One-acts are a strange beast. I mean in general. When I first started writing for the stage many years ago (my first produced piece was a one-act at Missouri State called "Closin' Time" about...well, no one's quite sure what it was about, including me), I wrote in the one-act format all the time because I didn't have the patience or the fortitude to write full-lengths. So I churned out one-acts. And strangely, most got produced. I say "strangely" because they were just awful. Mostly high-falutin', pretentious little pieces about things I was too young to write about in the first place.
In my entire life I've only run across one that I liked. It was called "This is the Rill Speaking," by Lanford Wilson. The grad students at school were doing a bunch of them and this one stuck in my mind. It was about growing up in southern Missouri. A very well-written piece, as I recall. Brought to mind "Spoon River Anthology."
Since then I've come to like one-acts even less. And to add salt to the wound some years back the whole notion of the "ten-minute play" began. I just don't get it. What can possibly be said with any gravitas in ten minutes on the stage? Part of the craft of writing plays, a huge part in fact, is developing character. That is to say, introducing and fleshing out a person for the audience. In the one-act formula there is simply no time to do this. I suspect the same problem exists for prose writers and short stories although there are a lot of short stories I like out there.
I like to write in what is called "Aristotle's Unity of Time." That is to say, without teaching a course here, the time elapsed onstage is the exact time elapsed for the audience. It's the most difficult type of writing for the playwright because he and he alone is responsible for the peaks and valleys in the play. No blackouts, no scene changes, no clumsy segues.
Having said that, Praying Small, oddly, is not written that way. It is a non-linear piece completely full of episodic writing. It was the only way to tell the story.
So here I am in a night full of one-acts. I try and make the best of it. My theory is to say the lines so fast the audience won't have time to think. Probably not the best approach but it keeps me sane. Fortunately one of them (I'm doing two) is flat-out comedy so it seems to work. Dying is easy, doing comedy in a one-act is hard.
I have changed my mind about playing comedy over the years. I used to think it could be taught. I don't think that anymore. Either you "hear" the comic beats and rhythm in your head or you don't. No one, no matter how good a teacher or director, can give you that. The comedic piece I'm doing now is a prime illustration of that.
There is an old, old line used in the theatre, meant as a joke. "Faster, louder, funnier." Well, I'm not so sure it's a joke. Most of the time that's exactly the direction an actor should be given. It's not that complicated. So often I've wanted to say to an actor I was directing, "faster, louder, funnier."
American actors, especially, find it hard to grasp this concept. They've been taught, usually beginning with academia, to question everything. To ask WHY they're being told to say the lines faster, louder and funnier. And once that happens, whatever the piece is, ceases to be funny.
There's an old Oliver story about when he was working with Noel Coward in Private Lives in the 1930s. He apparently had a funny line that he could never get a laugh on. It had something to do with asking for a cup of tea. Finally, after weeks of not getting the laugh, he pulled Coward aside and asked him what he thought. Coward said, "Well you can start by asking for the tea instead of the laugh." Laymen may not quite get that piece of advice but actors will. It's a fine line. If we try to be funny it's usually not funny. Acting is not stand-up. Always ask for the tea. The laugh will follow.
I've always contended there are a thousand ways to say a dramatic line but only two or three ways to say a comedic one. Just watch or read Neil Simon. The timing and the cadence of the laugh are IN the line itself. Simon is a genius at that stuff. He's damn near actor-proof.
Look at one of his famous lines from The Odd Couple. Felix leaves Oscar a note. It says, "Dinner is in the fridge. F. U." Later, Oscar says to Felix, "It took me an hour to realize F. U. meant Felix Unger!" Think about it for a second. How do you get the laugh on that line? It's inherent in the line itself. The stress and structure of the laugh are there. You just have to read the line right. It's almost impossible to fuck up. And yet, there are actors that inevitably will. The only variable for the actor to play is the volume of the line. Pretty simple.
Sometimes the laugh is in the space between the lines. The pause or the hesitation before or after a word. This is also something the actor either hears or he doesn't. Some actors can't hear it. I've always likened it to hearing a drummer and his trap set in your head. Some actors here that beat and rhythm and pace and some don't. And I honestly don't believe it can be taught.
And then there are the instinctively funny actors that throw the whole theory out of whack. These guys play outside the rules. Gene Wilder comes to mind. I've always thought he introduced an entirely new way to be funny. He falls into the catagory of "some actors say things funny and some actors say funny things." The former is far more rare. Gene Wilder said things funny. Watch the film version of The Producers. It's all there.
I've always thought it interesting that dramatic actors rarely do comedy well but comedic actors can easily slip into drama. There are very few exceptions to this rule. Meryl Streep comes to mind. She can do either with equal ease. But then again, she's Meryl Streep.
Brando was never successful at comedy. DeNiro only slightly successful. Mostly because he's quirky. But certainly not inherently funny. Pacino can be funny, but only INSIDE a dramatic structure. Ed Norton seems to grasp both concepts. Most watchable dramatic actors CAN be funny, but again, mostly inside a dramatic premise. To be flat-out funny without the given premise and most dramatic actors flounder. Comedic actors (Robin Williams, Jackie Gleason, Zero Mostel, etc.) simply adjust their timing a bit and easily slip into the right cadence and delivery.
And another thing. Actors that are funny OFF stage mostly aren't funny ON stage. It's kind of like taking the high school class clown and sticking him in a farce. He's not funny. Hundreds of thousands of directors through the course of history have made this deadly casting mistake.
Well, there you have it. A quick and free dissertation on the nature of comedy. I get a hundred bucks an hour usually for this type of information.
Mark Twain said, "Humor is based on exposition. Comedy is based on surprise. I'm a humorist." That's a pretty nice bow to put on things.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
It Begins...
The marketing for Praying Small kicks into gear today, for which I'm thankful. Of course, I'd rather it have started four weeks ago, but what do I know.
Meeting with our new publicist, David Elsner, and the new marketing guy, Raul Espinoza, at ten today at the theatre. Both come with a great background.
Rehearsals following with the ever-so-talented Tara Orr, who's playing the role of Susan in the production. And following that, back on the boards for the one-acts.
A short one today by necessity.
Tomorrow I will have been in the city of Los Angeles for six months to the day. "Quite a party, Woodrow, quite a party."
See you tomorrow.
Meeting with our new publicist, David Elsner, and the new marketing guy, Raul Espinoza, at ten today at the theatre. Both come with a great background.
Rehearsals following with the ever-so-talented Tara Orr, who's playing the role of Susan in the production. And following that, back on the boards for the one-acts.
A short one today by necessity.
Tomorrow I will have been in the city of Los Angeles for six months to the day. "Quite a party, Woodrow, quite a party."
See you tomorrow.
Friday, May 7, 2010
We Show Them Enough...
I haven't blogged for a few days. A testament to how busy I've been. Praying Small is gearing up and about to reach full flight. The set is up and painted, the lighting designer engaged, the costume plot done, a marketing committee meeting on Saturday, the poster done and in the lobby, the marquis up with my nerdy-sounding name on it, a top-drawer publicist hired, and a host of other things. Went into the studio yesterday and did a lot of my voice over work for the play. Also got the PSA recorded for radio stations. Kyle Puccia has written some incredible original music for the piece and is also designing a provocative soundscape for it. I've been memorizing the monologues (there are some eight or nine big ones in the play) and having line workthru rehearsals with Tara Orr, the wonderful actress playing the role of Susan in the play. Brad Blaisdell and Rob Arbogast (google them) are both about to come into rehearsal full-time. They're both really fine actors and will no doubt shine in the piece. Melanie Eubank (a fine playwright as well) and Bonnie Cahoon round out the cast. The rehearsal schedule is posted in its entirety (amazing producer for the show - Teal Sherer - who will, mark my word, set the city on fire in a leading role in my new play Heavyweights of the Twentieth Century when it is produced this Fall). In short, we're off and running. A lot of capable people are working very hard to make this a success.
We open this juggernaut on June 11. Our major concern now, in terms of marketing, is to get the attention of the recovery community in Los Angeles. It's sort of a "if you build it, they will come" kind of thing. In past productions, once that community has been alerted to its existence, they come out in droves.
I remember reading an interview with Marlon Brando some years ago. Not sure where I read it. But it was after Brando had completed Last Tango in Paris (the title of this blog is in homage to his work in that film, in fact). He said something along the lines of, "this is the last time I do this. I'll never go that deep again. It gets harder when you get older. It just becomes exhausting accessing all of those emotions." At the time I couldn't understand it. I mean, isn't that one of the reasons we become actors in the first place? To achieve that catharsis for ourselves? Well, yes. But the interesting thing is with age it isn't so important to do it anymore. I completely understand Brando's statement now. I'm reminded of something my old friend Maurice Schlaffer said to me once. Maurice is a fine, New York-based actor with whom I once did a lot of work with in Florida. He said to me after my ulcer complications when I walked off-stage and collapsed in the middle of a show, "I'm glad you got off-stage in time, Clif. We show these people enough as it is."
Couple of things while they're on my mind. REDTWIST THEATER, where Praying Small originally opened in 2003, garnered six Chicago Jeff Nominations a couple of nights ago. I was there at the genesis of this theatre. In fact, my play was the play that opened the theatre. They've come a long ways. When I first walked into the space it was just two offices connected by a doorway. Now it's a state-of-the-art, small theatre churning out some of the most respected work in Chicago. They've come a long ways, indeed. A lot of hard, hard work, sweat, passion and talent went into making them who they are today.
Angie and I watched NIXON last night with Sir Anthony Hopkins. I hadn't seen it since it came out. Of course Hopkins is astonishing. He's incapable of being bad, it would seem. But I'd forgotten how heavy-handed Oliver Stone's direction is in that film. Too many tricks, not enough guts. JFK is a far better film.
Off tonight to do the one-acts again. It's a series of eight short pieces called SANITY 2. Some are good, some not. Some are funny, some not. Some well-written, some not. I'll have more to say on it all once I get some distance from them. At this point it appears to be a somewhat noble effort gone awry. Everyone involved keeps using the same phrase when talking about them, "it is what it is." Not sure how comforting that is.
And finally, the old 'silent killer' seems to be under control. I have to get glasses, that's certainly true. My vision has markedly declined in the past couple of months. My doctor tells me this is directly related to catching the diabetes a little late. I have another retinal scan on the 21st. When I was a kid I always wanted glasses because I thought they looked cool. Never mind that my vision was 20-20. Today, I actually need them and I'm mortified at the prospect.
Rehearsals and lines planned all day, performance tonight. Things could be worse. They can always be worse.
See you tomorrow.
We open this juggernaut on June 11. Our major concern now, in terms of marketing, is to get the attention of the recovery community in Los Angeles. It's sort of a "if you build it, they will come" kind of thing. In past productions, once that community has been alerted to its existence, they come out in droves.
I remember reading an interview with Marlon Brando some years ago. Not sure where I read it. But it was after Brando had completed Last Tango in Paris (the title of this blog is in homage to his work in that film, in fact). He said something along the lines of, "this is the last time I do this. I'll never go that deep again. It gets harder when you get older. It just becomes exhausting accessing all of those emotions." At the time I couldn't understand it. I mean, isn't that one of the reasons we become actors in the first place? To achieve that catharsis for ourselves? Well, yes. But the interesting thing is with age it isn't so important to do it anymore. I completely understand Brando's statement now. I'm reminded of something my old friend Maurice Schlaffer said to me once. Maurice is a fine, New York-based actor with whom I once did a lot of work with in Florida. He said to me after my ulcer complications when I walked off-stage and collapsed in the middle of a show, "I'm glad you got off-stage in time, Clif. We show these people enough as it is."
Couple of things while they're on my mind. REDTWIST THEATER, where Praying Small originally opened in 2003, garnered six Chicago Jeff Nominations a couple of nights ago. I was there at the genesis of this theatre. In fact, my play was the play that opened the theatre. They've come a long ways. When I first walked into the space it was just two offices connected by a doorway. Now it's a state-of-the-art, small theatre churning out some of the most respected work in Chicago. They've come a long ways, indeed. A lot of hard, hard work, sweat, passion and talent went into making them who they are today.
Angie and I watched NIXON last night with Sir Anthony Hopkins. I hadn't seen it since it came out. Of course Hopkins is astonishing. He's incapable of being bad, it would seem. But I'd forgotten how heavy-handed Oliver Stone's direction is in that film. Too many tricks, not enough guts. JFK is a far better film.
Off tonight to do the one-acts again. It's a series of eight short pieces called SANITY 2. Some are good, some not. Some are funny, some not. Some well-written, some not. I'll have more to say on it all once I get some distance from them. At this point it appears to be a somewhat noble effort gone awry. Everyone involved keeps using the same phrase when talking about them, "it is what it is." Not sure how comforting that is.
And finally, the old 'silent killer' seems to be under control. I have to get glasses, that's certainly true. My vision has markedly declined in the past couple of months. My doctor tells me this is directly related to catching the diabetes a little late. I have another retinal scan on the 21st. When I was a kid I always wanted glasses because I thought they looked cool. Never mind that my vision was 20-20. Today, I actually need them and I'm mortified at the prospect.
Rehearsals and lines planned all day, performance tonight. Things could be worse. They can always be worse.
See you tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
NYC, Chicago, LA...Chicago loses.
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.
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.
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.
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