Well, I'm a real Californian now, I suppose. Got my picture taken for the state I.D. card yesterday. Just waiting for the actual card now in the mail. The process was shockingly simple. Walked in, took a number, filled out a form, waited a few minutes, heard my number, showed them a birth certificate, posed for a picture and that was it. In and out in 25 minutes. Unbelievable. In Chicago this would have taken me the entire day. Like almost everything in Chicago, the DMV is filled with corruption and endless protocol.
I've lived in the three major theatre cities in this country: New York from 1985 until 2000, Chicago from 2000 until 2009 and now Los Angeles. New York remains not only my favorite of the big three, but also my favorite city in the world. Nothing quite compares to the vitality of New York. I used to tell people I had a love/hate relationship with New York. There were some days when I awoke that I would rather be anywhere else in the world. Other days I would rather be no place else in the world. It's that kind of city. The feeling of walking out of a Broadway theatre at 11:00 at night, midtown swarmed with traffic, people shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalks, energy everywhere. Well, there's nothing quite like it. I always felt a part of something in New York. When I lived there I used to see those maps at kiosks around Times Square, the ones that show New York as this giant city and then attached a small map of the rest of the country. Those maps were not an exaggeration. That's really how one feels sometimes in that city. The prevailing feeling that if it's not happening in New York, well, it's not happening at all.
As for Los Angeles, I'm starting to feel how pocketed this place is. This place seems to be a massive connection of small towns. Glendale and then Burbank and then Studio City and the North Hollywood and then West Hollywood and on and on. The people here talk of going "over the hill," which means to head over to Los Angeles proper. It literally means to go over a hill. Angie and I live in a perfect replication of suburbia. And yet we're minutes away from all the hot spots in the industry: NBC, Disney, Universal, as well as dozens of theaters. It's a little surreal sometimes. And of course, it's a car culture. The connections are all via the 5, the 134, the 101, the 405, the 170, the 118, the whatever. From my backyard I can see snow covered mountains if I stand next to out palm tree. Disconcerting.
And Chicago. Chicago is the most horrible place I've ever lived. The entire city is incredibly corrupt. The Chicago Police Department are armed thugs. It is a racist and violent city. A city with a chip on it's shoulder. Ever trying to compete with New York. Oddly, and I think this is mostly a defense mechanism, Chicagoans are fiercely loyal to their ugly city. I think a lot of this braggadocio comes from the fact that they know they're stuck in a terrible place to live so they live in denial. They constantly rave about the good things in that city (and trust me, there aren't very many). From Mayor Daley to the lowly DMV clerk, everyone in that city is corrupt and angry. And unlike the picture they like to paint to the other major cities in the nation, they're a rude lot. Can't really blame them, I guess. It's freezing in that city nine months out of the year. In January and February it's actually physically dangerous to be outside for long periods of time because it's so cold. Who in their right mind would want to live through that year after year? Suffice to say, it is my least favorite place to live in the United States. Unless I'm forced at gunpoint, I will never set foot in it again.
As for other places I've lived: Sanibel, Florida - two thumbs up. Angie and I want to retire there someday. It's Eden. Rochester, New York - The physically ugliest city in which I've ever spent time (although Rockford, IL, comes in a close second). Rochester, also, has dreadful weather. Roanoke and Richmond, VA, are great towns. But no one cares. Roanoke is a very pretty place...but it's people are, well...not exactly Mensa members, if you know what I mean.
None of this has anything to do with anything today. Just random thoughts after my visit to the DMV.
And on an entirely unrelated subject, I'm putting down the cigarettes today. The silent killer and all. I may be tad difficult to live with for awhile.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
And so it begins again...isn't that just beautiful.
So, opening night for the one-acts is out of the way. Small house, but they seemed to like what they saw. I didn't stick around for the party afterwards...parties have lost their allure for me over the years. Plus I was bone tired. The silent killer and all. But we all did our best and that's all we can do.
Now on to Praying Small. The poster is out (see right). I like it. My very talented friend Chad Coe did it.
I'm often asked if Praying Small is autobiographical. The truth is, no, it's not. It is not my story. Mine is probably a lot grittier. As is always the case with an original play, there are of course autobiographical elements to it. The romance in the play is fairly true, however. That's the risk one takes when knowing a playwright...eventually one will inevitably end up on stage.
The words, the words, my kingdom for the words. So many lines to learn for this one. Fortunately, I wrote them. So a lot of them are already in some hidden recess in my brain. I just have to access them.
Here's something odd about Praying Small, however. It is by far my most successful play. It has brought in a lot of cash for me over the years. But it is not my favorite play. I suppose because I've seen it done so many times. And it had an easy birth. The words virtually threw themselves on the page. I only had one blockage when writing the piece which is highly unusual. Perhaps because I knew the play so well to begin with.
It was originally called An Adolescence Prolonged. Bit of a wieldy title. That phrase comes from a poem by Louis Bogan. I was reading a book of poetry by her one day back in 2003 and I read that phrase and immediately eighty percent of the play sprang into my head. I don't know if this is how other playwrights work, but it often happens with me. But nothing quite so initially clear as this. I read those words, looked up for a second, and saw the entire play in my head. Reminds me of a story about Agatha Christie. She was with a friend one day and suddenly turned to her and said, "I just finished my book." The friend said, "Wonderful! Can I read it?" Christie said, "Oh, it's not written yet." Well, that was how Praying Small was for me to a certain extent. I remember thinking of the play around noon. I knew I couldn't start writing until later that night. The rest of the day ticked by so slowly. I couldn't wait to get to a keyboard because I was afraid it would all go away.
While I was writing it over a few weeks period, working till six or so (I was, at the time, a drug and alcohol counselor in Chicago), I would then get to the computer and pick up where I'd left off the day before. I would sit, read the scene I was working on and out would pour the words. I knew I was onto something good when occasionally I would have to physically turn away from the screen because of the pain being splattered there. There is a moment in the play when Sam, the leading character, proposes to his lover, Susan. The words sprang onto the screen. I was hardly aware I was typing. When I finished the monologue I realized the keyboard was wet. And I was exhausted. I got up and walked around the block. I have never gone back and changed a single word of that scene. It is exactly as it came out of my head that day. I don't think I can say that about anything else I've ever written. I always revisit it later and fine tune. But not that section. I never want to touch a comma in that scene.
Plays are never finished. They are only abandoned.
I've rewritten the opening of this play to explain the age of Sam...the role I'm doing in the play. Initially Sam was written for a thirty-three year old man. I'm forty-nine. So I had to make it a memory play and I had to let the audience know this without reservation. My task was to add the opening scene, yet keep is as simple and honest as the rest of the piece.
About this time my friend Robert (Bobby) Fiedler died from an overdose of crack-cocaine. Bobby was, at one time, one of the most talented actors I'd ever known. But addiction and substance abuse caught him early in his life and drove him to unspeakable pits of misery. He died in Missouri about a year ago. He was a chronic alcoholic. He was my friend. So I wrote the new scene with him in mind. Here it is.
OPENING SCENE
Now on to Praying Small. The poster is out (see right). I like it. My very talented friend Chad Coe did it.
I'm often asked if Praying Small is autobiographical. The truth is, no, it's not. It is not my story. Mine is probably a lot grittier. As is always the case with an original play, there are of course autobiographical elements to it. The romance in the play is fairly true, however. That's the risk one takes when knowing a playwright...eventually one will inevitably end up on stage.
The words, the words, my kingdom for the words. So many lines to learn for this one. Fortunately, I wrote them. So a lot of them are already in some hidden recess in my brain. I just have to access them.
Here's something odd about Praying Small, however. It is by far my most successful play. It has brought in a lot of cash for me over the years. But it is not my favorite play. I suppose because I've seen it done so many times. And it had an easy birth. The words virtually threw themselves on the page. I only had one blockage when writing the piece which is highly unusual. Perhaps because I knew the play so well to begin with.
It was originally called An Adolescence Prolonged. Bit of a wieldy title. That phrase comes from a poem by Louis Bogan. I was reading a book of poetry by her one day back in 2003 and I read that phrase and immediately eighty percent of the play sprang into my head. I don't know if this is how other playwrights work, but it often happens with me. But nothing quite so initially clear as this. I read those words, looked up for a second, and saw the entire play in my head. Reminds me of a story about Agatha Christie. She was with a friend one day and suddenly turned to her and said, "I just finished my book." The friend said, "Wonderful! Can I read it?" Christie said, "Oh, it's not written yet." Well, that was how Praying Small was for me to a certain extent. I remember thinking of the play around noon. I knew I couldn't start writing until later that night. The rest of the day ticked by so slowly. I couldn't wait to get to a keyboard because I was afraid it would all go away.
While I was writing it over a few weeks period, working till six or so (I was, at the time, a drug and alcohol counselor in Chicago), I would then get to the computer and pick up where I'd left off the day before. I would sit, read the scene I was working on and out would pour the words. I knew I was onto something good when occasionally I would have to physically turn away from the screen because of the pain being splattered there. There is a moment in the play when Sam, the leading character, proposes to his lover, Susan. The words sprang onto the screen. I was hardly aware I was typing. When I finished the monologue I realized the keyboard was wet. And I was exhausted. I got up and walked around the block. I have never gone back and changed a single word of that scene. It is exactly as it came out of my head that day. I don't think I can say that about anything else I've ever written. I always revisit it later and fine tune. But not that section. I never want to touch a comma in that scene.
Plays are never finished. They are only abandoned.
I've rewritten the opening of this play to explain the age of Sam...the role I'm doing in the play. Initially Sam was written for a thirty-three year old man. I'm forty-nine. So I had to make it a memory play and I had to let the audience know this without reservation. My task was to add the opening scene, yet keep is as simple and honest as the rest of the piece.
About this time my friend Robert (Bobby) Fiedler died from an overdose of crack-cocaine. Bobby was, at one time, one of the most talented actors I'd ever known. But addiction and substance abuse caught him early in his life and drove him to unspeakable pits of misery. He died in Missouri about a year ago. He was a chronic alcoholic. He was my friend. So I wrote the new scene with him in mind. Here it is.
OPENING SCENE
Opening music fades. An AA meeting has just ended. A young man is sitting in a chair up center. Ambient noise: people talking, laughing, etc. As the music subsides, SAM enters SR. He pauses a second, looking at the man. He sits next to him. Says nothing for a moment.
Sam
How much time ya’ got, Son?
Man
What?
Sam
How long you been sober?
Man
Oh. I don’t know. Let’s see. Three days. Counting today. You?
Sam
One day.
Man
That’s all?
Sam
What time did you get up today?
Man
Hm? Oh, about six, I guess. Had to be at work at seven.
Sam
What do you do?
Man
I’m, uh, I clean carpets.
Sam
Okay. Want some coffee?
Man
No, no, thanks. I got some. (Beat) Just one day, huh?
Sam
Well, it’s one day at a time. The way I see it, if you got up earlier than I did, you got more time. I don’t hold with this time thing too much. But if you’re asking when I had my last drink…bout ten years ago, give or take.
Man
Wow.
Sam
I tell ya’ what…I’ll trade my ten years for your three days right now, no questions asked.
Man
What?
Sam
No questions asked.
Man
Well, I don’t know…I don’t know what you mean. I can’t do that.
Sam
It’s the journey. This is not a race. It doesn’t matter how much time you have. No one wins this thing. Don’t you see? It’s the journey that counts.
Man
My life…oh, God, my life is a mess, man.
Sam
Yeah.
Man
I can’t seem to stop.
Sam
Yeah.
Man
You, too?
Sam
Well, I managed to stop. (Beat) But Jesus Christ it was hard.
Man
What do I do?
Sam
Absolutely nothing.
Man
What?
Sam
You got a sponsor?
Man
No. Can you do that?
Sam
You asking?
Man
Well…yeah, I guess so.
Sam
Yeah, I can do that. (Smiles warmly.)
Man
So what do I do?
Sam
I’m Sam Dean. (Extends his hand) What’s your name?
Man
Bob. Bobby Fiedler.
Sam
Well, Bobby Fiedler, let me ask you a question. Do you believe in God?
Man
Well, I want to…
Sam
(Laughing) Well, we got ourselves a little problem already then, don’t we.
Man
No, no, I mean, I want to, it’s just that…
Sam
It’s alright. You’re here. That’s a step. Little step, but a step. Well, for now, you believe in me.
Man
You?
Sam
Me. Me and the group. I don’t like doing that, but later on, you’ll understand. And you gotta do everything I say, and no questions. Think you can do that?
Man
Well, I can try.
Sam
Nope, no trying. You either do this, or you find a softer, easier guy to sponsor you. Okay?
Man
(Pause) Okay.
Sam turns to the audience.
Sam
And so it begins again. The first step. The hope of the hopeless. What an amazing moment. (Beat) I’m forty five. Been at this awhile now. I know exactly where this guy’s coming from. We all do. We’ve all been there. Three days. What a miracle he’s about to live through. I envy him. Let me tell ya’ something. Just when you think it’s all over, it begins again. Everything begins again. Everything…begins again. Isn’t that just beautiful?
End Scene - continue to original dialogue.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, April 30, 2010
...the show must go on.
Final dress for Sanity 2 last night. What a traffic problem. But it's being fixed by smart, capable people. It's just the nature of the evening. Eight one-acts, one after another, is bound to create a bit of scene-changing chaos. I'm not too concerned. It's a very casual evening of theatre. The audience realizes this. The point of the night is to showcase some writing and acting. That's the gist of the whole thing. So towards that end, I think it will be successful in the final analysis.
Still some line work to be done today by yours truly. Pacing, shouting out loud, mumbling curses when I can't find the line in my memory. The usual.
The good news is my director for Praying Small and one of the acting artistic directors for the company, Victor Warren, brought me an amazing suit to wear in the plays. It fits like a glove and it's sort of 1940's looking. I feel like Edward G. Robinson when I put it on. "Where's your Moses now, see?"
I have, throughout my career, had some wonderful costumes to wear. Had a great one in both 1776 productions that I did. In fact, you can see the one I wore for Richard Henry Lee to the right of this page. Every single time I did Lost in Yonkers (five to date) I had a suit BUILT exclusively for me. In hindsight I wish I had purchased one of them at the end of one of the respective runs.
I remember doing Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls some years back. Had on an all black suit with a shining white tie. Opening night I'm backstage having a cigarette and dropped ashes on it (I was supposed to be wearing my "smoking frock" but I wasn't). Tried to rub the ashes off. Ended up with a huge black spot on the tie. Costumer saw me before curtain and turned a shade of red I didn't think possible in a human being.
The first 1776 I did was with Jim Barbour as Jefferson in Virginia's Mill Mountain Theatre. I had to wear tights. They didn't quite fit. So I would struggle with them every night. The upshot was that they would droop. They sagged. Jim said to me after one performance, "You are the most talented scene-stealer I've ever met. But I didn't think even YOU would stoop so low as to steal a scene by making your tights sag." As God is my witness, it was entirely unintentional.
When I did Sunday in the Park with George at that same theatre they rented all the costumes from the Broadway production. When I got my costume I was putting everything on for the costume parade and inside the socks was sewn a label that said M. Patinkin. I was star struck.
Here's an odd one. First time I did Arnold, the mentally handicapped character from the beautifully written Boys Next Door, was at The Wayside Theatre outside of D.C. I was wearing Keds Tennis Shoes. I thought it might be a nice touch to label them. Something I thought the character might do. So I wrote, in magic marker, on the toes of the sneakers, "Left" and "Right." So, you know, Arnold would never be confused. Two years later I did the same role in a small Equity theatre in Florida. Unbeknownst to me that theatre had done some sort of 'costume trade' with The Wayside. So I get my costume for Arnold and what'd'ya know. There are the Keds. Written prominently on the toes? "Left" and "Right."
The very first play I was ever in was MacBeth at the local college in the town where I grew up. I played MacDuff's son. One small scene in which MacBeth's murderous henchmen stab me and my mother, Lady MacDuff. The tech people decided to put a blood packet on my back so that when I'm stabbed I turn, back to the audience, and they can see the blood stain all over my back. That was how it was ostensibly supposed to work. Opening night I got the biggest laugh of the play (although to be fair, MacBeth doesn't have a LOT of laughs). The murderer grabs me, turns me upstage and stabs. The packet on my back burst with a loud POP (I think they used a balloon half-full with water). And then a cup of water fell between my legs. It literally looked like my water had burst. Big laugh. I was mortified. It's a wonder I even continued in the theatre.
My buddy Jay Willick, a very fine actor himself, and I were talking last night about how sometimes the costume can completely find the character for you. It's true. I recall Brando's dismissive quote about acting once, "I haven't acted in years. I just put the costume on and let it act for me." There have been many times when I couldn't find the character completely until I put the costume on. Especially the shoes. Once I get the shoes on and find the walk, sometimes the rest just follows quite naturally.
I'll end with the famous Streisand audition story, which may or may not be apocryphal. A director recalls her coming to his audition before she was a star. The stage manager calls her name. "Barbra Streisand? You're next!" A few seconds pass. Finally she stumbles onstage for the audition wearing high heels with one heel off. She's lurching to the stage and talking all at the same time, "I'm so sorry, I just got my heel caught in a grate. Was stuck for ten minutes trying to pull my foot out. People were lined up tugging me. It was a mess. I kept telling them to pull harder. A whole line of people I don't know, lined up on the sidewalk, pulling me and my foot out of this grate. Finally it popped out, my foot, I mean, but the heel was still stuck in the grate. Anyway, I'm here. I'm ready to sing for you. Just try to ignore the shoes." And she lurched up on stage and sang. Unbelievably well, of course.
A month or so later, this director is talking to another director and told him this story. The other director looked at him in disbelief. He said, "She did the same thing at my audition." Pretty smart cookie, that Streisand.
See you tomorrow.
Still some line work to be done today by yours truly. Pacing, shouting out loud, mumbling curses when I can't find the line in my memory. The usual.
The good news is my director for Praying Small and one of the acting artistic directors for the company, Victor Warren, brought me an amazing suit to wear in the plays. It fits like a glove and it's sort of 1940's looking. I feel like Edward G. Robinson when I put it on. "Where's your Moses now, see?"
I have, throughout my career, had some wonderful costumes to wear. Had a great one in both 1776 productions that I did. In fact, you can see the one I wore for Richard Henry Lee to the right of this page. Every single time I did Lost in Yonkers (five to date) I had a suit BUILT exclusively for me. In hindsight I wish I had purchased one of them at the end of one of the respective runs.
I remember doing Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls some years back. Had on an all black suit with a shining white tie. Opening night I'm backstage having a cigarette and dropped ashes on it (I was supposed to be wearing my "smoking frock" but I wasn't). Tried to rub the ashes off. Ended up with a huge black spot on the tie. Costumer saw me before curtain and turned a shade of red I didn't think possible in a human being.
The first 1776 I did was with Jim Barbour as Jefferson in Virginia's Mill Mountain Theatre. I had to wear tights. They didn't quite fit. So I would struggle with them every night. The upshot was that they would droop. They sagged. Jim said to me after one performance, "You are the most talented scene-stealer I've ever met. But I didn't think even YOU would stoop so low as to steal a scene by making your tights sag." As God is my witness, it was entirely unintentional.
When I did Sunday in the Park with George at that same theatre they rented all the costumes from the Broadway production. When I got my costume I was putting everything on for the costume parade and inside the socks was sewn a label that said M. Patinkin. I was star struck.
Here's an odd one. First time I did Arnold, the mentally handicapped character from the beautifully written Boys Next Door, was at The Wayside Theatre outside of D.C. I was wearing Keds Tennis Shoes. I thought it might be a nice touch to label them. Something I thought the character might do. So I wrote, in magic marker, on the toes of the sneakers, "Left" and "Right." So, you know, Arnold would never be confused. Two years later I did the same role in a small Equity theatre in Florida. Unbeknownst to me that theatre had done some sort of 'costume trade' with The Wayside. So I get my costume for Arnold and what'd'ya know. There are the Keds. Written prominently on the toes? "Left" and "Right."
The very first play I was ever in was MacBeth at the local college in the town where I grew up. I played MacDuff's son. One small scene in which MacBeth's murderous henchmen stab me and my mother, Lady MacDuff. The tech people decided to put a blood packet on my back so that when I'm stabbed I turn, back to the audience, and they can see the blood stain all over my back. That was how it was ostensibly supposed to work. Opening night I got the biggest laugh of the play (although to be fair, MacBeth doesn't have a LOT of laughs). The murderer grabs me, turns me upstage and stabs. The packet on my back burst with a loud POP (I think they used a balloon half-full with water). And then a cup of water fell between my legs. It literally looked like my water had burst. Big laugh. I was mortified. It's a wonder I even continued in the theatre.
My buddy Jay Willick, a very fine actor himself, and I were talking last night about how sometimes the costume can completely find the character for you. It's true. I recall Brando's dismissive quote about acting once, "I haven't acted in years. I just put the costume on and let it act for me." There have been many times when I couldn't find the character completely until I put the costume on. Especially the shoes. Once I get the shoes on and find the walk, sometimes the rest just follows quite naturally.
I'll end with the famous Streisand audition story, which may or may not be apocryphal. A director recalls her coming to his audition before she was a star. The stage manager calls her name. "Barbra Streisand? You're next!" A few seconds pass. Finally she stumbles onstage for the audition wearing high heels with one heel off. She's lurching to the stage and talking all at the same time, "I'm so sorry, I just got my heel caught in a grate. Was stuck for ten minutes trying to pull my foot out. People were lined up tugging me. It was a mess. I kept telling them to pull harder. A whole line of people I don't know, lined up on the sidewalk, pulling me and my foot out of this grate. Finally it popped out, my foot, I mean, but the heel was still stuck in the grate. Anyway, I'm here. I'm ready to sing for you. Just try to ignore the shoes." And she lurched up on stage and sang. Unbelievably well, of course.
A month or so later, this director is talking to another director and told him this story. The other director looked at him in disbelief. He said, "She did the same thing at my audition." Pretty smart cookie, that Streisand.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
A Short One...
A full tech/run last night with the one-acts at NoHo ACE. Unfortunately I was trapped backstage most of the night and didn't get a chance to see any of the ones I'm not in. But judging from the dressing room speakers they sounded fun. Full dress tonight. My day is about working the lines in the two I'm doing. One is pretty much down and the other is close. And, joy of joys, as soon as these are memorized I start learning Praying Small (although I may take the weekend off).
My buddy James Barbour and I have decided to work together in a four-week-long teaching workshop under the auspices of Naked Face Los Angeles, my professional acting studio. I'll teach monologue, audition and scene study and he'll do musical theatre. Jim, of course, has a much bigger and more recognizable name than I do in the theatre community so I think that alone will attract students. We're meeting soon to work out a syllabus and a business plan. At the end of the workshop we hope to have some casting directors (Angela has given us the guidelines from CSA - casting society of America), film and stage directors, producers and possibly some working composers and lyricists, watch the participant's final product.
On the health front, "the silent killer" is being silenced by the new meds. And I couldn't be happier. For the first time in months I'm beginning to feel normal again.
More on the Naked Face workshop as it unravels. More on the one-acts as they continue thru the run of the show.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. I might even take a shower today.
See you tomorrow.
My buddy James Barbour and I have decided to work together in a four-week-long teaching workshop under the auspices of Naked Face Los Angeles, my professional acting studio. I'll teach monologue, audition and scene study and he'll do musical theatre. Jim, of course, has a much bigger and more recognizable name than I do in the theatre community so I think that alone will attract students. We're meeting soon to work out a syllabus and a business plan. At the end of the workshop we hope to have some casting directors (Angela has given us the guidelines from CSA - casting society of America), film and stage directors, producers and possibly some working composers and lyricists, watch the participant's final product.
On the health front, "the silent killer" is being silenced by the new meds. And I couldn't be happier. For the first time in months I'm beginning to feel normal again.
More on the Naked Face workshop as it unravels. More on the one-acts as they continue thru the run of the show.
Another beautiful day in Southern California. I might even take a shower today.
See you tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
On Dress Rehearsals and Tech Nights...
Another tech last night for Sanity 2. Eight different short plays. Oy. Lots of tech and lots of quick scene changes. I must say I'm really impressed with Karesa's good-natured attitude as she guides some of the feckless actors (ME!) through the process. I've known directors to go a tad crazy during tech week. With all the chaos at a fever pitch last night I only heard one "Quiet in the house!" bellowed.
Got the full rehearsal schedule for Praying Small yesterday, too. My mind is eased a bit knowing we have an attack plan.
When tech stuff goes wrong in a performance, odd things happen to actors. Usually it falls into one of two camps: those who go with it and adlib their way out or those that panic and freeze. One of the most famous stories about tech gone wrong is the off cue phone call with Olivier. He was doing a Noel Coward play in the West End. Onstage with a young actor. Phone rings off cue. The phone is not supposed to ring for another two pages. Both actors stop and stare at the phone. Finally Olivier walks over and answers it. "Hello? Um, yes. Yes. I see. Uh-huh. Yes. Why, of course, he's right here. (turns to young actor) It's for you."
I once did the play Wait Until Dark in Florida some years back. I was doing the sociopathic killer, Roat, in that play. In the climactic scene where the blind girl stabs Roat with a kitchen knife, I stalk her. Cat and mouse. Roat knows she can't see him and is toying with her. Suddenly she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a long knife and goes for him. That's the way it's supposed to work. Dress rehearsal. She makes a dash for the drawer. Fumbles around in it forever. I could have killed her ten times over in the time she spent searching for the knife amidst the silverware in that drawer. Goes on and on. Dead air. I'm just standing there watching her. She's staring off glassy-eyed in the distance, acting "blind." More time. She pulls a spoon, discards it. Then a fork. Then a ladle. Then a spatula. Finally, from the house we hear a booming voice from the director. "YOU'RE NOT REALLY BLIND!" She looks in the drawer and gets the knife.
The first time I did A Few Good Men was at Mill Mountain in Roanoke, VA. After an eight week run there we transferred the whole thing to Wayside Theatre up the road in Middletown. Wayside, a smaller theatre, didn't have the resources Mill Mountain had and thus some adjustments were made. Huge blacks (curtains, for the uninitiated) were hung to frame the stage. During the climactic courtroom scenes in the second act, one had to negotiate through a series of hung teasers (small, thin curtains hanging down) to get onstage. It was like a maze. Kind of like walking through a funhouse in pitch black darkness. Dress Rehearsal. Full costume, which means we're all in our military dress uniforms. As each character's name is called to testify, there would be a flurry of curtain punching and under-the -breath cursing as the actors tried to get onstage. Finally, one by one, the actors would find the entrance and emerge, hair mussed, wild-eyed, staggering slightly, realize where they were, smooth their hair and walk sternly and seriously to the witness chair. Would have been funny if it happened once. It happened to every single actor. The actors onstage were a mess. Church giggling. You know. When you try not to laugh in church and that makes it all the funnier. Finally my turn. I get lost in the curtains just like everyone else. I finally make it out. I've dropped my hat. I come out facing the wrong direction. I trip on the last teaser and fall to one knee. Everyone to that point has just gone on with the play as though nothing happened. I look up and see the whole cast staring at me (about twenty men on stage). "Broken Arrow!" I scream. Cast loses it. Director not happy.
Another time I was doing Sondheim's Company in Connecticut. I was working with an actor that would talk and yammer and chit-chat endlessly right off stage before making his entrance. Each night he would completely forget to listen for his cue and I would have to interrupt him and say, "it's your entrance." Dress rehearsal. We're standing off stage. He's saying, "...and then I asked them if I could get a discount on the shoes because they were just simply too tight. I called the manufacturers, I called everybody. They wouldn't let me exchange them. I wrote them a letter saying..." It was about ten minutes before he was supposed to enter. I stopped him and said, "It's your entrance." He charged on stage and started talking. Hehehehe.
Hundreds of other memories about tech nights and dress rehearsals. Every actor has them. I suspect we'll have some confusion with this one, too.
And on another note. The new medication for "the silent killer" is working. I feel like a new man, or at the very least, a slightly used one. BP down, more energy, better outlook on everything. The foot is still numb making me walk a little like the kid in Jurassic Park when he gets blown off the fence, but I'll learn to compensate eventually I'm sure. Angie is devouring online recipes for diabetes victims. She did, however, say something last night that alarmed me. She said, "you just have to get used to thinking of food as fuel rather than an event." Well, I don't think I can ever do that. A good meal, prepared with care, presented with aesthetic forethought, each dish and course complimenting the other, color coordinated...well this is the mark of a civilized people as far as I'm concerned. For me, regardless of my diet, food will never be "fuel." We'll just have to figure this one out.
The puppies are frolicking. The next door neighbor's rooster is punching his time clock. The sun is up and benign. And I'm getting married someday this year, if the rumors are true. Things are okay.
See you tomorrow.
Got the full rehearsal schedule for Praying Small yesterday, too. My mind is eased a bit knowing we have an attack plan.
When tech stuff goes wrong in a performance, odd things happen to actors. Usually it falls into one of two camps: those who go with it and adlib their way out or those that panic and freeze. One of the most famous stories about tech gone wrong is the off cue phone call with Olivier. He was doing a Noel Coward play in the West End. Onstage with a young actor. Phone rings off cue. The phone is not supposed to ring for another two pages. Both actors stop and stare at the phone. Finally Olivier walks over and answers it. "Hello? Um, yes. Yes. I see. Uh-huh. Yes. Why, of course, he's right here. (turns to young actor) It's for you."
I once did the play Wait Until Dark in Florida some years back. I was doing the sociopathic killer, Roat, in that play. In the climactic scene where the blind girl stabs Roat with a kitchen knife, I stalk her. Cat and mouse. Roat knows she can't see him and is toying with her. Suddenly she reaches into a drawer and pulls out a long knife and goes for him. That's the way it's supposed to work. Dress rehearsal. She makes a dash for the drawer. Fumbles around in it forever. I could have killed her ten times over in the time she spent searching for the knife amidst the silverware in that drawer. Goes on and on. Dead air. I'm just standing there watching her. She's staring off glassy-eyed in the distance, acting "blind." More time. She pulls a spoon, discards it. Then a fork. Then a ladle. Then a spatula. Finally, from the house we hear a booming voice from the director. "YOU'RE NOT REALLY BLIND!" She looks in the drawer and gets the knife.
The first time I did A Few Good Men was at Mill Mountain in Roanoke, VA. After an eight week run there we transferred the whole thing to Wayside Theatre up the road in Middletown. Wayside, a smaller theatre, didn't have the resources Mill Mountain had and thus some adjustments were made. Huge blacks (curtains, for the uninitiated) were hung to frame the stage. During the climactic courtroom scenes in the second act, one had to negotiate through a series of hung teasers (small, thin curtains hanging down) to get onstage. It was like a maze. Kind of like walking through a funhouse in pitch black darkness. Dress Rehearsal. Full costume, which means we're all in our military dress uniforms. As each character's name is called to testify, there would be a flurry of curtain punching and under-the -breath cursing as the actors tried to get onstage. Finally, one by one, the actors would find the entrance and emerge, hair mussed, wild-eyed, staggering slightly, realize where they were, smooth their hair and walk sternly and seriously to the witness chair. Would have been funny if it happened once. It happened to every single actor. The actors onstage were a mess. Church giggling. You know. When you try not to laugh in church and that makes it all the funnier. Finally my turn. I get lost in the curtains just like everyone else. I finally make it out. I've dropped my hat. I come out facing the wrong direction. I trip on the last teaser and fall to one knee. Everyone to that point has just gone on with the play as though nothing happened. I look up and see the whole cast staring at me (about twenty men on stage). "Broken Arrow!" I scream. Cast loses it. Director not happy.
Another time I was doing Sondheim's Company in Connecticut. I was working with an actor that would talk and yammer and chit-chat endlessly right off stage before making his entrance. Each night he would completely forget to listen for his cue and I would have to interrupt him and say, "it's your entrance." Dress rehearsal. We're standing off stage. He's saying, "...and then I asked them if I could get a discount on the shoes because they were just simply too tight. I called the manufacturers, I called everybody. They wouldn't let me exchange them. I wrote them a letter saying..." It was about ten minutes before he was supposed to enter. I stopped him and said, "It's your entrance." He charged on stage and started talking. Hehehehe.
Hundreds of other memories about tech nights and dress rehearsals. Every actor has them. I suspect we'll have some confusion with this one, too.
And on another note. The new medication for "the silent killer" is working. I feel like a new man, or at the very least, a slightly used one. BP down, more energy, better outlook on everything. The foot is still numb making me walk a little like the kid in Jurassic Park when he gets blown off the fence, but I'll learn to compensate eventually I'm sure. Angie is devouring online recipes for diabetes victims. She did, however, say something last night that alarmed me. She said, "you just have to get used to thinking of food as fuel rather than an event." Well, I don't think I can ever do that. A good meal, prepared with care, presented with aesthetic forethought, each dish and course complimenting the other, color coordinated...well this is the mark of a civilized people as far as I'm concerned. For me, regardless of my diet, food will never be "fuel." We'll just have to figure this one out.
The puppies are frolicking. The next door neighbor's rooster is punching his time clock. The sun is up and benign. And I'm getting married someday this year, if the rumors are true. Things are okay.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Sanity 2...
Yesterday the members of NoHo Ace (North Hollywood Arts Center Ensemble) gathered at the theatre for a dry tech run-through of Sanity 2, an evening of one-acts running from April 30 to May 30. The idea is this: a year or so ago, before my time with them, the theatre ran a weekly night of one-acts written, memorized and performed all within 24 hours. The themes were given and, voila, 24 hours later a play. Apparently it was a pretty big success for the company.
Now the best of these hastily written plays have been tuned up, re-visited and rehearsed in earnest. The playwrights have done some re-writing, tightened everything up and given the short plays some real attention. Directors were brought in and real rehearsal time was assigned.
My friend, James Mellon, asked me to do a couple and I gladly complied. In fact, the two I'm in are pretty good pieces. The first, one James wrote himself, is a bit more dramatic than one might expect. It's a piece about what would happen if the President's daughter publicly announced she was a lesbian. (This kinda already happened with Dick Cheney's daughter, actually.) I like it because I get a chance to take some shots at George W. and his abounding ignorance mixed with his Machiavellian smugness.
The second is an all-out piece of silliness in the vein of Waiting for Guffman. A small, midwestern dinner theatre hires a Broadway director to do a play. Turns out the play, called Annie and Oliver, is a phycho-sexual, scatalogical piece not fit for small town ears. The producers of the theatre beg him to do something else like Barefoot in the Park ("A little edgy but with a few cuts here and there...LAUGHS!") This is the one I'm doing with my Harry Morgan impression - sort of barking all the lines. Having fun with that one, don't know if it will be funny, but I'm amusing myself at least.
But the thing is, everyone gathered at the theatre yesterday and did everything...move the scenery, adjust the lights, bring a costume, set the travel patterns onstage, just everything. It was like going back in time to high school theatre when absolutely everything about doing a play was overwhelmingly fun. There are eight plays on the billet so there is a lot of moving of furniture going on. I don't mind in the least, although these days I sort of stagger around a bit like the creature of the black lagoon because of my "silent killer" distractions, but that's another story.
One of the many things I like about NoHo Ace is the total disregard of ego everyone brings to the action. The entire mind-set is one of, "we really don't care who you are or what you've done, just move that sofa." I like that. We're very Marxist, in that sense.
Besides, as most of my readers know, I'm about to embark on the lead role of Sam in Praying Small and it's a doozy. A huge role. So I'm looking at the one-acts as my warm-up fight. Kind of like when Ali came back after his exile and fought Quarry and Bonevena before taking on Frazier.
There's still a ton of work to be done on Sanity 2, but it's getting there under the inexhaustible leadership of Karesa McElheney, one of the acting artistic directors. I suspect it's going to be a pretty good night of theatre, overall. I haven't seen the other one-acts yet, but the two I'm in are not bad at all. I honestly don't think I've acted in a one-act since college.
On another note, the diabetes check-up yesterday was a total disaster. Blood work came back: glucose readings up, cholesterol readings up, BP up, right foot numb, eye sight worse, a host of other annoying things. As I told Angie, this whole thing is getting ridiculous. It's effecting my quality of life. I am on a very strict diet now, exercising, being careful about a bunch of things. I always wondered when age and lifestyle choices would catch up to me...I guess I don't have to wonder anymore.
Our neighbors have a rooster. He's doing his thing right now. The sun is coming up. It's a nice day. And all things considered, it could be a hell of a lot worse.
See you tomorrow.
Now the best of these hastily written plays have been tuned up, re-visited and rehearsed in earnest. The playwrights have done some re-writing, tightened everything up and given the short plays some real attention. Directors were brought in and real rehearsal time was assigned.
My friend, James Mellon, asked me to do a couple and I gladly complied. In fact, the two I'm in are pretty good pieces. The first, one James wrote himself, is a bit more dramatic than one might expect. It's a piece about what would happen if the President's daughter publicly announced she was a lesbian. (This kinda already happened with Dick Cheney's daughter, actually.) I like it because I get a chance to take some shots at George W. and his abounding ignorance mixed with his Machiavellian smugness.
The second is an all-out piece of silliness in the vein of Waiting for Guffman. A small, midwestern dinner theatre hires a Broadway director to do a play. Turns out the play, called Annie and Oliver, is a phycho-sexual, scatalogical piece not fit for small town ears. The producers of the theatre beg him to do something else like Barefoot in the Park ("A little edgy but with a few cuts here and there...LAUGHS!") This is the one I'm doing with my Harry Morgan impression - sort of barking all the lines. Having fun with that one, don't know if it will be funny, but I'm amusing myself at least.
But the thing is, everyone gathered at the theatre yesterday and did everything...move the scenery, adjust the lights, bring a costume, set the travel patterns onstage, just everything. It was like going back in time to high school theatre when absolutely everything about doing a play was overwhelmingly fun. There are eight plays on the billet so there is a lot of moving of furniture going on. I don't mind in the least, although these days I sort of stagger around a bit like the creature of the black lagoon because of my "silent killer" distractions, but that's another story.
One of the many things I like about NoHo Ace is the total disregard of ego everyone brings to the action. The entire mind-set is one of, "we really don't care who you are or what you've done, just move that sofa." I like that. We're very Marxist, in that sense.
Besides, as most of my readers know, I'm about to embark on the lead role of Sam in Praying Small and it's a doozy. A huge role. So I'm looking at the one-acts as my warm-up fight. Kind of like when Ali came back after his exile and fought Quarry and Bonevena before taking on Frazier.
There's still a ton of work to be done on Sanity 2, but it's getting there under the inexhaustible leadership of Karesa McElheney, one of the acting artistic directors. I suspect it's going to be a pretty good night of theatre, overall. I haven't seen the other one-acts yet, but the two I'm in are not bad at all. I honestly don't think I've acted in a one-act since college.
On another note, the diabetes check-up yesterday was a total disaster. Blood work came back: glucose readings up, cholesterol readings up, BP up, right foot numb, eye sight worse, a host of other annoying things. As I told Angie, this whole thing is getting ridiculous. It's effecting my quality of life. I am on a very strict diet now, exercising, being careful about a bunch of things. I always wondered when age and lifestyle choices would catch up to me...I guess I don't have to wonder anymore.
Our neighbors have a rooster. He's doing his thing right now. The sun is coming up. It's a nice day. And all things considered, it could be a hell of a lot worse.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Random Sunday Morning Thoughts...
It's all about gratitude. Being grateful. Realizing one's plight is so much easier than it could be under different circumstances. It's Sunday morning and a lot of people are getting ready for their respective churches. A mystery to me. I've never understood the idea of "worship."
Now, don't worry, I'm not about to go on an anti-religion rant/blog here. The truth of the matter is a part of me envies the stalwart church-goer. Some of my best and smartest friends are tidying themselves up right now to do just that. I'm all for it.
In fact, for a long while in NYC I attended Catholic services on a fairly regular basis. Not because I for a moment believed in Catholicism but because I liked the pomp and circumstance they embrace in their worship services. Lots of robes and tradition and timing and candles and greek-chorus-like chanting. Plus I had a good buddy, a priest, doing the homily.
I would travel over to Brooklyn for his services. Once, I remember, we had a private lunch afterwards, just the two of us. After a bit, I asked him, "Tell me something. Do you really believe in all that gobbledygook you talk about up there?" He paused for a long time and then finally said, "Yes. I do."
We were close friends so I could get away with asking a priest that. Plus, he was a frustrated actor so his services were sometimes very dramatic and filled with costume changes and good lighting design.
My favorite was a little white chapel on the beach down on Sanibel Island. Used to go to that one on occasion when I was working down there. If nothing else it was certainly beautiful. If I got bored with the service I could just look around and admire the natural beauty all around me. The little white chapel wasn't Catholic, though. I think it was Methodist, but I can't remember. After attending a few times I started telling people I was a Methodist actor.
In my late thirties, I began intensive solo study of the bible. I wanted to get to the core of all this stuff that others took so seriously. Of course, it disappointed me. The bible is built to disappoint. No rancor intended, it just is. If one is incapable of making the paranormal, supernatural leap, it just becomes a silly, arcane book. Alas, that is what it is to me.
But I do want to recount one service I witnessed in the little white chapel on the beach. For others, I suppose, it was a service steeped in mystery, in divine knowledge, in the providential words of Jesus. For me, however, it was just good common sense and an example of the good things religion can supply.
The Pastor, I don't remember his name, had a large easel set up with a blank sheet of paper displayed. When we entered the chapel everyone was given another blank sheet of paper. As he started the sermon he said he wanted everyone to draw, to the best of their ability, a picture of someone we really hated, someone that was making our lives miserable, perhaps a boss or a relative or a neighbor, whatever. He said, let's get our aggression out today. Let's not go through the rest of the week being angry at somebody. Life is too short, he said.
So we all drew pictures of this someone that was bothering us. He collected them all up and put them on the easel and then one by one we all approached the easel and threw darts at the pictures we had drawn. It was fun and there was lots of laughing. We finished, still lots of giggling and murmuring, and he began to peel away the pictures we had drawn, dozens of them, one after another, there were holes in all the faces. "Feel better?" he kept asking. We did. We all did feel better. And then he stripped away the last hastily drawn face and underneath them all had been a picture of Jesus. The face of Jesus had hundreds of holes in it where we had thrown the darts. He said, "What you do to the least of my children, you do to me."
I liked that message.
There is a wonderful book called A Month of Sundays, by John Updike. It's about a preacher who loses his faith, has affairs; a man who deep down doesn't really believe in what he preaches. At the climax of the novel, the preacher says, "It was just a band of roving nomads. A group of ignorant sand dwellers who somehow stumbled upon the idea of One God. They didn't mean for it to get bent all out of shape like it did. Judeo-Christianity is a mistake, don't you see? It was meant for one lifetime, not thousands of lifetimes. It's word of mouth gone amuck! It was just something to make a hard life in the desert a little easier."
Ninety seven percent of the senior staff with NASA are unabashed atheists.
Almost all of the founding fathers embraced Classical Deism.
On the other hand, Einstein believed unreservedly in the existence of God. He said, "Just too much was left to chance. Not possible."
As I've mentioned before, my own religious beliefs were sorely tested when I worked as a drug and alcohol counselor for The Salvation Army (see my blog "The Banality of Evil"). It was a jarring lesson in the complications of melding religion with capitalism. It sickened me and still does. But I often think back to that little chapel on the beach and remind myself that not all religion is bad. Sometimes it is noble and kind. Sometimes, I suspect in its most righteous form, it is a wonderful teaching tool. A reminder to its followers to try and do the next right thing. In essence, to be good, to be "Christ like."
In one of my favorite novels, Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger says, "Don't you see, Franny? Don't you see? The Fat Lady IS Jesus Christ!" He's talking about the fat lady in the audience. The fat lady who has paid her money to be told a story. To be entertained and enlightened. Salinger is saying Jesus Christ is the very NOTION of helping someone. That He is the embodiment of reaching out to someone else.
I like that, too.
The closest I've ever been able to come to actual worship is the idea of gratitude. Some call it karma, some call it fate and some call it original sin. Regardless, it's very difficult to be pious and cynical about the idea of worship if one is filled with gratitude. My life with Angie and the puppies is sublime on occasion. I have so much to be thankful for. I have spent decades fantasizing about the life I lead at this very moment. And now, against all reason and formula, I am leading it. And I often ask myself, "Did I do ANYTHING to deserve this?" The answer, much to my chagrin, is no, I didn't. Some grace, some incomprehensible and inexplicable spiritual pattern is no doubt responsible. And I remind myself daily to be grateful.
And Jesus, in whatever costume He wears, In whatever skewered form of divinity He inhabits, is probably pleased with my daily choice to be grateful.
I'm a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. Have been for quite some time. In that expensive and altruistic club there is a saying. It goes like this: I know two things. There is a God and I'm not Him.
See you tomorrow.
Now, don't worry, I'm not about to go on an anti-religion rant/blog here. The truth of the matter is a part of me envies the stalwart church-goer. Some of my best and smartest friends are tidying themselves up right now to do just that. I'm all for it.
In fact, for a long while in NYC I attended Catholic services on a fairly regular basis. Not because I for a moment believed in Catholicism but because I liked the pomp and circumstance they embrace in their worship services. Lots of robes and tradition and timing and candles and greek-chorus-like chanting. Plus I had a good buddy, a priest, doing the homily.
I would travel over to Brooklyn for his services. Once, I remember, we had a private lunch afterwards, just the two of us. After a bit, I asked him, "Tell me something. Do you really believe in all that gobbledygook you talk about up there?" He paused for a long time and then finally said, "Yes. I do."
We were close friends so I could get away with asking a priest that. Plus, he was a frustrated actor so his services were sometimes very dramatic and filled with costume changes and good lighting design.
My favorite was a little white chapel on the beach down on Sanibel Island. Used to go to that one on occasion when I was working down there. If nothing else it was certainly beautiful. If I got bored with the service I could just look around and admire the natural beauty all around me. The little white chapel wasn't Catholic, though. I think it was Methodist, but I can't remember. After attending a few times I started telling people I was a Methodist actor.
In my late thirties, I began intensive solo study of the bible. I wanted to get to the core of all this stuff that others took so seriously. Of course, it disappointed me. The bible is built to disappoint. No rancor intended, it just is. If one is incapable of making the paranormal, supernatural leap, it just becomes a silly, arcane book. Alas, that is what it is to me.
But I do want to recount one service I witnessed in the little white chapel on the beach. For others, I suppose, it was a service steeped in mystery, in divine knowledge, in the providential words of Jesus. For me, however, it was just good common sense and an example of the good things religion can supply.
The Pastor, I don't remember his name, had a large easel set up with a blank sheet of paper displayed. When we entered the chapel everyone was given another blank sheet of paper. As he started the sermon he said he wanted everyone to draw, to the best of their ability, a picture of someone we really hated, someone that was making our lives miserable, perhaps a boss or a relative or a neighbor, whatever. He said, let's get our aggression out today. Let's not go through the rest of the week being angry at somebody. Life is too short, he said.
So we all drew pictures of this someone that was bothering us. He collected them all up and put them on the easel and then one by one we all approached the easel and threw darts at the pictures we had drawn. It was fun and there was lots of laughing. We finished, still lots of giggling and murmuring, and he began to peel away the pictures we had drawn, dozens of them, one after another, there were holes in all the faces. "Feel better?" he kept asking. We did. We all did feel better. And then he stripped away the last hastily drawn face and underneath them all had been a picture of Jesus. The face of Jesus had hundreds of holes in it where we had thrown the darts. He said, "What you do to the least of my children, you do to me."
I liked that message.
There is a wonderful book called A Month of Sundays, by John Updike. It's about a preacher who loses his faith, has affairs; a man who deep down doesn't really believe in what he preaches. At the climax of the novel, the preacher says, "It was just a band of roving nomads. A group of ignorant sand dwellers who somehow stumbled upon the idea of One God. They didn't mean for it to get bent all out of shape like it did. Judeo-Christianity is a mistake, don't you see? It was meant for one lifetime, not thousands of lifetimes. It's word of mouth gone amuck! It was just something to make a hard life in the desert a little easier."
Ninety seven percent of the senior staff with NASA are unabashed atheists.
Almost all of the founding fathers embraced Classical Deism.
On the other hand, Einstein believed unreservedly in the existence of God. He said, "Just too much was left to chance. Not possible."
As I've mentioned before, my own religious beliefs were sorely tested when I worked as a drug and alcohol counselor for The Salvation Army (see my blog "The Banality of Evil"). It was a jarring lesson in the complications of melding religion with capitalism. It sickened me and still does. But I often think back to that little chapel on the beach and remind myself that not all religion is bad. Sometimes it is noble and kind. Sometimes, I suspect in its most righteous form, it is a wonderful teaching tool. A reminder to its followers to try and do the next right thing. In essence, to be good, to be "Christ like."
In one of my favorite novels, Franny and Zooey, J.D. Salinger says, "Don't you see, Franny? Don't you see? The Fat Lady IS Jesus Christ!" He's talking about the fat lady in the audience. The fat lady who has paid her money to be told a story. To be entertained and enlightened. Salinger is saying Jesus Christ is the very NOTION of helping someone. That He is the embodiment of reaching out to someone else.
I like that, too.
The closest I've ever been able to come to actual worship is the idea of gratitude. Some call it karma, some call it fate and some call it original sin. Regardless, it's very difficult to be pious and cynical about the idea of worship if one is filled with gratitude. My life with Angie and the puppies is sublime on occasion. I have so much to be thankful for. I have spent decades fantasizing about the life I lead at this very moment. And now, against all reason and formula, I am leading it. And I often ask myself, "Did I do ANYTHING to deserve this?" The answer, much to my chagrin, is no, I didn't. Some grace, some incomprehensible and inexplicable spiritual pattern is no doubt responsible. And I remind myself daily to be grateful.
And Jesus, in whatever costume He wears, In whatever skewered form of divinity He inhabits, is probably pleased with my daily choice to be grateful.
I'm a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. Have been for quite some time. In that expensive and altruistic club there is a saying. It goes like this: I know two things. There is a God and I'm not Him.
See you tomorrow.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Move on...
I chatted a bit yesterday with my friend James Barbour. A couple of blogs ago I talked about going to see him in Nightmare Alley, the new musical that opened at The Geffen on Wednesday. Jim plays the lead character of Stan Carlyle. I talked about Jim being especially good in it but the play itself, I felt, needed a little tune-up. Since that blog several reviews have come out saying exactly the same thing (the L.A. Times review was eerily similar, in fact). For some reason Jim was a little depressed over the notices, which I found surprising. He's a pro and like us all he's been through the wringer with the press before. I certainly have and I know Jim has. When he did Jane Eyre on Broadway I know he took some nasty hits from the press on that one. The thing is, in this case the notices have all been spectacular for Jim himself. They just have a problem with the show.
Anyway, it all got me thinking about the critics. I blogged about this once before a month or so ago. But it's a big part of the actor's life, eventually, so I thought I'd write a little more on it. Some actors never reconcile the role of the critic in their professional lives. In an email yesterday to me, Jim nailed this specific feeling. He said, in effect, "we work so hard on a project, fill it with such passion, and with the swipe of a pen it's all undone." And of course he's right. I emailed him back and told him it was even worse when the play happened to be something you've written.
Here is an excerpt from a review of one of my plays called The Language of Cherubs from a newspaper in Chicago called The Windy City Times.
It's the last and longest piece that sticks in my mind as one of the vilest pieces of theater I've ever seen. The Language of Cherubs is anything but. The Language of the Despicable and Weak is more like it. Essentially the monologue of a dying southern woman (played with one-note weepiness by Jan Ellen Graves), the piece is an overview of her life with her husband. At first, their life together seems pedestrian, the stuff of thousands of American couples. But as the woman rambles on, we discover a dark underbelly. Her husband was a pedophile, preying on the high school girls he taught and exploiting his position of authority to take advantage of them. In one of the most chilling moments, the woman begins reciting the names of the girls ... and the list runs on into the dozens. But as she crawls back into her bed to sink under the oblivion of painkillers, with her Pat Boone look-alike husband at her side, she tells him that, in spite of all this, she really 'loves' him. What? It's hard to muster up any sympathy for this pair: a sexual predator and the woman who unquestioningly stands by her man, in spite of the rather strained efforts of the playwright to jerk tears from the audience (along with banal musical touches of recorded new-age piano music from Jim Brickman).
I told the Artistic Director of the theater producing this play they should put that quote on the marquis: "One of the vilest pieces of theater I've ever seen!" I joked about it for awhile with the actors. We all had a good time. "Vilest piece of theatre." That's a good one.
The truth is, stuff like that takes the wind out of a writer's sails. It's one thing to get a bad review as an actor (and trust me, I've gotten more than my share of those) but it's another to get one as a playwright. As a writer one's intellect is on trial. As an actor, merely one's choices. And the funny thing is, this same critic, a few months earlier, had hailed my play Praying Small as "a modern masterpiece."
My teacher of note and mentor and friend, the brilliant actor Michael Moriarty, has a bit to say on this 'reading your notices' business. He stopped reading his reviews back in the early eighties. He told me, "if you believe the good ones, you have to believe the bad ones, too. Best not to read any of them and keep trusting your instincts." He also told me something I have oft quoted, "Critics are like eunuchs at an orgy. The can watch, but they can't join in." In fact, I told Jim that yesterday and got a laugh from him. I hope he passed it on to the hard-working and talented cast of Nightmare Alley.
When I was doing Arnold in The Boys Next Door for the first time at Wayside Theatre in Virginia, I had a problem with doing such a dead-on impression of a mentally challenged man. I felt a little seedy doing it. I called Michael and told him this. He said, "Does the play offer redemption?" I said, yes. He said, "Then don't give it another thought. We can do anything as artists as long as what we're doing offers redemption." I have kept that piece of advice in the forefront of my mind for many years now.
Michael also told me recently he thought the late Pauline Kael, the former esteemed film critic for The New Yorker, was largely responsible for his career taking a nose-dive in the late seventies. Kael attacked Moriarty at every available opportunity. In particular a film he made called Report to the Commission, in which he starred. She lambasted it. She attacked his mannerisms, his sensitivity as an actor, his choices, even his physical appearance. Kael carried a lot of weight in the critic business back then. She was the grand dame of critics. Roger Ebert worshipped her. New York's intellectual community lived and died by her opinion. This is the same Pauline Kael who famously wrote upon seeing Last Tango in Paris, "Brando and Bertolucci have altered the face of an art form." At that time Moriarty, Pacino, DeNiro, Voight and Hoffman were the up and comers. Kael loved Pacino and DeNiro. Hated the rest. Michael says he went from A-lister to B-lister following her evisceration of him in that film. He may be right. She really did have that much influence back then.
I have twice written to a critic following what I felt was an especially unwarranted attack upon my work. The first was at Arena Stage when I was doing McMurphy in a production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The critic, one Donald Ames, wrote, "Mr. Morts ably carries this sordid mess on his capable back." He went on to say wonderful things about me and my performance but scathingly attacked the show itself and the other actors. I don't remember all I said in the letter, but essentially it was the same thing that Jim said to me yesterday. That is, how can you destroy all of this work and passion, thousands upon thousands of hours of it, with one careless and thoughtless swipe of your pen?
The other time was in Rochester, New York. I was doing a show called Redwood Curtain and I was not only directing it but acting the role of Lyman Fellars, the mysterious Vietnam Vet living in the humid forests of Northern California. The lead role in that show is the half-white, half-Vietnamese girl, Jeri. It was being played by my then girlfriend, Eileen. I thought she was really good in the role. When the reviews came out, again my work was praised but they attacked her mercilessly. I was incensed. I sent off a scathing letter to the critic for the main Rochester paper, the Democrat/Times. As it turned out I was invited to a charity event a short time later and came face to face with this critic. Back in those days I was little more volatile and actually considered punching the guy in the face. I was that angry. But he came over to my table and asked if he could join me. He was a very nice man which pissed me off even more. After a few sparring words he said to me, "let me give you some advice. You can't try and protect the actors around you that aren't as good as you are. That's a losing battle. You will never win that battle." At the time I simply smirked at that comment. Years later I think he may have been on to something.
Here's the bottom line for Jim. He's in a play that's not as good as he is. He can't protect it.
Sondheim wrote in Sunday in the Park with George when the lead character is depressed about his own critics, "You've got to move on. Show us more. Don't worry about what others are saying. So what? Let others make those decisions, they usually do. You've got to move on."
On June 11 my play, Praying Small, makes its West Coast Premiere. The play has garnished embarrassing accolades throughout the country. It has been hailed as a masterpiece, been given awards, submitted for the Pulitzer, critics have reached deep into their bag of adjectives for this one. And what if L.A. doesn't agree? What if my director pushes it into a realm of absurdism that mangles the message of the play? What if it's just too coarse? What if the scatological language is too much? What if my performance in it is pedestrian? What if one of a million things go wrong?
Well, I'll tell you. I move on. I show more. I write again. I do something new. I shake it off. I plunge myself into another artistic orgy and let the eunuchs watch all over again. I trust I have something to say. Something others want to hear. Something that offers redemption. And after that, I do it again. And again. I move on.
See you tomorrow.
Anyway, it all got me thinking about the critics. I blogged about this once before a month or so ago. But it's a big part of the actor's life, eventually, so I thought I'd write a little more on it. Some actors never reconcile the role of the critic in their professional lives. In an email yesterday to me, Jim nailed this specific feeling. He said, in effect, "we work so hard on a project, fill it with such passion, and with the swipe of a pen it's all undone." And of course he's right. I emailed him back and told him it was even worse when the play happened to be something you've written.
Here is an excerpt from a review of one of my plays called The Language of Cherubs from a newspaper in Chicago called The Windy City Times.
It's the last and longest piece that sticks in my mind as one of the vilest pieces of theater I've ever seen. The Language of Cherubs is anything but. The Language of the Despicable and Weak is more like it. Essentially the monologue of a dying southern woman (played with one-note weepiness by Jan Ellen Graves), the piece is an overview of her life with her husband. At first, their life together seems pedestrian, the stuff of thousands of American couples. But as the woman rambles on, we discover a dark underbelly. Her husband was a pedophile, preying on the high school girls he taught and exploiting his position of authority to take advantage of them. In one of the most chilling moments, the woman begins reciting the names of the girls ... and the list runs on into the dozens. But as she crawls back into her bed to sink under the oblivion of painkillers, with her Pat Boone look-alike husband at her side, she tells him that, in spite of all this, she really 'loves' him. What? It's hard to muster up any sympathy for this pair: a sexual predator and the woman who unquestioningly stands by her man, in spite of the rather strained efforts of the playwright to jerk tears from the audience (along with banal musical touches of recorded new-age piano music from Jim Brickman).
I told the Artistic Director of the theater producing this play they should put that quote on the marquis: "One of the vilest pieces of theater I've ever seen!" I joked about it for awhile with the actors. We all had a good time. "Vilest piece of theatre." That's a good one.
The truth is, stuff like that takes the wind out of a writer's sails. It's one thing to get a bad review as an actor (and trust me, I've gotten more than my share of those) but it's another to get one as a playwright. As a writer one's intellect is on trial. As an actor, merely one's choices. And the funny thing is, this same critic, a few months earlier, had hailed my play Praying Small as "a modern masterpiece."
My teacher of note and mentor and friend, the brilliant actor Michael Moriarty, has a bit to say on this 'reading your notices' business. He stopped reading his reviews back in the early eighties. He told me, "if you believe the good ones, you have to believe the bad ones, too. Best not to read any of them and keep trusting your instincts." He also told me something I have oft quoted, "Critics are like eunuchs at an orgy. The can watch, but they can't join in." In fact, I told Jim that yesterday and got a laugh from him. I hope he passed it on to the hard-working and talented cast of Nightmare Alley.
When I was doing Arnold in The Boys Next Door for the first time at Wayside Theatre in Virginia, I had a problem with doing such a dead-on impression of a mentally challenged man. I felt a little seedy doing it. I called Michael and told him this. He said, "Does the play offer redemption?" I said, yes. He said, "Then don't give it another thought. We can do anything as artists as long as what we're doing offers redemption." I have kept that piece of advice in the forefront of my mind for many years now.
Michael also told me recently he thought the late Pauline Kael, the former esteemed film critic for The New Yorker, was largely responsible for his career taking a nose-dive in the late seventies. Kael attacked Moriarty at every available opportunity. In particular a film he made called Report to the Commission, in which he starred. She lambasted it. She attacked his mannerisms, his sensitivity as an actor, his choices, even his physical appearance. Kael carried a lot of weight in the critic business back then. She was the grand dame of critics. Roger Ebert worshipped her. New York's intellectual community lived and died by her opinion. This is the same Pauline Kael who famously wrote upon seeing Last Tango in Paris, "Brando and Bertolucci have altered the face of an art form." At that time Moriarty, Pacino, DeNiro, Voight and Hoffman were the up and comers. Kael loved Pacino and DeNiro. Hated the rest. Michael says he went from A-lister to B-lister following her evisceration of him in that film. He may be right. She really did have that much influence back then.
I have twice written to a critic following what I felt was an especially unwarranted attack upon my work. The first was at Arena Stage when I was doing McMurphy in a production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The critic, one Donald Ames, wrote, "Mr. Morts ably carries this sordid mess on his capable back." He went on to say wonderful things about me and my performance but scathingly attacked the show itself and the other actors. I don't remember all I said in the letter, but essentially it was the same thing that Jim said to me yesterday. That is, how can you destroy all of this work and passion, thousands upon thousands of hours of it, with one careless and thoughtless swipe of your pen?
The other time was in Rochester, New York. I was doing a show called Redwood Curtain and I was not only directing it but acting the role of Lyman Fellars, the mysterious Vietnam Vet living in the humid forests of Northern California. The lead role in that show is the half-white, half-Vietnamese girl, Jeri. It was being played by my then girlfriend, Eileen. I thought she was really good in the role. When the reviews came out, again my work was praised but they attacked her mercilessly. I was incensed. I sent off a scathing letter to the critic for the main Rochester paper, the Democrat/Times. As it turned out I was invited to a charity event a short time later and came face to face with this critic. Back in those days I was little more volatile and actually considered punching the guy in the face. I was that angry. But he came over to my table and asked if he could join me. He was a very nice man which pissed me off even more. After a few sparring words he said to me, "let me give you some advice. You can't try and protect the actors around you that aren't as good as you are. That's a losing battle. You will never win that battle." At the time I simply smirked at that comment. Years later I think he may have been on to something.
Here's the bottom line for Jim. He's in a play that's not as good as he is. He can't protect it.
Sondheim wrote in Sunday in the Park with George when the lead character is depressed about his own critics, "You've got to move on. Show us more. Don't worry about what others are saying. So what? Let others make those decisions, they usually do. You've got to move on."
On June 11 my play, Praying Small, makes its West Coast Premiere. The play has garnished embarrassing accolades throughout the country. It has been hailed as a masterpiece, been given awards, submitted for the Pulitzer, critics have reached deep into their bag of adjectives for this one. And what if L.A. doesn't agree? What if my director pushes it into a realm of absurdism that mangles the message of the play? What if it's just too coarse? What if the scatological language is too much? What if my performance in it is pedestrian? What if one of a million things go wrong?
Well, I'll tell you. I move on. I show more. I write again. I do something new. I shake it off. I plunge myself into another artistic orgy and let the eunuchs watch all over again. I trust I have something to say. Something others want to hear. Something that offers redemption. And after that, I do it again. And again. I move on.
See you tomorrow.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Happy Birthday, William Shakespeare.
I despise memorization. The actor's life would be a perfect life if not for all of the memorization. I'm reading a biography on Sir Anthony Hopkins right now and I was pleased to discover that he, too, had a great deal of trouble memorizing lines. He hated it. And, of course, Brando is legendary for not being able to memorize lines.
A couple of months ago I wrote and directed a piece called From the East to the West. I remember we did our first read-thru at the theatre and then a couple of days later started blocking. I was astonished when a couple of the young actors came in halfway off book already. How the hell do they do that?
Olivier always espoused coming in to rehearsal off book. And he did just that throughout most of his career apparently. Even the big ones; Lear, Hamlet, Tyrone, Big Daddy, Othello. I'm not sure if the layman can understand just how much damned work that is. Nonetheless, I took my cue from Lord Larry and have done it many times. I came in off book for Give 'Em Hell, Harry, which is a two and half hour one person show about Harry Truman. Then again, I had nearly five months to prepare for that one. Olivier's point, and it is certainly valid, is that the real work doesn't start until the books are gone. Until the book is put aside the play still belongs to the playwright. Once the book is gone, the actor takes possession of the play.
I once did a production of Lost in Yonkers (did that show five times) at Chicago's Forum Theatre. I'd already done it twice, once at Arkansas Rep and once at The Asolo. Unbeknownst to me, however, all of the other actors had done it elsewhere, too. It was an all-star cast, Marji Bank, Paula Scrafano, a couple of others, and when the first table read-thru came along and the director yapped a bit about his "concept" of the play (fucking directors...don't get me started), we started the initial read-thru - common practice in the theatre. But this time, all of us just sat there with our scripts closed in front of us and started the play. Not one of us opened the book. It was amazing. An entire cast letter-perfect on day one. And we still had three and half weeks to play.
Another time when I was doing The Chairman in The Mystery of Edwin Drood, I noticed a note from the playwright in the script. Rupert Holmes had written, "At some point during the run The Chairman WILL go up on his lines. We suggest a handsomely bound manuscript onstage at all times for just such an occasion." It's a huge role with a bunch of fat monologues. Sure enough, about three weeks into the run, I went up. Thank God for that "handsomely bound manuscript."
I was once doing a supporting role in one of my own plays, Praying Small, in Chicago. There is a quick scene involving the lead character, Sam, and a lesbian lawyer. The woman originally playing the role had to step out for a weekend due to a family death. So the director brought in this really pretty young actress to do the role for a few days. The scene was blocked in such a way that the lesbian lawyer had only to sit there and say her lines. This new actress was really casual and assured back in the dressing room. We didn't even run through the quick scene beforehand because it was so easy. So the scene arrives and the young actress steps to the chair in the segue and the lights come up. The actor playing Sam turns to her and delivers the first line. Nothing. She just stares at him. Scared to death. He tries to cover, adlibs a bit, seeks a way to give her the line without actually saying it himself. Nothing. More terrified staring. Finally he just moves to the end of the scene, sort of does a wrap-up of what happened in the scene and moves to the next one. The young actress, who has not uttered a single word, confidently gets up and exits. Backstage we all look at her horrified. She sits and says, "Well, that could have gone better." She was replaced the next night.
Years ago I was cast as Lt. Schrank in West Side Story. Good little role. I've always contended that if I were to go on another national tour, that would be the perfect role to do. Rake in your 2200 bucks a week and hardly do anything. Anyway, in that production the kid playing Riff was not really an actor. He was a dancer. And whenever he delivered his lines, when he was finished with his sentence, under his breath, barely audible, he would say, "Your turn." Funniest damn thing I've ever seen. He did this IN FRONT of an audience. The first time he said it to me, I actually stopped for a second and said, "Excuse me?" Unbelievably he repeated it, a little louder, "Your turn." And remember, folks, this was a big-time, Equity show. Oy.
My favorite is a story told me by a friend of mine named Mitch Kantor who was doing Richard III at Riverside Shakespeare in New York. Mitch wasn't playing the hunchback, I forget what role he was doing, but anyway, as most actors know, the play starts with a very famous line from The Bard. Richard enters at the curtain and says "Now is the winter of our discontent." So, curtain up, out hobbles Richard, stares at the audience chillingly, and says, "Now is the summer...(pause). I'll come in again." And walks off stage. Curtain drops. A couple of seconds. Curtain up. Richard hobbles out again. "Now is the WINTER of our discontent."
Since it's Shakespeare's birthday I'll recount another story told me by my buddy, Bob Koch, who was doing the famous Julius Caesar in the park with Martin Sheen, Al Pacino and Ed Begley Jr. The director had a great idea of getting a ton of senators during the Caesar murder scene. Just like the Romans did it, Jr. Senators and Sr. Senators. So he went to the Equity lounge in mid-town where, back in those days, you could find a whole gaggle of old actors who date back to the vaudevillian age. Ancient guys who would sit around all day in the lounge gossiping and drinking coffee and smoking and talking about "the good, old days." They were really funny guys. Telling stories about doing the "circuit" in the Catskills and whatnot. I used to sit with them now and then and play gin rummy and listen to the stories. Anyway, Joe Papp hired every one of them for the play. They only had the one scene and no lines. Most of them were in their eighties. So the big death scene with Ed Begley comes along on opening night. The senators close in on Caesar. Deathly silence in the house. Finally they fall on him, stabbing him repeatedly with daggers hidden in their robes. Caesar goes down, blood packets have burst and he's covered in red. They all start to step backwards, shocked by the audacity of what they've just done to the Emperor of Rome. At that exact moment a phone starts to ring backstage. Very loud. Ring. Ring. Ring. Goes on forever. Everyone can hear it, audience and actors alike. Finally, one of the eighty year old, ex-vaudevillian actors can't resist and says in a loud stage whisper, "What if it's for Caesar?"
Learning lines. Ah, there's the rub. I hate it.
See you tomorrow.
A couple of months ago I wrote and directed a piece called From the East to the West. I remember we did our first read-thru at the theatre and then a couple of days later started blocking. I was astonished when a couple of the young actors came in halfway off book already. How the hell do they do that?
Olivier always espoused coming in to rehearsal off book. And he did just that throughout most of his career apparently. Even the big ones; Lear, Hamlet, Tyrone, Big Daddy, Othello. I'm not sure if the layman can understand just how much damned work that is. Nonetheless, I took my cue from Lord Larry and have done it many times. I came in off book for Give 'Em Hell, Harry, which is a two and half hour one person show about Harry Truman. Then again, I had nearly five months to prepare for that one. Olivier's point, and it is certainly valid, is that the real work doesn't start until the books are gone. Until the book is put aside the play still belongs to the playwright. Once the book is gone, the actor takes possession of the play.
I once did a production of Lost in Yonkers (did that show five times) at Chicago's Forum Theatre. I'd already done it twice, once at Arkansas Rep and once at The Asolo. Unbeknownst to me, however, all of the other actors had done it elsewhere, too. It was an all-star cast, Marji Bank, Paula Scrafano, a couple of others, and when the first table read-thru came along and the director yapped a bit about his "concept" of the play (fucking directors...don't get me started), we started the initial read-thru - common practice in the theatre. But this time, all of us just sat there with our scripts closed in front of us and started the play. Not one of us opened the book. It was amazing. An entire cast letter-perfect on day one. And we still had three and half weeks to play.
Another time when I was doing The Chairman in The Mystery of Edwin Drood, I noticed a note from the playwright in the script. Rupert Holmes had written, "At some point during the run The Chairman WILL go up on his lines. We suggest a handsomely bound manuscript onstage at all times for just such an occasion." It's a huge role with a bunch of fat monologues. Sure enough, about three weeks into the run, I went up. Thank God for that "handsomely bound manuscript."
I was once doing a supporting role in one of my own plays, Praying Small, in Chicago. There is a quick scene involving the lead character, Sam, and a lesbian lawyer. The woman originally playing the role had to step out for a weekend due to a family death. So the director brought in this really pretty young actress to do the role for a few days. The scene was blocked in such a way that the lesbian lawyer had only to sit there and say her lines. This new actress was really casual and assured back in the dressing room. We didn't even run through the quick scene beforehand because it was so easy. So the scene arrives and the young actress steps to the chair in the segue and the lights come up. The actor playing Sam turns to her and delivers the first line. Nothing. She just stares at him. Scared to death. He tries to cover, adlibs a bit, seeks a way to give her the line without actually saying it himself. Nothing. More terrified staring. Finally he just moves to the end of the scene, sort of does a wrap-up of what happened in the scene and moves to the next one. The young actress, who has not uttered a single word, confidently gets up and exits. Backstage we all look at her horrified. She sits and says, "Well, that could have gone better." She was replaced the next night.
Years ago I was cast as Lt. Schrank in West Side Story. Good little role. I've always contended that if I were to go on another national tour, that would be the perfect role to do. Rake in your 2200 bucks a week and hardly do anything. Anyway, in that production the kid playing Riff was not really an actor. He was a dancer. And whenever he delivered his lines, when he was finished with his sentence, under his breath, barely audible, he would say, "Your turn." Funniest damn thing I've ever seen. He did this IN FRONT of an audience. The first time he said it to me, I actually stopped for a second and said, "Excuse me?" Unbelievably he repeated it, a little louder, "Your turn." And remember, folks, this was a big-time, Equity show. Oy.
My favorite is a story told me by a friend of mine named Mitch Kantor who was doing Richard III at Riverside Shakespeare in New York. Mitch wasn't playing the hunchback, I forget what role he was doing, but anyway, as most actors know, the play starts with a very famous line from The Bard. Richard enters at the curtain and says "Now is the winter of our discontent." So, curtain up, out hobbles Richard, stares at the audience chillingly, and says, "Now is the summer...(pause). I'll come in again." And walks off stage. Curtain drops. A couple of seconds. Curtain up. Richard hobbles out again. "Now is the WINTER of our discontent."
Since it's Shakespeare's birthday I'll recount another story told me by my buddy, Bob Koch, who was doing the famous Julius Caesar in the park with Martin Sheen, Al Pacino and Ed Begley Jr. The director had a great idea of getting a ton of senators during the Caesar murder scene. Just like the Romans did it, Jr. Senators and Sr. Senators. So he went to the Equity lounge in mid-town where, back in those days, you could find a whole gaggle of old actors who date back to the vaudevillian age. Ancient guys who would sit around all day in the lounge gossiping and drinking coffee and smoking and talking about "the good, old days." They were really funny guys. Telling stories about doing the "circuit" in the Catskills and whatnot. I used to sit with them now and then and play gin rummy and listen to the stories. Anyway, Joe Papp hired every one of them for the play. They only had the one scene and no lines. Most of them were in their eighties. So the big death scene with Ed Begley comes along on opening night. The senators close in on Caesar. Deathly silence in the house. Finally they fall on him, stabbing him repeatedly with daggers hidden in their robes. Caesar goes down, blood packets have burst and he's covered in red. They all start to step backwards, shocked by the audacity of what they've just done to the Emperor of Rome. At that exact moment a phone starts to ring backstage. Very loud. Ring. Ring. Ring. Goes on forever. Everyone can hear it, audience and actors alike. Finally, one of the eighty year old, ex-vaudevillian actors can't resist and says in a loud stage whisper, "What if it's for Caesar?"
Learning lines. Ah, there's the rub. I hate it.
See you tomorrow.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Nightmare Alley at The Geffen last night...
Last night Angie and I took in a new musical at The Geffen theatre in Westwood called Nightmare Alley with one of my closest friends in the lead, James Barbour. It's a dark, cynical piece about a carnival worker who learns the game of conning an audience and eventually uses these skills to open his own church and scam his congregation out of their money. On the way he falls in love, accidentally kills another man and finally becomes a hopeless alcoholic. It's based on an old Tyrone Power film from the 1930s of the same name. The script has a lot of possibilities, most realized, some not.
First, let me say I have never been to The Geffen before last night. It very well may be the most beautiful 400 seat theatre I have ever seen. The lobby and courtyard alone are eye popping. The set and lighting design for the piece are really quite nice, managing to be both sparse and arresting at the same time.
The show, not surprisingly, reminded me of a couple of other shows written in the same style: Carnival, Carousel, Chicago, even Edwin Drood. Some of the music soars and some remains, purposely, dark and narrative. I didn't leave the theatre humming any tunes but I'm fairly sure the composer didn't want me to, either. That's the way it was with Sondheim's Bounce, which I watched at The Goodman some years back. One gets the idea the music is complicated. Although there is a very sweet ballad in the first act called I Surrender.
In any event, the play remains distant. Not engaging, really. And again, this is probably the whole point. The emotional distance is not an accident, it's what the creators want.
Halfway through the second act I whispered to Angie, "I know what's wrong." Jim's character, Stan Carlyle, takes a series of mighty emotional blows in the second act and eventually falls into the pits of despair and suffering. The point being he is reaping his just rewards. But no one really cares too much because the character has been an anti-hero the entire time. And that's what's wrong.
I told Jim afterwards that I thought the whole show could be turned around with the addition of a single monologue when the love interest is introduced. A monologue showing Stan's vulnerable side, his tender side, and explaining why he is the way he is. One can't really fall from grace unless one has grace to being with.
But that's all quibbling. Jimmy Barbour is the single most powerful musical theatre actor I have ever had the pleasure to watch. He is at the peak of his powers as a performer. Vocally he is downright shocking at times. There are three or four times during the evening he is called upon to really wail. He wails. I have never heard him in better voice. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone in better voice.
In addition to his remarkable prowess as a singer, Jim is a fine, fine actor in this style. He is angry and sharp and plays this kind of writing with tremendous clarity. Makes me really wish I had seen his Billy in Carousel on Broadway.
As I mentioned, the piece really has only one "traditional" musical theatre ballad in it called "I Surrender." It is touching and heartbreaking. And I'm just guessing here, but I think it's a two octave song. Probably G to G. Jim sings it as flawlessly as I can imagine.
I don't know if they'll do any reworking during the run. It's a fairly tight show as it stands. But I honestly believe the added monologue in the first act would make it soar. We'd LIKE this guy. And if not that, we'd at least understand where he's coming from. Again, it wouldn't have to be much, just an added half-page monologue that humanizes the character. Consequently when he reaches the end game, we empathize with him. His fate in the end is quite horrifying. It would be only more so if we really, really understood the guy. His conversion back to "honest guy" is too little, too late. And the advent of alcoholism in his life is foreshadowed with one or two lines from another character. I think a running acknowledgment from Stan himself would help clarify that. One doesn't become an abusive drinker overnight and it is usually hereditary anyway. In other words, if we hear the train coming it is far more sinister when it finally runs over someone.
But that's the playwright in me talking.
The place was packed last night. It's over near UCLA so it's quite a trek for Angie and I. Angie is good friends with the Managing Director over there so we stood and talked with him for awhile. Jim came out for the reception afterwards and posed for about a hundred pictures with people. But he's like I am and I know that's a chore for him. But he was really gracious about it and stood patiently as the flash bulbs snapped away.
Jim, incidentally, is my Best Man at our upcoming wedding. We've been best friends since 1989 when he played Lancelot to my Arthur in Camelot. We have been through a lot together, to say the least.
So Nightmare Alley, gentle readers. I think it plays through most of May. Eight shows a week at The Geffen.
And I think if Jim doesn't get an Ovation nomination for this, I'd be really surprised. He dominates in a very fine cast of actors. The eye finds him in whatever scene he's doing and is reluctant to turn elsewhere.
I was very, very proud of my friend last night. And all over again I realized why he is a star. He's a star because he happens to be very, very good at what he does.
See you tomorrow.
First, let me say I have never been to The Geffen before last night. It very well may be the most beautiful 400 seat theatre I have ever seen. The lobby and courtyard alone are eye popping. The set and lighting design for the piece are really quite nice, managing to be both sparse and arresting at the same time.
The show, not surprisingly, reminded me of a couple of other shows written in the same style: Carnival, Carousel, Chicago, even Edwin Drood. Some of the music soars and some remains, purposely, dark and narrative. I didn't leave the theatre humming any tunes but I'm fairly sure the composer didn't want me to, either. That's the way it was with Sondheim's Bounce, which I watched at The Goodman some years back. One gets the idea the music is complicated. Although there is a very sweet ballad in the first act called I Surrender.
In any event, the play remains distant. Not engaging, really. And again, this is probably the whole point. The emotional distance is not an accident, it's what the creators want.
Halfway through the second act I whispered to Angie, "I know what's wrong." Jim's character, Stan Carlyle, takes a series of mighty emotional blows in the second act and eventually falls into the pits of despair and suffering. The point being he is reaping his just rewards. But no one really cares too much because the character has been an anti-hero the entire time. And that's what's wrong.
I told Jim afterwards that I thought the whole show could be turned around with the addition of a single monologue when the love interest is introduced. A monologue showing Stan's vulnerable side, his tender side, and explaining why he is the way he is. One can't really fall from grace unless one has grace to being with.
But that's all quibbling. Jimmy Barbour is the single most powerful musical theatre actor I have ever had the pleasure to watch. He is at the peak of his powers as a performer. Vocally he is downright shocking at times. There are three or four times during the evening he is called upon to really wail. He wails. I have never heard him in better voice. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone in better voice.
In addition to his remarkable prowess as a singer, Jim is a fine, fine actor in this style. He is angry and sharp and plays this kind of writing with tremendous clarity. Makes me really wish I had seen his Billy in Carousel on Broadway.
As I mentioned, the piece really has only one "traditional" musical theatre ballad in it called "I Surrender." It is touching and heartbreaking. And I'm just guessing here, but I think it's a two octave song. Probably G to G. Jim sings it as flawlessly as I can imagine.
I don't know if they'll do any reworking during the run. It's a fairly tight show as it stands. But I honestly believe the added monologue in the first act would make it soar. We'd LIKE this guy. And if not that, we'd at least understand where he's coming from. Again, it wouldn't have to be much, just an added half-page monologue that humanizes the character. Consequently when he reaches the end game, we empathize with him. His fate in the end is quite horrifying. It would be only more so if we really, really understood the guy. His conversion back to "honest guy" is too little, too late. And the advent of alcoholism in his life is foreshadowed with one or two lines from another character. I think a running acknowledgment from Stan himself would help clarify that. One doesn't become an abusive drinker overnight and it is usually hereditary anyway. In other words, if we hear the train coming it is far more sinister when it finally runs over someone.
But that's the playwright in me talking.
The place was packed last night. It's over near UCLA so it's quite a trek for Angie and I. Angie is good friends with the Managing Director over there so we stood and talked with him for awhile. Jim came out for the reception afterwards and posed for about a hundred pictures with people. But he's like I am and I know that's a chore for him. But he was really gracious about it and stood patiently as the flash bulbs snapped away.
Jim, incidentally, is my Best Man at our upcoming wedding. We've been best friends since 1989 when he played Lancelot to my Arthur in Camelot. We have been through a lot together, to say the least.
So Nightmare Alley, gentle readers. I think it plays through most of May. Eight shows a week at The Geffen.
And I think if Jim doesn't get an Ovation nomination for this, I'd be really surprised. He dominates in a very fine cast of actors. The eye finds him in whatever scene he's doing and is reluctant to turn elsewhere.
I was very, very proud of my friend last night. And all over again I realized why he is a star. He's a star because he happens to be very, very good at what he does.
See you tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)