day. They all are. And I'm delighted to be sauntering down the road less traveled.
See you tomorrow.
Finally got my blood work back from a couple of weeks ago (had to go in for further tests regarding the old 'silent killer'). Most of it came back looking quite peachy with the exception of the numbers indicating the proper functioning of my kidneys. Not so good. Correctable, but not so good. All a bit of a wake up call, actually. So...new diet, new excercise regime, all that. This diabetes thing is a pain in the ass. Not to mention the kidneys.
Aside from that diabolical piece of information, however, it's been a grand week.
I've been commissioned to do some writing, two projects, actually. The first I can't really talk about yet, it's still too early in the proceedings and there are other people involved that don't want the information out there yet. Which is fine, because it's the harder of the two pieces. Frankly, I'm not sure how to proceed. But it'll come. Just a matter of time. It's a huge gig, one that'll recieve a great deal of press throughout the next year, I suspect, with some real heavyweights attached to the project. I just have to figure out how to write the damned thing.
The other has been a labor or love. A friend of mine, a guy that works a great deal in Europe in a number of different capacities in the entertainment industry, has hired me to write a short, festival-bound film about the futility of war. Kind of a high-falutin' subject, but thankfully, he already had a storyline. He just wanted me to fill it out. Which I did over three long days and nights of nearly non-stop writing.
Yesterday, after this marathon writing session, I sent off a fairly comprehensive first draft to him (he's in Berlin). It's not bad, I think, and that in itself is encouraging because I usually always hate my first drafts of anything I write. But I rather like this, and I spent a lot of time on it, relatively speaking.
We're looking to shoot in late summer and then submit to various and sundry festivals here and there. It was a fascinating excercise for me, I have to admit. I was given a very loose outline in terms of plot, a heavy handed theme to explore, the added complications of a love triangle and a premeditated opening shot. That's it. From that scant information I set out to write a half hour to forty minute screenplay, trying to avoid cliche'. I'll most likely hear from the producer today as to what he thinks of what I've written. Hopefully, he'll like what's on the page. And if he doesn't, that's okay, too. I'll simply go back to the drawing board and start from scratch. All of this was accompanied with a healthy check so I don't mind in the least. And, I probably shouldn't say this because most writers are always yammering on about how hard it is to write, yada yada yada, but I thoroughly enjoy it. I like writing. Always have. In fact, if I could make a living solely through my writing, there's a good chance I'd never step on stage or in front of a camera ever again. Alas, professionally speaking, I'm not at that point yet.
Also, this past Saturday we finished filming a new short in which I got to play a lunatic, Irish, rogue assassin. I had a remarkable amount of fun with that one. Late yesterday, I got a VERY rough cut from the director after initial edits. It's a great little film. Still a lot of work to do in 'post', as they say, but it's all there: dangerous, funny, unpredictable. And in addition, I had the opportunity to work with one of my oldest and dearest friends, John Bader, on it. John played a corrupt, super-tense, bad-guy police captain in the film. John and I have known each other so long (about 26 years) that we sort of communicated through verbal short hand with each other, sensing what the other was gonna do before he did it. I think that history was captured on film, too, which makes it all the richer.
Today is the first table read of a new play I'm doing a supporting role in called 'The Interlopers,' written by Gary Griffin, a former writer for the television series, 'The Shield.' It's being directed by Jim Fall, another film guy primarily. It's a very good script and I look forward to diving into it. We open at The Bootleg Theatre here in LA in June and run it through July.
So, all in all, health issues aside, I couldn't be more pleased. Ridin' high in April, shot down in May. The old Sinatra tune is never far from my mind as I wend my way through the various daily surprises and opportunities here in Tinsel Town. To be honest, it's all a buttload of fun.
And on top of all that, my new management team has been sending me out all over the place for auditions. Mostly the big ones, too, the network stuff and feature films. Of course, as I've mentioned before in this blog, most of the time in this town, it's simply a numbers game when it comes to auditions. It's not about how 'good' you are, or how 'prepared' you are. No, it's mostly about are you 'exactly what they're looking for?' Consequently, it becomes a numbers game. You might not book something for ten, fifteen reads, and then all of a sudden you land one you're not expecting because by some trick of fate you happen to look exactly like the guy the producer had in mind. And so it goes.
The old treacherous and unwelcome insomnia has reared its ugly head today so I'm up inordinately early. Thought I'd catch up on some blogging.
It's a good day. They all are. And I'm delighted to be sauntering down the road less traveled.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
So...You Wanna Be an Actor.
I had an interesting dilemma yesterday during an audition for a film. It was a low budget thing my new managing team set up. Part of the whole 'grooming' process, I'm told, to set me up for larger projects. I got the script a couple of days earlier and had ample time to work on it. Problem was, it was just a horrible piece of writing. So bad, in fact, that I actually read some of it aloud to Angie and asked, in complete sincerity, 'Who in their right mind would green-light something like this?' It was that bad.
So anyway, I toddle over to West Hollywood to the audition and go in and do my thing. The role was a very loud and aggressive corporate boss type guy. It had lines like, "Well, I thought..." "That's your problem, you THOUGHT. I do the thinking around here!" Eventually (it was agent submission only so I didn't have to wait too long in the crowded lobby) I was called in and the girl (maybe the director? Not sure) says, "I'd like you to do it really loud. No subtlety. Just scream it." Thus the dilemma. I was being asked to purposely do bad work.
I made a snap decision and ignored the direction. I played it low and menacing, without unecessary vocal pyrotechnics. She was unimpressed. I left, breathed a sigh of relief, and drove home.
Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good shouting scene as much as the next guy, but that was not the case here. This was not an isolated piece of cliche' writing to make a point about the character or the situation. No, the ENTIRE script was written like this. Years ago (not so much in the past couple of decades), soap writing was usually of this calibre. You know, late seventies stuff on As the World Turns or General Hospital. That type of stuff.
The point is I made a choice not to play this crap with the ham-handedness it deserved. I won't get the role because I chose not to follow her direction. And if I had to do it again, I'd do it exactly the same way.
This is a vivid example of the downside of being an actor in a city that, on the whole, doesn't appreciate actors. Now, of course, that's a gross generalization, but you get my drift. I may not have landed the role but I slept really well last night.
Angie and I had a good laugh about it as I described it all and then I just turned it off and moved on with my day.
Whenever stuff like this happens to me, I'm always reminded of a moment that occurred about 27 years ago in Davenport, Iowa. I was on a non-union, bus and truck tour of 'The Fantasticks.' I was playing the role of 'El Gallo.' It was a cheap little midwestern tour originating from a company called 'The Old Creamery Theatre' (now, there's a catchy name) and basically we drove from small town to small town and did the show in various civic centers. In fact, our programs had a typo in them that said my character's name was 'ED GALLO.' I was very young and had signed up for the tour because at the end of it I was promised my Equity Card (this is back in the day when it was a lot tougher to join the union). Anyway, at one point we found ourselves doing a 'promotional' in a small, strip mall in Davenport, Iowa. My old and dear friend, Johnny Bader, was on the tour with me. So we're standing there in the middle of this little mall, people walking by us completely oblivious to what we're doing, singing songs from the show, and there I am, sitting atop a small stepladder warbling out the song 'Try to Remember' over a tacky sound system, holding a microphone with silver duct tape all over it, in full costume including a big, black, ill-fitting sombrero and black, tight-fitting, spandex pants and no one, and I mean NO one, is paying the least bit attention to me, and John looks up at me while I'm singing and says, "So...you wanna be an actor."
I barely got through the rest of the song I was giggling so hard.
And that's exactly what I heard in my head yesterday as I was acting that poorly conceived, badly written scene. "So...you wanna be an actor."
See you tomorrow.
So anyway, I toddle over to West Hollywood to the audition and go in and do my thing. The role was a very loud and aggressive corporate boss type guy. It had lines like, "Well, I thought..." "That's your problem, you THOUGHT. I do the thinking around here!" Eventually (it was agent submission only so I didn't have to wait too long in the crowded lobby) I was called in and the girl (maybe the director? Not sure) says, "I'd like you to do it really loud. No subtlety. Just scream it." Thus the dilemma. I was being asked to purposely do bad work.
I made a snap decision and ignored the direction. I played it low and menacing, without unecessary vocal pyrotechnics. She was unimpressed. I left, breathed a sigh of relief, and drove home.
Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good shouting scene as much as the next guy, but that was not the case here. This was not an isolated piece of cliche' writing to make a point about the character or the situation. No, the ENTIRE script was written like this. Years ago (not so much in the past couple of decades), soap writing was usually of this calibre. You know, late seventies stuff on As the World Turns or General Hospital. That type of stuff.
The point is I made a choice not to play this crap with the ham-handedness it deserved. I won't get the role because I chose not to follow her direction. And if I had to do it again, I'd do it exactly the same way.
This is a vivid example of the downside of being an actor in a city that, on the whole, doesn't appreciate actors. Now, of course, that's a gross generalization, but you get my drift. I may not have landed the role but I slept really well last night.
Angie and I had a good laugh about it as I described it all and then I just turned it off and moved on with my day.
Whenever stuff like this happens to me, I'm always reminded of a moment that occurred about 27 years ago in Davenport, Iowa. I was on a non-union, bus and truck tour of 'The Fantasticks.' I was playing the role of 'El Gallo.' It was a cheap little midwestern tour originating from a company called 'The Old Creamery Theatre' (now, there's a catchy name) and basically we drove from small town to small town and did the show in various civic centers. In fact, our programs had a typo in them that said my character's name was 'ED GALLO.' I was very young and had signed up for the tour because at the end of it I was promised my Equity Card (this is back in the day when it was a lot tougher to join the union). Anyway, at one point we found ourselves doing a 'promotional' in a small, strip mall in Davenport, Iowa. My old and dear friend, Johnny Bader, was on the tour with me. So we're standing there in the middle of this little mall, people walking by us completely oblivious to what we're doing, singing songs from the show, and there I am, sitting atop a small stepladder warbling out the song 'Try to Remember' over a tacky sound system, holding a microphone with silver duct tape all over it, in full costume including a big, black, ill-fitting sombrero and black, tight-fitting, spandex pants and no one, and I mean NO one, is paying the least bit attention to me, and John looks up at me while I'm singing and says, "So...you wanna be an actor."
I barely got through the rest of the song I was giggling so hard.
And that's exactly what I heard in my head yesterday as I was acting that poorly conceived, badly written scene. "So...you wanna be an actor."
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
What Would Happen If...
Within a couple of days I've been commissioned to write three, count 'em, three different projects. In addition, I'm shooting some new film stuff starting this weekend and about to start rehearsals for a tightly-written, new play at The Bootleg Theatre here in Los Angeles. So, in light of all this, I decided to start looking online for a new car. I told Angie awhile back that we need to embrace the fact that LA is a car culture. Now, don't get me wrong, we have a fun, reliable, little Saturn station wagon at this time. It's a great car, not a dent on it with a great engine. It's only given us minor troubles over the past year and gets us unfailingly from point A to point B.
So I found this great site online which compares and contrasts seemingly every car ever made. In my spare moments during the day I pour over it.
I've decided Angie needs a 'classy' car 'cause Angie's a classy lady. The site gives one the option of choosing the price range in addition to a host of other categories. I'm looking at the 25 to 35 thousand dollar range.
At this point I've narrowed it down to three cars for Angie: the Audi A-4 sedan, the Chrysler 300 or one of the Mercedes C-class autos. For me, either the Toyota Cruiser or the Jeep Wrangler Rubicon 4-door. Frankly, I haven't had so much fun shopping since I looked for some platform shoes for my 8th grade Sadie Hawkin's Dance.
I've never before been interested in cars, really. My entire life I could've cared less what someone was driving. Cars have always bored me, to be honest. But now that we're honestly considering different brands, it's all quite exciting.
For myself, I'm leaning toward the Toyota Cruiser because it looks like a giant Matchbox car. It looks like one of my old Hotwheels blown up to a human scale. Angie, quite astutely, told me it would probably be best if I didn't mention that when we actually go to the dealer and check them out. She apparently feels it would give the salesman the idea that I'm a bit naive about the whole thing. She may be right.
We've gotten into the habit lately (and this is more than a little embarrassing to admit) of buying one, and only one, Mega Millions lottery ticket twice a week. We do this for several reasons, but the biggest is because it gives us license to fantasize. Currently the lottery is up to 42 million dollars, which means, should we win, we would get a one-time cash settlement of approximately 21 million dollars. This possibility stirs me to my very core.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm fully aware that money can't buy happiness. But, as Bill Gates once said, "People that say that have never had money."
On the other hand, this incessant fantasizing (I really only do it while walking our dogs...somehow I've designated that time as my 'silly dreams' time) gives me no small amount of comfort. But the thing is, it also constantly makes me appreciate the wonderful life I have now; all the amazing things in my life that I might otherwise take for granted.
I'm perfectly aware that the odds of winning the Mega Millions lottery is approximately a kajillion to one. But I still do it. Two dollars a week is a very small price to pay for the wonderful fantasies it gives me.
It also tells me a lot about myself. I inevitably start the fantasy by thinking of all the things I could buy to make our lives more comfortable: a small ranch here in LA, new horses for Angie, a BMW 750i, a Range Rover, a second home in Manhattan, a vacation home on Captiva Island, possibly even a 99-seat theatre complex to run (my lifelong dream). But as the fantasy progresses I start whittling away, in my mind, some of these purchases. I begin to think of the myriad ways I could use the money to help other people, friends and family. I begin to think of the difference it might make to various charities that desperately need an influx of moveable cash. In short, I begin to think of how I might be of service.
And by the end of the long walk with Franny and Zooey I have, in my mind, given away most of the millions I acquired at the beginning of the walk. It's annoying.
The better angels of my nature always assert themselves. I start voraciously greedy. My intentions are entirely selfish. But then my damned moral conscience rears it's ugly head and my fantasies turn to other people. This would not have happened ten, even five, years ago. Recent events, mostly personal, have rudely intruded upon my belief system.
I'm not proud of this and I certainly wouldn't admit it out loud but I think, much like the diabetes I was diagnosed with late in my adult life, unexpected things happen to us as we age. In my pathetic case, I have been burdened with an unwelcome sense of right and wrong. Everytime I begin to visualize the new BMW 750i, it is abruptly replaced with feeding hundreds of hungry children or giving some talented kid a chance at college that he wouldn't ordinarily get or helping every close friend and family member I know finally get out of the nearly unavoidable financial debt that living in the twenty-second century incurs or allowing some struggling drug and alcohol half-way house continue to operate. The stupid, altruistic list is virtually endless.
Damned brain. Pisses me off.
See you tomorrow.
So I found this great site online which compares and contrasts seemingly every car ever made. In my spare moments during the day I pour over it.
I've decided Angie needs a 'classy' car 'cause Angie's a classy lady. The site gives one the option of choosing the price range in addition to a host of other categories. I'm looking at the 25 to 35 thousand dollar range.
At this point I've narrowed it down to three cars for Angie: the Audi A-4 sedan, the Chrysler 300 or one of the Mercedes C-class autos. For me, either the Toyota Cruiser or the Jeep Wrangler Rubicon 4-door. Frankly, I haven't had so much fun shopping since I looked for some platform shoes for my 8th grade Sadie Hawkin's Dance.
I've never before been interested in cars, really. My entire life I could've cared less what someone was driving. Cars have always bored me, to be honest. But now that we're honestly considering different brands, it's all quite exciting.
For myself, I'm leaning toward the Toyota Cruiser because it looks like a giant Matchbox car. It looks like one of my old Hotwheels blown up to a human scale. Angie, quite astutely, told me it would probably be best if I didn't mention that when we actually go to the dealer and check them out. She apparently feels it would give the salesman the idea that I'm a bit naive about the whole thing. She may be right.
We've gotten into the habit lately (and this is more than a little embarrassing to admit) of buying one, and only one, Mega Millions lottery ticket twice a week. We do this for several reasons, but the biggest is because it gives us license to fantasize. Currently the lottery is up to 42 million dollars, which means, should we win, we would get a one-time cash settlement of approximately 21 million dollars. This possibility stirs me to my very core.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm fully aware that money can't buy happiness. But, as Bill Gates once said, "People that say that have never had money."
On the other hand, this incessant fantasizing (I really only do it while walking our dogs...somehow I've designated that time as my 'silly dreams' time) gives me no small amount of comfort. But the thing is, it also constantly makes me appreciate the wonderful life I have now; all the amazing things in my life that I might otherwise take for granted.
I'm perfectly aware that the odds of winning the Mega Millions lottery is approximately a kajillion to one. But I still do it. Two dollars a week is a very small price to pay for the wonderful fantasies it gives me.
It also tells me a lot about myself. I inevitably start the fantasy by thinking of all the things I could buy to make our lives more comfortable: a small ranch here in LA, new horses for Angie, a BMW 750i, a Range Rover, a second home in Manhattan, a vacation home on Captiva Island, possibly even a 99-seat theatre complex to run (my lifelong dream). But as the fantasy progresses I start whittling away, in my mind, some of these purchases. I begin to think of the myriad ways I could use the money to help other people, friends and family. I begin to think of the difference it might make to various charities that desperately need an influx of moveable cash. In short, I begin to think of how I might be of service.
And by the end of the long walk with Franny and Zooey I have, in my mind, given away most of the millions I acquired at the beginning of the walk. It's annoying.
The better angels of my nature always assert themselves. I start voraciously greedy. My intentions are entirely selfish. But then my damned moral conscience rears it's ugly head and my fantasies turn to other people. This would not have happened ten, even five, years ago. Recent events, mostly personal, have rudely intruded upon my belief system.
I'm not proud of this and I certainly wouldn't admit it out loud but I think, much like the diabetes I was diagnosed with late in my adult life, unexpected things happen to us as we age. In my pathetic case, I have been burdened with an unwelcome sense of right and wrong. Everytime I begin to visualize the new BMW 750i, it is abruptly replaced with feeding hundreds of hungry children or giving some talented kid a chance at college that he wouldn't ordinarily get or helping every close friend and family member I know finally get out of the nearly unavoidable financial debt that living in the twenty-second century incurs or allowing some struggling drug and alcohol half-way house continue to operate. The stupid, altruistic list is virtually endless.
Damned brain. Pisses me off.
See you tomorrow.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Bin Ladin.
As I think everyone in this country and perhaps the civilized world knows by now, Osama Bin Ladin was killed last night in Pakistan by U.S. Special Forces on a direct order from the President of the United States. As Mark Twain once wrote, "I have never wished a man dead but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure."
In a different world in a different time, the news of the death of Hitler was met with similar celebration. The death of Mussolini slightly less so. And of course the capture and eventual death sentence of Sadam Hussein was also a cause for satisfied whooping in this country.
Bin Ladin was in his sixties with a terminal case of kidney failure so his time was, in all probability, nearly up anyway. It is unclear just how much 'leadership' he was still employing as opposed to simply being a symbolic and iconic figure for his followers.
Although I have been a vocal liberal nearly all my life, when it comes to national security and safety of American citizens I have always been on the side of the hawks. After 9/11 I, like most of America, wanted swift, deciding, vengeful action. It was not to be. In fact, G.W. Bush, either frustrated by his inability to get at Bin Ladin or, as Michael Moore asserts, because of his family oil ties with the Bin Ladin family, chose instead to divert America's anger and invade a country that had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, fabricating instead a fantastical 'weapons of mass destruction' myth which plunged this nation into a long and virtually unending conflict with a savage dictator who, undeniably, needed to be displaced but, I would have liked, under more honest circumstances.
It has become, over the years, unmistakably clear that Bin Ladin orchestrated 9/11. This was an act of war against this nation. And for that alone he became a participant in the war and fair game for military repercussions.
I believe Bush hunted Bin Ladin relentlessly. I don't buy into the idea that he 'really wasn't trying' to find Bin Ladin. I don't accept Michael Moore's thesis, as much as I admire Mr. Moore. To think otherwise would be to activate a cynicism so deep and extraordinary as to plunge me into a lifetime of anger and rage. Subsequently, I simply cannot believe it.
Our president may very well have secured his second term with this recent turn of events. I certainly hope so. His work has only just begun and he's making great and history-changing strides. He is, in my opinion, despite enormous political divide in this country at the moment, staying true to the course and daily striving to do the right thing. Yes, he has been forced to compromise. Yes, he has made concessions. And yes, he hasn't always been as swift as I would have liked. But, like Clinton before him, he shows up everyday and doesn't quit despite brutal and inexplicable opposition from a segment of our population mired in early twentieth century thought.
In his address to the American people last night he said quite clearly, "I ordered it. I did it." I liked that very much. "I ordered the death of this man." It's a heady statement in the geo-political world climate of 2011. Bravo, Mr. President.
In essence he was saying, "We will accept economic attacks, economic downturns, world chagrin, international name-calling; we will accept the scorn of the world as we reluctantly wear the mantle of global policeman, but we will not accept violence visited upon an American citizen anywhere, anytime. In fact, more than that, if it is done, you will be hunted down and killed regardless how long it takes."
The responsibilities and diplomacy of being the last military super-power does not extend to turning the other cheek. Sometimes, unreasonably, I confess, I wonder why we even continue the plodding negotiations to make the Arab extremist Muslim countries inclusive in the world order. I have often thought, sometimes shamedly so, it will never get better until the American flag is flying, unabashadedly, over Tehran, Bagdad and Cairo. So why not just do it and get it the fuck over with?
But then I remember that this country, despite it's 235 years of proclaiming to be uncompromising, is in fact, built upon compromise. The genius of our system of government, it has always seemed to me, has been compromise itself, not the rejection of compromise. It is inherent in our constitution; what the founding fathers had specifically in mind. Checks and balances, separation of powers, freedom of speech and religion, freedom of the press, and rejection of dictatorial privileges. Compromise is our greatest strength, not our greatest weakness.
I am proud to be an American citizen today. I am proud justice has been, albiet ten years after the fact, served. I am proud that our president said yesterday, behind closed doors, we will carry the burden of power under nearly impossible circumstances, we will suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, we will steadfastly pursue our commitment to democracy and the tenants of existing in a Republic. But we will not have hands laid upon us. We will not negotiate through violence. And we will never stop hunting for the unfortunate souls who think otherwise.
See you tomorrow.
In a different world in a different time, the news of the death of Hitler was met with similar celebration. The death of Mussolini slightly less so. And of course the capture and eventual death sentence of Sadam Hussein was also a cause for satisfied whooping in this country.
Bin Ladin was in his sixties with a terminal case of kidney failure so his time was, in all probability, nearly up anyway. It is unclear just how much 'leadership' he was still employing as opposed to simply being a symbolic and iconic figure for his followers.
Although I have been a vocal liberal nearly all my life, when it comes to national security and safety of American citizens I have always been on the side of the hawks. After 9/11 I, like most of America, wanted swift, deciding, vengeful action. It was not to be. In fact, G.W. Bush, either frustrated by his inability to get at Bin Ladin or, as Michael Moore asserts, because of his family oil ties with the Bin Ladin family, chose instead to divert America's anger and invade a country that had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11, fabricating instead a fantastical 'weapons of mass destruction' myth which plunged this nation into a long and virtually unending conflict with a savage dictator who, undeniably, needed to be displaced but, I would have liked, under more honest circumstances.
It has become, over the years, unmistakably clear that Bin Ladin orchestrated 9/11. This was an act of war against this nation. And for that alone he became a participant in the war and fair game for military repercussions.
I believe Bush hunted Bin Ladin relentlessly. I don't buy into the idea that he 'really wasn't trying' to find Bin Ladin. I don't accept Michael Moore's thesis, as much as I admire Mr. Moore. To think otherwise would be to activate a cynicism so deep and extraordinary as to plunge me into a lifetime of anger and rage. Subsequently, I simply cannot believe it.
Our president may very well have secured his second term with this recent turn of events. I certainly hope so. His work has only just begun and he's making great and history-changing strides. He is, in my opinion, despite enormous political divide in this country at the moment, staying true to the course and daily striving to do the right thing. Yes, he has been forced to compromise. Yes, he has made concessions. And yes, he hasn't always been as swift as I would have liked. But, like Clinton before him, he shows up everyday and doesn't quit despite brutal and inexplicable opposition from a segment of our population mired in early twentieth century thought.
In his address to the American people last night he said quite clearly, "I ordered it. I did it." I liked that very much. "I ordered the death of this man." It's a heady statement in the geo-political world climate of 2011. Bravo, Mr. President.
In essence he was saying, "We will accept economic attacks, economic downturns, world chagrin, international name-calling; we will accept the scorn of the world as we reluctantly wear the mantle of global policeman, but we will not accept violence visited upon an American citizen anywhere, anytime. In fact, more than that, if it is done, you will be hunted down and killed regardless how long it takes."
The responsibilities and diplomacy of being the last military super-power does not extend to turning the other cheek. Sometimes, unreasonably, I confess, I wonder why we even continue the plodding negotiations to make the Arab extremist Muslim countries inclusive in the world order. I have often thought, sometimes shamedly so, it will never get better until the American flag is flying, unabashadedly, over Tehran, Bagdad and Cairo. So why not just do it and get it the fuck over with?
But then I remember that this country, despite it's 235 years of proclaiming to be uncompromising, is in fact, built upon compromise. The genius of our system of government, it has always seemed to me, has been compromise itself, not the rejection of compromise. It is inherent in our constitution; what the founding fathers had specifically in mind. Checks and balances, separation of powers, freedom of speech and religion, freedom of the press, and rejection of dictatorial privileges. Compromise is our greatest strength, not our greatest weakness.
I am proud to be an American citizen today. I am proud justice has been, albiet ten years after the fact, served. I am proud that our president said yesterday, behind closed doors, we will carry the burden of power under nearly impossible circumstances, we will suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, we will steadfastly pursue our commitment to democracy and the tenants of existing in a Republic. But we will not have hands laid upon us. We will not negotiate through violence. And we will never stop hunting for the unfortunate souls who think otherwise.
See you tomorrow.
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