Screenplays and Sam's Club...

I love going to the theatre in this new play I'm doing, The Interlopers, Gary Lennon, playwright, directed by Jim Fall. Mostly because I have a small role. Used to be, the last two plays I've done, in fact, I'd start to get all tense and surly around four in the afternoon because I knew I had an evening of warfare in front of me. In both pieces I literally never left the stage. In this one, however, I do my quick scene with some wonderful actors, a big, long, fourth-wall-breaking monologue, and that's pretty much it. I spend the rest of the show backstage texting and bothering the other actors.

But that's not it, entirely. The real reason is I love hanging out with this group of actors. They're a lively, smart, funny bunch. Everyone gets along famously and there are no marauding egos prancing about making everyone nervous. Other actors reading this will know what I mean. Everyone's a pro.

Before heading off to The Bootleg (where we're doing it in downtown LA) Angie and I decided to visit Sam's Club to pick up a few essentials. Actually, we really wanted to get some flea medicine for the dogs and maybe some hot dogs. Two hours later my wallet was shy about 20,000 bucks. Or so it seemed like.

Incredibly, I'd never been to a Sam's Club and I was unprepared for the vastness of the place. Afterwards, my wife observed that I was now a 'genuine suburban husband' because of the trip, but I didn't really take it in because I was still trembling from the beating my credit card had just taken.

I can certainly understand why people are attracted to Sam's Club. Everything there is sold in bulk so as to insure less expensive prices. The problem is one starts to get a little loopy from all the 'savings.' For example, we bought enough hamburger to feed the entire city of Fargo, North Dakota at 7 cents a pound. Or something like that. I mentioned casually to Angie that I'd like a jar of dill pickles for the burgers...we got one that weighs approximately the same as a Ford Flex. We had to borrow the store's dolly to get the dill pickles to the car and when we did it tipped to one side like the Flinstone's car when the ribs are delivered.

My wife decided we needed some dish detergent. So we purchased a bottle roughly the size of the Statue of Liberty. We did, in fact, get some hot dogs. The smallest package we could find. Four hundred hot dogs at a penny a dog.

In any event, we finished up the Sam's Club adventure and then drove home with our emergency lights flashing. We had to drive on the side of the freeway because the car would only do about 14 miles an hour at top speed. Plus we had all that hamburger bungee-corded to the roof. And the goose neck trailer we rented for the hot dogs was bothersome.

Angie said, "Well, we've got all this meat, why don't we invite some friends over for a cook out? Who would you like over?" I said, "How about the citizens of Kenya?"

On the plus side we're stocked up until the 2016 elections.

I like Sam's Club, I've decided. Angie's family has been going there for some twenty years (that's where she got her 'membership card.' One has to be a 'member' to get in. As a new member I had to learn the secret handshake. It's sort of like being in the tri-lateral commission for people who live in mobile homes).

Back to the screenplay today. I've been attacked by the dreaded insomnia again and part of the reason for that is the screenplay. So many ideas. I watched a fascinating old interview the other night with the late Billy Wilder. His advice to the writer was to never explain in narrative form the POV of each shot. Just tell the story through dialogue and let the director do the heavy lifting. Problem was, Wilder himself directed most of the stuff he wrote, so I don't quite trust that advice. I don't know who will be hired to direct this piece, so I'm taking no chances. Of course, whoever it is always has the option of simply ignoring everything.

The thing is, writing for the screen is all about the image as opposed to writing for the stage which is all about the words. Words, in a perfect world, are the least important aspect of writing for the screen, it seems to me. Hitchcock once said the perfect screenplay would have no words whatsoever, only images that told the story. Not silent film, but images and sound to tell the story. It's something I try to keep in the front of my mind as I work.

In any case, it's another glorious day in Southern California. Another day to create and bask in the sunlight. And, oh, we never did get the flea medicine. They were out.

See you tomorrow.

"Missed it by THAT MUCH..."

I've been going back and forth on the phone with a strange gig offer the last couple of days. Friday I got a call (I didn't answer so they left a message) about doing a quick scene in a film. The shoot was scheduled for Monday. At least I think it was for Monday. The girl who left the initial message (I have no idea how she got my personal cell number) seemed very nice but had an almost indecipherable Asian accent. I literally had to listen to it five or six times in order to make out what she was asking. In fact, I finally gave the phone to my wife and asked her opinion, too. She listened a few times and we eventually surmised I was being asked to shoot a scene in a film. Hm. Okay. So I called her back. Usually this sort of thing goes through my agency. It was a struggle, considering the language barrier, but I finally understood she wanted me to shoot a short, (page and a half) scene. I asked her what the pay was (nothing to write home about, as it turns out...it was either five hundred grand or five acres of land or five hundred clams...hard to say, really) and, I suppose as added incentive, she said I could 'have all the pretzels I wanted.' Excuse me? "You eat, free eat, all free eat, and on set, all pretzels you want. Eat free, pretzels free."

Well, how could I turn that down? So I said fine. I tried to ask her how she'd gotten my personal cell number but the question and the answer were impossibly convoluted, so I just let it go.

Okay. So a couple hours go by and she calls back. After endless conversation filled with me saying 'what' and 'could you say that again, please' I gathered she wanted me to send some 'redshots' to her. Ah! I got it. HEADSHOTS. She wanted headshots. So I sent her my website.

I asked, "Are you offering this gig or asking me to read for it?"

"I no...free eat all day. What is 'gig'?"

"Never mind. I'll send my site."

Late last night I got this text: "You too young. We need old, very old. You too young. Old is best. Young is bad. Sorry. See you in next movie."

I have no idea, but I sincerely hope she's not Steven Spielberg's go-to gal. I never did get the name of the director. I tried, but it was just too garbled. After a few more 'excuse me's' I just said, "Okay, let's move on. Where is the shoot?" This was a trial, too, but I finally got it. Somewhere in Pasadena. I think. Might have been El Paso, Texas, but I went with Pasadena.

Of course, in the end it was all moot because 'I too young, old is best.' I had tried to give her the number to my agent but she kept saying, "No, that not your number."

"No, it's not my number. It's the number to my agent. He negotiates contracts for me."

"No, that not the number. I call the number. That not it."

Okay. Whatever.

I have to admit, though, I'm a little sorry to miss the free pretzels. And also, I'm delighted to be called 'too young.' But after putting so much effort into the actual communication part of all this, I'm a little sorry it didn't pan out.

Another Pleasant Valley Sunday here in SoCal. It's so great to wake up, have some strong Kenyan coffee, step out in the backyard and talk to the horses (we have a new one, by the way, a young beauty named 'Simon'), the mountains surrounding me, a universe away from the dreary, inhospitable world of Chicago, reveling in the idea of being 'too young.' I'm going to the store today and buy a ton of pretzels. Two can play that game. I can get my own damn pretzels.

See you tomorrow.

The Review.

A very nice notice from the formidable Los Angeles Times came out yesterday for the play I'm doing, The Interlopers, by Gary Lennon. In fact, it was downright glowing. The only slightly negative comment in the review involved the acoustics of the theatre, although the critic seemed to think it was a volume problem from the actors, which it may have been slightly, but not entirely. The Bootleg Theatre in downtown LA where we're doing the piece is a wonderful theatre, wonderful space. But it's a barn. The stage itself is huge. Jim Fall and our designers did a tremendous job of minmizing this problem by moving everything forward and cutting off the length of the stage with four scrims and a back curtain, but it's still a barn in the final analysis. Consequently, it's a very deceptive space in terms of acoustics. Adding to this sound complication is the fact that halfway up the stadium seating is a low hanging series of beams that tend to trap the sound out front. The back of the audience is at a decided disadvantage. Another added hurdle is that it is June in LA and it's hot. So we have to, obviously, run the air conditioner which further muffles sound quality.

Strangely, the review seems to indicate our director (Jim Fall) is responsible for this because he's directed a lot of films. This is ludicrous, of course. In the final week of tech, Jim became uncomfortably aware of the acoustics problem and did all but beg the actors to speak louder, to push it out, to simply project. He was fully aware of the problem. The problem was, after weeks of rehearsal at one volume, some of us found it difficult to adapt to a new set of interior instincts and play a different ballgame. I had a couple of people in the audience the night the LA Times were there. One said he had no problem at all with the volume and one (my wife, actually) said she did. Personally, I purposefully took it up a notch and didn't have that much adjusting. But there are some gifted, instinctive actors in this lot and their inner-compass told them, rightly so, that to take the volume up for the folks in the back would also make the first few rows uncomfortable. So everyone tried to strike a happy balance and frankly, I think we did. Actually, this is a fairly common problem in live theatre, especially if one is working without body mikes. Everyone on stage is perfectly capable of projecting, we are all well-trained, but we were all trying to find that perfect balance so as to not come off as shouting during otherwise naturalistic scenework. Our instincts, again rightly so, told us this would be disconcerting for some.

But in the end, volume always trumps in the theatre. If they can't hear it, it doesn't count. It had nothing to do with Jim directing us to 'talk softly.' Quite the contrary. If I had to guess, I think he gave the volume note about 55 times, all told. To suggest the play couldn't be heard because the director has done a lot of film is like suggesting the play isn't moving because there are too many funny lines. There is simply no connection between the two.

In any event, it's all quibbling because it's a wonderful review. Also more than a bit unfair because I really think Jim is one of a handful of truly great directors I've worked with over the past thirty years.

It reminds me of a review I recieved years ago. I was doing the play 'Deathtrap' for the fourth time...I had already done the role (the young playwright and murderer, Clifford Anderson) three previous times in three different productions and I was, well, getting a little bored with it. So I suggested to the director (I think this was at Arkansas Rep) that I play it with a slight stutter, very slight. For one thing I thought it might make him more vulnerable, less threatening, and consequently more shocking when the audience discovers he's a sociopathic killer. By that time, after three productions, I think it safe to say I knew the play and the part inside out.

When the reviews came out, one of them said, "Mr. Morts might have made a fine Clifford Anderson had he bothered to learn his lines." He had completely missed the point of the stutter and what's more had simply assumed it was because I was reaching for the lines.

Oy.

So we're up and running again this weekend. And I so enjoy this cast. They are really a rare bunch; complete professionals and just about as easy-going as it gets. Seasoned pros, all of them. And a pleasure to play with.

So here's what I'm going to suggest: I think we need to hire another actor, one with a big, booming voice, a James Earl Jones type voice, to sit in the fifth row and whenever a quiet, emotional moment in the play comes around, have him repeat all the lines very loud, with perfect diction. No inflections, just sort of bark them out. Sort of act as an interpreter. Just sit there and with no explanation whatsoever, simply bellow the lines out during the soft spots. I think it could work. Oh, sure it's unconventional. But in the end possibly a very satisfying theatrical experience.

My other idea is to use the scrims. Instead of throwing projections of various images up on them, we cut all that and put the lines up there, like sub-titles. I think that could work, too.

We're going in early for a quick speed-thru today. I'll suggest it then.

See you tomorrow.

Screenplays and Documentaries.

Building this new website was quite a bit more challenging and fun than I originally thought but actually getting it up and online turned out to be sort of nightmarish. That's where, oddly, it got complicated for me. For one thing, a buddy of mine, as a favor to me, had purchased the domain name cliffordmorts.com some time back and then lost the code or password or whatever...so that site turned out to be useless to me, however well intentioned. So I had to go with cliffordmorts.org, which makes me sound like a Forbes 500 company. To make matters worse I didn't see the fine print that says it will take up to 72 hours to get it posted so when it didn't appear I bought another domain, cliffordmorts.me (a tad egocentric) and then had to go back and cancel that one. It was all rather maddening. And although I had successfully navigated the actual website building part of it, I was terribly confused about how to get to the next step. But I think all has been worked out and am now simply waiting for it to post.

Of course, at first I had way too much information posted in the site. Eventually I pared it down to just the nuts and bolts. I was reminded it was a 'business' site, not a 'fan' site. One reason for this is, aside from Franny and Zooey, I have no fans. This was a hard pill to chew. Well, to be fair, there was that portly lady in Roanoke, VA, back in the mid-nineties who kept coming back over and over to see me onstage. She was a fan.

Today it's back to the 'German' script for me; expanding, flushing out, connecting the dots. Writing is indeed rewriting. Fortunately for me, with both of my projects, I have very understanding producers (the guys who sign the checks) and they realize that it's a process, and sometimes a long one at that. With the exception of Jack Kerouac, writing is rarely accidental.

The 'German' script started out as a short film (about a half hour or so) that the producer wanted, in a perfect world, to shoot this fall and then submit to various festivals...Berlin, Toronto, Sundance, etc. However, after reviewing what we have on the page so far, he made the unexpected decision to film a full-length. Consequently, our contract had to be renogotiated which could turn out to be a cool thing for me, assuming I can write the damned thing.

The other project, a stage piece, is now in the hands of my other producer who happens to be in France at the moment. He suggested that we could, perhaps, work on it there if I would fly over. I counter-offered that we meet in Van Nuys. Paris seems a bit out of my budget at the moment, I told him. I mean, really. Paris? "The rich, they're not like you and I."

Angie and I happened to catch the old film, 'Get Shorty,' last night. Hollywood loves making movies about itself. They seem to be under the impression that everyone in the world thinks making movies is as interesting as they think it is. But it was a fun little film to watch, mostly because Travolta is always good and Gene Hackman is of course seemingly impossible of being bad on film. But the one thing they get right in that film is everyone's instatiable appetite to be in the movie business out here. And I guess it's true. Everyone, and I mean EVERYone, has a screenplay or an idea for a screenplay out here. I think if I were to question our mailman today he would admit to having a screenplay tucked away somewhere.

I was watching the documentary channel a while back and they were showing a piece called 'Overnight' about the vile young man that wrote and directed a film called 'Boondock Saints.' Aside from being endlessly fascinating (akin to a car wreck), it gave me an insight into just how insidious this business is on the highest levels. This guy, the writer and director of the piece, is just shameless. A guy so egotistical as to be comic. He has no background whatsoever in the entertainment field, not as an actor, a writer or director. He's a bartender at a 'hip' club. And somehow, against all odds, he gets his screenplay into the 'right' hands, in this case Mirimax. And they like it. And overnight (hence the title) it becomes the hottest property in Hollywood.

His journey to get the film made is appalling. Simply appalling. Not so much because of Hollywood's treatment of him but rather his unbelievably swelled head that comes out of it all. This guy has no sense of the history of film, no appreciation of great movie-making, doesn't know the difference between Citizen Kane and Porky's, and what's more, doesn't care. In addition, he and his cohorts, a bunch of losers that were once in a garage band with him, truly believe they are all 'geniuses.' It is a case of someone actually believing his own press. And Hollywood does love hyperbole.

In any case, he self-destructs, as one might imagine. And sadly, the viewer is rooting for him to self-destruct. He's that horrible; a sincerely awful human being. And here he is, having written a violent screenplay of some sort, suddenly being handed hundreds of thousands of dollars, sitting in an office somewhere and talking to studio executives in dialogue not even David Mamet could have written. The whole thing made me physically ill. Although it doesn't come right out and say it, the documentary implies he's now bartending again somewhere.

Eventually, Mirimax dumps him, mostly because he's just astonishingly ignorant and vindictive, but he somehow gets the movie made anyway with half the budget. I'm tempted to Netflix it just to see what the fuss was all about. I looked it up online and most critics compared it unfavorably to Quenton Tarantino's stuff, which at least has an irony and smirk behind it. I'm not a big Tarantino fan, but I don't actively dislike it for that very reason...Tarantino has a sense of humor.

If you get a chance, take a look at this documentary...'Overnight.' I told Angie it literally made me want to take a shower after I'd seen it. It is evrything bad and discouraging about the business of Hollywood. It is a shining example of how and why mediocrity is celebrated in this town.

And finally, I saw on the news that Glen Campbell has Alzheimer's. I hope he doesn't forget the words to 'Wichita Lineman' 'cause I really like that song. In fact, I like it so much, it nearly makes me forgive him for single-handedly destroying the original 'True Grit.'

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Into the Wilds.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Into the Wilds.: "We finished what I think was a very good opening weekend for this new play I'm doing, The Interlopers. Lots of laughs early, turning to sni..."

Into the Wilds.

We finished what I think was a very good opening weekend for this new play I'm doing, The Interlopers. Lots of laughs early, turning to sniffles later in the evening. I'm assuming, although no one told me this, there was press in the audience. So...we'll see what we shall see this week as the ink dribbles in.

Although I have a relatively small role in the play, I was still there for all of the marathon techs and dress rehearsals and previews, etc. So I didn't have any time for the writing projects on my plate. And I've learned through the years the longer I put off the writing the larger it becomes in my own mind until it seems overwhelming. That's probably a fairly good metaphor for life as well.

The producer for the 'German' project (a new screenplay) is in town now for further discussions and rewrites on the script. We met yesterday and went through a large portion of it line by line, scene by scene, and although we're happy with the overall shape and feel of the thing, there are some changes he'd like. Which is fine. In this business one rarely hits it out of the park on the first swing.

While waiting for the meeting and the inevitable rewrites, I started working on my long-overdue website. I think it safe to say I'm not a technical kind of guy when it comes to computer stuff. Yes, I know a bit, a little bit, but I've never bitten off this much before, this website thingee. Surprisingly, I've been having a ball doing it. I found a program that allows me to use a rough template and then fill in the blanks. This particular site allows one to add a whole assortment of bells and whistles to the website. My wife has had to constantly remind me that it's for information purposes only. Once I got started with it, I was having fun making it look quite snazzy. She's right, of course, so I had to go back and take out all the 'bling.' It really should be quite cut and dried...'here's what he looks like, here's what he's done, here's how to contact his representatives'. That's pretty much all that should be there. Very drab.

The good thing is I now know how to do it. Today I'll purchase the domain name and plug it in. I'll link it to this site once it gets up.

We have re-doubled our diabetes regime as of late. I finally broke down and bought a blood glucose level tester, or whatever the hell it's called. Once I started taking regular readings the more bamboozled I got. It seemed no matter how stringent my diet was it didn't seem to be making a lot of difference. So we decided perhaps I wasn't getting enough exercise, which is no one's fault but my own. As it happens, we live just minutes from some beautiful hiking trails up and around the small mountains in Griffith Park. I have been negligent in making use of them. I wish I had a great excuse but the truth is I've simply been inordinately lazy. Plus when we do take out for a long walk up in the hills, Angie suddenly becomes Jim Thorpe and treats the whole thing like an exodus from the Holy Land. One gets the idea she's being pursued by the Canonites. She's quite the devoted 'hiker.' I, on the other hand, prefer to stroll aimlessly, stopping here and there to take in the sights, occasionally lying down amidst the wildflowers, and generally acting like Winnie the Poo. Of course, this is completely counter-productive. The whole point is to get the heart rate up and actually exercise. I start out with the best intentions but then at some juncture slow down and just sort of amble. All the while my wife is leaping and running like Bambi's mom in the fire.

We'll give it another shot today. The cool thing is taking our dogs, Franny and Zooey, along with us. They are in puppy heaven when we take these long walks. They're both undeniably house dogs and the notion of being out in the 'wilds' makes them indescribably happy. Franny immediately adopts the persona of Buck in 'Call of the Wild' and Zooey smells everything so thoroughly I'm sure she's on sensory overload.

So the new routine has been two long walks a day. I go back to see the doctor in July and we'll see if it's helping any.

My nutritionist tried to warn me about this damned 'glucose checker.' She told me I would run the risk of becoming a slave to it, obssessive, constantly poking my fingers to see if there's any improvement. She said, "It will lessen your quality of life." I should've listened. But we had to do something to monitor it because I was becoming so easily fatigued and, although I certainly feel better than I did a year ago overall, I'm sure it's not normal to take six or seven naps a day and spend an hour or so every night fantasizing about eating pudding. My fantasies used to be a great deal more risque.

I love routines. Change has always seemed to me so unnecessary. Lots of reasons for that, none of which I'll go into at this time. But I also know change is the only constant in life. So the routines have to change sometimes. I've always thought for someone who abhors change so much I've chosen an odd profession. On the other hand, having been raised in the very definition of 'dysfunctional family' I was uniquely qualified to become an actor. The theatre is the greatest dysfunctional family in the world. It positively overflows with dysfunction. And I found myself well-equipped for it, strangely.

So it's off to the badlands this morning, the treacherous trails of Griffith Park. I tell my dogs solemnly every time, "Oh, sure, lots of puppies go up in them there hills. But not too many come back." They seem less than impressed.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Father's Day.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: Father's Day.: "I have a couple of close friends who are fathers. Which always surprises me because I knew them when they were mostly just sons. I don't ..."

Father's Day.

I have a couple of close friends who are fathers. Which always surprises me because I knew them when they were mostly just sons.

I don't know where they learned to be fathers. Maybe watching Oprah over the years, maybe some book that's passed around in secret, maybe endless viewings of old 'Little House on the Prarie' reruns, I just don't know for sure.

But they're both pretty good at it as far as I can tell. One is a new father. He has a two year old and his wife is pregnant with another child right now. We spent a good deal of time over the years being less than perfect human beings together. We wallowed in our political incorrectness and jointly celebrated our myriad conquests over the years. We stayed up late together and got up early, daily swaggering through our narrow lives always keeping a crusty veneer over anything remotely resembling vulnerability.

We leapt in and out of romantic entanglements like a night in a bouncy room, steering clear of anything out and out crass but at the same time firmly clutching, like some sort of ephemeral trophy, our pride in ducking the commitment bullet time and again. Wearing our bachelorhood like a shiny pendants.

Today, he doesn't take calls on Saturdays and Sundays because that time is 'baby time.' Today he routinely sleeps on the floor beside his daughter's small bed when she has trouble drifting off. Today, everything in his life that does not directly impact his baby girl holds a distant interest on his 'to-do' list. He works to make money so he might spend it all on her or her future. He plans for schools and play trips and even college in all his spare time. Whenever we speak I hear first about her and then, when he's done boasting, about him. Nothing comes before his daughter, nothing. He is half the man I used to know, not because he's half the man but because he now only has half to share.

My other buddy adopted two little girls, both with special needs. Not serious, overt, physical special needs, but the kind of needs that come from growing up in foster homes and feeling unloved. The kind of special needs that come from living without immediate grown-up protection and approval. And love. He and his wife adopted them and are making a beautiful home for them. He, too, learned somewhere how to make them the explosive priority in his life somewhere along the line. Don't know where. This is a guy that matched me nearly tequila shot for shot on the sawdust floors of New York City's dingiest bars for about a decade, all the while arguing violently about the place of art in our lives and in the world, shouting down mediocrity and drawing up war plans for life without compromise. Now he matches their outfits before they go out and gently scolds them with ten minutes of 'quiet time' if they get a little rambunctious. Now he's a guy that carefully monitors what they watch on television, which movies they see, what words they hear.

And both of them know, by heart, dozens of songs from Hannah Montana and Barney. They could sing them if awakened in the dead of sleep on a winter night at three in the morning. They are both armed to the teeth with reassurance.

And because I am perceptive to the point of clinical diagnosis regarding the slightest facial tick or change in countenence (it's what I do for a living), I sometimes see fleeting and shadowed fear and concern and protectiveness wash over their faces, my two close friends, as they cluck and wade through their little ones. And I am astonished.

I've known them both for a good many years, well over a quarter century, and these are minute muscle configurations I've never once seen allign on their faces before. It's new face, a new thought-pattern, a new concern and it often takes me completely off guard. And I realize it is the face of a father. Not the face of my friends, my goaded and cynical, life-charging friends, but the face of a man with babies. It confuses me and makes me envious and surprises me and makes me think about it later when they've gone.

It is the face of inevitability. Of responsibility. Of love and self-sacrifice. Of total devotion, come hell or high water.

Today my two father friends are on my mind. My sleep-deprived, love-swollen, agenda-planning, face-lined friends, both battling, against unspeakable odds, to make a perfect world in their little corner of the universe for their kids. Both constantly second-guessing themselves, right out in public for everyone to see, both shouldering an unimaginably heavy boulder made up of choices and decisions, their eyes searching down one road and then the other, blindly trying to choose the one less traveled, the one less threatening, the one less painful, the one that will be kinder in the end to their daughters. It's an awesome and humbling sight.

Happy Father's Day to my two, old warrior friends. Happy Father's Day to you and your young families. Happy Father's Day to you both. Happy Father's Day, Jim and Jeff.

See you tomorrow.

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, opens tomorrow nig...

Last Tango in Los Angeles: The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, opens tomorrow nig...: "So we open this new play, The Interlopers, this Friday. Tomorrow, in fact. And I have to say, I have not worked with a finer bunch of ac..."

The Interlopers by Gary Lennon, opens tomorrow night. Bootleg Theatre. Los Angeles.

So we open this new play, The Interlopers, this Friday. Tomorrow, in fact. And I have to say, I have not worked with a finer bunch of actors and crew in quite some time. There are no weak links. There is an old adage which applies to the theater, "A show is only as good as the weakest actor in it." And, although perhaps a bit harsh, it's true. And to be completely honest, there is usually a weak actor. I am beside myself with satisfaction to note there is no weak link in this bunch, a startlingly talented group of artists. I am, quite frankly, delighted to be involved.

From the top on down, playwright Gary Lennon has written an astonishingly original love story. Jim Fall is directing with a sensitivity rarely seen in this sometimes garrish business. Diarra Kilpatrick, Trevor Peterson, RD Call, Tara Karsian, Paul Ella, Leandro Cana and Darryl Stephens are, quite simply, as good as it gets. The show is impeccably cast.

Long-time readers of this blog will no doubt be a tad surprised at my unabashed optimism. But it's all absolutely true. Having done about 120 or so professional productions over the years, I have come to deeply appreciate it when a cast comes together like this one. Everyone is on the same page, everyone is, well, just good at what they do. In addition, it's the funniest bunch of theatre artists I've run across in a long, long time. We just finished two marathon rehearsals incorporating all the tech stuff, lighting, sound, projections, costumes, transitions, and I can't remember laughing so much during this unavoidably tension-laden juncture of a production.

I thought about this a bit last night and I think one of the reasons this is the case is because I see no second guessing taking place. There is an inordinate amount of trust in this piece. Trust of the writing (which is top notch), the directing (which is most definitely assured and muscular), the acting (which honestly just doesn't get much better), and the tech (which is all there when it should be there and what's more, perfectly pitched to the play itself).

Now, the unvarnished truth is, ninety nine percent of the time in this business, there's usually that one guy that's disgruntled, a little Napoleonic, a bit of a control freak, that poisons, however slightly, the whole shebang with his (and when I say 'his,' I mean 'his' or 'her') attitude. Reminds me of a stage manager I once had, used to always say, "Wanna hear an actor bitch? Hire him." Well, not so here.

My wife said to me yesterday, "I have never seen you so calm during a rehearsal period." She's right. And it is precisely because everyone is so damn, well, GOOD, at what they do. Now granted, I'm not carrying this show as I did the last two I did here in LA, but that's not it, either.

In the last thing I did here there was that one guy that, for whatever reason, was under the misguided impression he was running the show, that his work was far more important than everyone else's, that he alone possessed the secret formula to a successful play. And of course, over time, this attitude infects the entire proceeding with a layer of negativity. This happens more often than not with younger artists, that haven't yet learned that they are responsible for mowing the grass in their yard only, that other people will take care of their own lawns.

And usually the only thing to do is to say, at some point during the process, 'Hey, just stop. I've got this. This is what I do. You do what you do.'

I have no idea whatsoever if we have a hit. I think we do. But one never knows. We have a preview tonight and we'll probably get an inkling as to where we are. And of course tomorrow night in front of a full house. But over the years I've developed a sense for these things, through sheer trial and error, and if I were a betting man, I'd put money on this one.

Another aspect I've noticed over the past couple of weeks is the clear difference between ego and confidence in this bunch of artists. It's a fine line, but unmistakable. When casts like this come around it's such a pleasure to just sit back and enjoy it. Yes, there's ego, there's always ego. But it comes from someplace. It comes from a history of excellence. It's good ego, positive, assured, not annoying. It doesn't come from fear. Everyone's lawn is spectacularly manicured.

I was chatting for a brief moment with Gary, the playwright, last night before I left. He said, quite casually and off hand, "I think everyone knows just how they fit in." That's a deceptively powerful statement. To the layman it may seem self-evident. It is not. It is a pronouncement of awesome confidence. In fact, it strikes to the very heart of the business of theatre...'everyone knows just how they fit in.'

RD Call, one of those actors that's forgotten more about acting than most of us ever learned, is giving a performance so grounded and intrinsic as to be sort of frightening. He's a force of nature, a quiet volcano that erupts now and then and makes us involuntarily gasp. Tara Karsian, in a supporting role both heart-breaking and hysterical, absolutely owns the stage when she steps on it. And in addition, has that wonderful ability to undercut a line like nobody's business. There's always that glimmer of chaos and mischief in her eye that keeps one riveted. Darryl Stephens (whom I'd met a year or so ago when I was doing Praying Small) has taken a role that would, in lesser hands, be a cliche diversion, to a sort of tragic understanding. It's a remarkably intelligent performance. Leandro Cana, a very big guy with the soul of a small guy, does one of the hardest things to do onstage, be terrifying and gentle all at once. Quite a coup. Paul Ella, a new actor to LA, is in possession of one of those rare things in the theatre, the mysterious 'likable' factor. You just LIKE this guy, no matter what. Again, a small thing to the layman, a huge thing to the actor. And finally, Trevor Peterson and the extraordinary Diarra Kilpatrick in the two leading roles are seemingly incapable of being dishonest on stage. Trevor is doing something damned near impossible, playing shy but powerful all at once. And Diarra, one of the most talented young actresses I've seen in about ten years in this business, is miraculous. There's the old cliche about actors 'becoming' their characters. A misunderstood process most of the time (thank you Lee Strasberg) but in this particular case I suspect Diarra is in no danger of being recognized on the street as her character in this play. Her nightly transformation is, quite simply, stunning.

And there you have it. A very rare love letter to my fellow partners-in-crime. And all from the heart.

Our director, Jim Fall, is known as one of our finest, fearless, original film directors working today. He tells me he doesn't do a lot of theatre anymore, although like most true artists, he adores doing it and in some ways finds it more satisfying than film. Well, his lack of time to direct live theatre is our loss. He's got the eye. And very few people have 'the eye.' I can count on one hand the number of directors I've worked with over the last century or two who legitimately have 'the eye.'

I don't usually plug a project like I've just plugged this one. But I mean every word. This one is what theatre is supposed to be like. The kind of project that makes us all remember why we do this in the first place...the kind of play that makes us want to devote our lives to this silly business. It's kind of like playing golf all your life in the hopes of that one, great shot. Doesn't make sense to a lot of people. And that's okay. because it makes sense to us. This one is that one, great shot. The one that makes us get up the next day and play again.

See you tomorrow.