There are types of dreams that we all have in common. Anxiety can sneak into our dreams in a number of ways- all of them fairly obvious. Who hasn't had the dream about finding yourself naked in a public place? Dreams of being in a driverless automobile are also fairly common. Slightly less common (or perhaps people just don't like to admit to it) are dreams of having to relieve certain pressing intestinal situations without having a private space to do so. Among actors the so called "Actor's Nightmare" where you find yourself onstage unrehearsed and unprepared is so common that Christopher Durang wrote a play about it. It is also normal for a pregnant woman to dream about giving birth to strange creatures (cats, monsters, giant talking pies...) thereby playing out the anxiety of waiting in her sleep. We all experience anxiety. What I find fascinating, however, is that the ways in which certain anxieties present themselves in sleep can be so similar in structure from person to person and yet still maintain the idiosyncrasies of the dreamer.
For example, a rather conservative friend of mine once confessed to me that in her public nudity dream she always finds herself in a formal setting amongst people she wishes to impress in her waking life. Others find themselves ready to give a speech back in their high school class. One woman I know who prides herself on her appearance and public presentation is mortified to find herself naked in a room with all the men she has ever met. As for me personally, the anxiety producing situation is less about where I find myself or in who's company but more about the fact that I am naked in public and no one seems to be paying any attention! Hello! I'm naked over here! Why aren't you looking at me?
Last night I had a curious combination of anxieties mingle into one dream. I was producing and directing a tribute to Carol Burnett in a packed Broadway house. At the last moment the two stars of my show ran out to get hamburgers at a restaurant with a notoriously slow wait staff. (As a side note, the two actors in the dream are friends of mine with whom I had brief producing partnerships before they succumbed to the lure of film and television in LA.) The curtain was about ready to go up and I did not have the two people that I was counting on to deliver the show. I found myself stepping onto the stage and winging it. I covered fairly well, trying to play two roles at once when I was faced with a major dilemma. I had sensed that the audience would love a good pratfall. If I timed it right the laugh would be enormous. However, I worried that I might harm my baby (Yes, I am even pregnant in my dreams). The action slowed down while I weighed my options and decided to go for it by signaling my brilliant stage manager in the wings who anticipated my needs and was ready with a crash box. I dove into the wings, the crash box went off and the crowd went crazy. I staggered back onstage to greedily accept my applause and went blank. I had nothing else. I should have graciously exited but I couldn't think of anything. So I sat down and meaningfully stared into the lights. The crowd turned on me. All the good will I had worked for was slowly ebbing away and all I could do was sit and hope that I would get a black out and fast. Well, it didn't happen. I was left hanging in the light and I could hear the crowd mumbling, "That's not funny", "What is she doing?", "That's stupid!", "Boo!". Finally the lights came down and Carol Burnett herself was kind enough to come onstage and start singing "I'm Shy" from Once Upon a Mattress. I took the opportunity to go to the burger joint to drag back my two actors for the second half. As I was leaving the theater I saw the audience breaking out tissues because they were laughing so hard they were sobbing. I immediately thought of a brilliant way to close the show and started composing in my mind a speech about the meaning of laughter. On the way I saw my sister and her husband peering into the window of a suburban kitchen to admire the bizarre turkey carving technique of a Jamaican woman. Rather than having the bird on a platter she had placed the turkey in a Baby Bjorn and was carving it toward herself. My sister and her husband were fascinated. With classic boldness my sister tapped on the window to request a demonstration. I wanted to warn them about the dangers of carving with a blade facing in the direction of your own neck but I was suddenly confused by the fact that I was standing on a warm beach and strange creatures were emerging from the sand after just being hatched. They mistook me for their mother and I had to lead them down to the ocean or they would die on the hot sands. When I finally reached the burger place, one of my actors had choked on his hamburger and the other refused to leave until her fries arrived.
That is when my alarm went off and I found myself wondering how it was all going to turn out. I hit the snooze, hoping to return to the dream and force it to some kind of resolution, but to no avail. I was unable to see if I could pull off the big closing tribute speech or if I could save my actor's life with the Hiemlich. Even so, I am pleased to say that even though the dream contained a startling number of pressing anxieties- it also gave me the opportunity to produce and direct (and act, I suppose) for a packed Broadway house! Normally my anxiety dreams place me in tiny black boxes where no one is paying much attention. At least this gave me a change of pace and a bigger sense of scale.
However, I don't recommend carving a turkey in a Baby Bjorn. That just seems dangerous.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
The Seven Year Rule Revisted
The Seven Year Rule is complicated.
As I've stated in my previous post, there is some definite method to the madness. By violating the rule an actor risks losing control of her choices becoming a slave to her own emotions and disregarding the given circumstances of the text. We've all seen it happen in black boxes across the country. I once saw a perplexing production of Country Girl in which an actor completely disappeared into himself while staring at his own outstretched hand and slowly sinking to the floor while the action continued around him. It was terribly distracting for me as an audience member because I just could not comprehend the relevance of his choice to the play. His "moment" was so all consuming for him that he created a black hole on the stage and I missed a good 10 minutes of the play because of it. His company members were obliged to bring him back from the brink so that he could say his next line. They did it with great difficulty.
I have no idea what that actor was "using" in that moment and I can only speculate that he was violating the Rule. However, the nature of his distraction was not unfamiliar to me. Self-indulgence and self-fascination are telltale signs of an actor using something "hot" as an emotional propellant. Although one can never quite tell if it is the violation of the Rule or just a selfish actor.
The Rule, however, does not preclude us from using immediate emotional stimulus. On the contrary. One should never suppress what is bubbling up from your daily interactions. For example, during a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in which I was playing Helena, I found myself laboring under intense, self-inflicted pressure. I believed that the director thought I was a moron. My mother was coming out to see the production and she had not seen me perform in almost 10 years. I felt woefully inadequate and unlovable. I spent most of my time backstage crying my eyes out but once I hit the stage I did my best to cover up my shame and perceived sense of immediate rejection. My cast mates were always waiting in the wings with quizzical looks on their faces. Why aren't you just letting it go? You are so Helena right now. Get on that stage and use Shakespeare to express your self-pity! It wasn't until the dreaded performance in front of my mother was over that I let myself experience onstage what I was experiencing behind the scenes. My work took off and Helena and I were finally one. I did not spend the performance weeping- the tears I had shed were merely a manifestation of blocked energy from a denial of key circumstances in the text. When I let myself feel what I was experiencing in the moment and gave myself over to it I found Helena's humanity- and my own.
The Immediate must never be ignored but your system's ability to handle past traumas should always be respected. This profession can be emotionally treacherous and one must be careful not to prostitute themselves through their art. Some things are private and should remain so in order for the actor to do his work safely.
As I've stated in my previous post, there is some definite method to the madness. By violating the rule an actor risks losing control of her choices becoming a slave to her own emotions and disregarding the given circumstances of the text. We've all seen it happen in black boxes across the country. I once saw a perplexing production of Country Girl in which an actor completely disappeared into himself while staring at his own outstretched hand and slowly sinking to the floor while the action continued around him. It was terribly distracting for me as an audience member because I just could not comprehend the relevance of his choice to the play. His "moment" was so all consuming for him that he created a black hole on the stage and I missed a good 10 minutes of the play because of it. His company members were obliged to bring him back from the brink so that he could say his next line. They did it with great difficulty.
I have no idea what that actor was "using" in that moment and I can only speculate that he was violating the Rule. However, the nature of his distraction was not unfamiliar to me. Self-indulgence and self-fascination are telltale signs of an actor using something "hot" as an emotional propellant. Although one can never quite tell if it is the violation of the Rule or just a selfish actor.
The Rule, however, does not preclude us from using immediate emotional stimulus. On the contrary. One should never suppress what is bubbling up from your daily interactions. For example, during a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in which I was playing Helena, I found myself laboring under intense, self-inflicted pressure. I believed that the director thought I was a moron. My mother was coming out to see the production and she had not seen me perform in almost 10 years. I felt woefully inadequate and unlovable. I spent most of my time backstage crying my eyes out but once I hit the stage I did my best to cover up my shame and perceived sense of immediate rejection. My cast mates were always waiting in the wings with quizzical looks on their faces. Why aren't you just letting it go? You are so Helena right now. Get on that stage and use Shakespeare to express your self-pity! It wasn't until the dreaded performance in front of my mother was over that I let myself experience onstage what I was experiencing behind the scenes. My work took off and Helena and I were finally one. I did not spend the performance weeping- the tears I had shed were merely a manifestation of blocked energy from a denial of key circumstances in the text. When I let myself feel what I was experiencing in the moment and gave myself over to it I found Helena's humanity- and my own.
The Immediate must never be ignored but your system's ability to handle past traumas should always be respected. This profession can be emotionally treacherous and one must be careful not to prostitute themselves through their art. Some things are private and should remain so in order for the actor to do his work safely.
Friday, April 04, 2008
The Seven Year Rule
In school there were certain teachers who would drill it into our heads never to "use" anything emotionally touchy from our lives that occurred LESS than seven years ago. The theory was that anything that happened during that time frame would be too emotionally "hot", and rather than using "it", "IT" would control you.
It takes seven years for every cell in your body to be replaced by new cells. The argument is that once seven years has passed and all the cells that had experience the event first hand have been replaced you will have enough physical and psychological distance to be able to use the event without falling apart.
I wonder if the Strasbergs ever told Marilyn Monroe about the seven year rule?
In school, I had just decided it was safer to follow the rule. I didn't buy into the rule 100%, but I wasn't about to dismiss the wisdom of an octagenarian who could see through my soul even when I thought she had been napping during my performance. (Seriously, that woman had some scary insights!) As I passed through my classes, however, I began to collect all kinds of fascinating information about how, why and where my body stores information. The seven year rule didn't seem to look so silly after a while.
Through repetition our bodies develop a memory of their own- something not involving the conscious mind. This is how we can train ourselves to perform marvelous physical feats without having to consciously plan every physical step. Let's say you are learning a dance routine. Each portion of the routine requires intense mental concentration. My foot goes back, my hand counters the weight over hear, my center of gravity shifts... but with repetition you can eventually perform a complex system of movements simply by allowing yourself to feel the rhythm of the chosen music. Your body has recorded this kinesthetic memory at the cellular level. The theory says that when an original cell dies the one that replaces it carries a copy of that memory so the body can call upon that particular routine later. The more repetition, the better the copy in subsequent cells. I don't know how correct that is from the standpoint of biology, but I DO know that I can still perform my pompom squad audition routine from 1988.
I began to experiment with my body's memory in my second year of school. It was after a particularly disturbing session of body work just before we had left for holiday break that I realized the power of my own body to protect my brain and my emotional state. I was in no way consciously aware of the amount of stress I had been under. I had felt pretty confident that I was holding things together even though there were all kinds of money issues, relationship issues, and particularly stressful family developments all happening at the same time. When our instructor suggested that we do body work as a pre-holiday treat I was ready to roll up my sleeves and physically manipulate a fellow classmate into the land of bliss and relaxation. We were an odd number that day and so the teacher opted to use me as his example body for the day. I could not have expected what happened next.
Once I was on the mat he began to demonstrate how to work the shoulders. Things were fine at first but once he found a tight knot and started to work it I was assaulted by all of these feelings that I had been sweeping under the rug for what must have been weeks. I tried not to cry, but the more he worked it, the more I felt the injustice of the situation I had been in and the more I couldn't stop replaying an incident in my head. It was as if the knot was a playback button on a recording device. My instructor could see that I was in a bit of trouble. He sent the rest of the class off to work and then whispered to me that he was going to work on me for the entire hour. He instructed me to let it get ugly. I'm nothing if not a good student so it got ugly. It got very ugly.
He found spots all over my body that triggered very emotional and immediate responses. There was a warehouse of emotional baggage stuck in my body. My boyfriend in my fingertips, my father in my shoulders, my dog in my lower back... on and on and on it went. I couldn't stop the rush of anxiety and sadness and I began to wail like an emergency siren. The sound flew out of my body without my will. I simply HAD to. The pressure building up inside was too great, I was unable to maintain any kind of composure. My teacher reassured me with great kindness that I needed to let it go and he prompted me to be sloppy every time I attempted to stop crying or drooling or stop my nose from running all over the place. He just brought me some kleenex and continued to work me until I couldn't make any more sound.
When class was over I was exhausted but feeling much better. My face was a snotty, puffy mess and I was a little ashamed to meet my classmates' eyes. However, as is the case with good ensembles, I was met without judgement or revulsion but with quiet hugs and non-verbal gestures of support. I went about the rest of my day trying to figure out what had happened to me.
After this incident I began to notice how my body stores stress, grief, happiness, and desire. I can recognize it before it builds to such a pitch and I have found ways to release it. I even attempted to access these parts of my body- the parts with this immediate store of emotion- in my work but I found it to be overwhelming. It overwhelmed my technique and destroyed my sense of textual circumstances. I was no longer crafting performance, but letting self-indulgent emotional display take over. This was not good for my work. It was not good for any kind of storytelling. It was therapy.
Art may have therapeutic properties, but GOOD art is NOT THERAPY. We should always avoid this kind of selfishness and emotional public masturbation. Above all, everything an actor does needs to be a choice.
That is where the seven year rule fits for an actor. It is about experiencing the freedom to make choices and not being walled in by one experience or another. If you need to fall apart, falling apart should be your choice. If you need to slip but still try to hold it together, your emotional life should be constructed to allow you to do so. You should not be ruled by the emotion or obligatory emotional reactions. Circumstances need to be crafted, rehearsed, repeated, memorized and then forgotten so that you may live in the circumstances and be in control of your choices.
It takes seven years for every cell in your body to be replaced by new cells. The argument is that once seven years has passed and all the cells that had experience the event first hand have been replaced you will have enough physical and psychological distance to be able to use the event without falling apart.
I wonder if the Strasbergs ever told Marilyn Monroe about the seven year rule?
In school, I had just decided it was safer to follow the rule. I didn't buy into the rule 100%, but I wasn't about to dismiss the wisdom of an octagenarian who could see through my soul even when I thought she had been napping during my performance. (Seriously, that woman had some scary insights!) As I passed through my classes, however, I began to collect all kinds of fascinating information about how, why and where my body stores information. The seven year rule didn't seem to look so silly after a while.
Through repetition our bodies develop a memory of their own- something not involving the conscious mind. This is how we can train ourselves to perform marvelous physical feats without having to consciously plan every physical step. Let's say you are learning a dance routine. Each portion of the routine requires intense mental concentration. My foot goes back, my hand counters the weight over hear, my center of gravity shifts... but with repetition you can eventually perform a complex system of movements simply by allowing yourself to feel the rhythm of the chosen music. Your body has recorded this kinesthetic memory at the cellular level. The theory says that when an original cell dies the one that replaces it carries a copy of that memory so the body can call upon that particular routine later. The more repetition, the better the copy in subsequent cells. I don't know how correct that is from the standpoint of biology, but I DO know that I can still perform my pompom squad audition routine from 1988.
I began to experiment with my body's memory in my second year of school. It was after a particularly disturbing session of body work just before we had left for holiday break that I realized the power of my own body to protect my brain and my emotional state. I was in no way consciously aware of the amount of stress I had been under. I had felt pretty confident that I was holding things together even though there were all kinds of money issues, relationship issues, and particularly stressful family developments all happening at the same time. When our instructor suggested that we do body work as a pre-holiday treat I was ready to roll up my sleeves and physically manipulate a fellow classmate into the land of bliss and relaxation. We were an odd number that day and so the teacher opted to use me as his example body for the day. I could not have expected what happened next.
Once I was on the mat he began to demonstrate how to work the shoulders. Things were fine at first but once he found a tight knot and started to work it I was assaulted by all of these feelings that I had been sweeping under the rug for what must have been weeks. I tried not to cry, but the more he worked it, the more I felt the injustice of the situation I had been in and the more I couldn't stop replaying an incident in my head. It was as if the knot was a playback button on a recording device. My instructor could see that I was in a bit of trouble. He sent the rest of the class off to work and then whispered to me that he was going to work on me for the entire hour. He instructed me to let it get ugly. I'm nothing if not a good student so it got ugly. It got very ugly.
He found spots all over my body that triggered very emotional and immediate responses. There was a warehouse of emotional baggage stuck in my body. My boyfriend in my fingertips, my father in my shoulders, my dog in my lower back... on and on and on it went. I couldn't stop the rush of anxiety and sadness and I began to wail like an emergency siren. The sound flew out of my body without my will. I simply HAD to. The pressure building up inside was too great, I was unable to maintain any kind of composure. My teacher reassured me with great kindness that I needed to let it go and he prompted me to be sloppy every time I attempted to stop crying or drooling or stop my nose from running all over the place. He just brought me some kleenex and continued to work me until I couldn't make any more sound.
When class was over I was exhausted but feeling much better. My face was a snotty, puffy mess and I was a little ashamed to meet my classmates' eyes. However, as is the case with good ensembles, I was met without judgement or revulsion but with quiet hugs and non-verbal gestures of support. I went about the rest of my day trying to figure out what had happened to me.
After this incident I began to notice how my body stores stress, grief, happiness, and desire. I can recognize it before it builds to such a pitch and I have found ways to release it. I even attempted to access these parts of my body- the parts with this immediate store of emotion- in my work but I found it to be overwhelming. It overwhelmed my technique and destroyed my sense of textual circumstances. I was no longer crafting performance, but letting self-indulgent emotional display take over. This was not good for my work. It was not good for any kind of storytelling. It was therapy.
Art may have therapeutic properties, but GOOD art is NOT THERAPY. We should always avoid this kind of selfishness and emotional public masturbation. Above all, everything an actor does needs to be a choice.
That is where the seven year rule fits for an actor. It is about experiencing the freedom to make choices and not being walled in by one experience or another. If you need to fall apart, falling apart should be your choice. If you need to slip but still try to hold it together, your emotional life should be constructed to allow you to do so. You should not be ruled by the emotion or obligatory emotional reactions. Circumstances need to be crafted, rehearsed, repeated, memorized and then forgotten so that you may live in the circumstances and be in control of your choices.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Writer's Block
I used to brag that I never got writer's block.
The truth is, I have always kept myself busy with so many other types of projects that I was never forced to write when I didn't feel like it. For example, I would line up a writing project followed by a directing project coinciding with a building/ craft project. That way if the writing wasn't working I was always involved in something else and I would never notice the block. Now that I am trying to focus on one thing at a time I realize that writer's block is a deadly predator that needs to feast on my creative brain several times a day.
I've never freaked out about it before. As busy as I've been, I've never missed a deadline- self imposed or otherwise. However, this is the first time I am experiencing writer's block with down time. I'm like a shark. I need to keep moving or I drown. So sitting on the couch watching episode after episode of MythBusters doesn't feel all that productive. It feels like oxygen deprivation.
However, I am determined to go through this one. I am going to experience the stewing. It will pass. I don't believe for one second that I've exhausted all of my creative reserves. I'm just percolating. Consciously, slowly, painfully percolating without the benefits of caffeine, nicotine and/or psycho-sexual drama.
Basically, I'm just sitting on the couch watching CNN until a new episode of MythBusters is on and learning to be okay with it. Sometimes carpe diem means "sitting on your ass and liking it".
The truth is, I have always kept myself busy with so many other types of projects that I was never forced to write when I didn't feel like it. For example, I would line up a writing project followed by a directing project coinciding with a building/ craft project. That way if the writing wasn't working I was always involved in something else and I would never notice the block. Now that I am trying to focus on one thing at a time I realize that writer's block is a deadly predator that needs to feast on my creative brain several times a day.
I've never freaked out about it before. As busy as I've been, I've never missed a deadline- self imposed or otherwise. However, this is the first time I am experiencing writer's block with down time. I'm like a shark. I need to keep moving or I drown. So sitting on the couch watching episode after episode of MythBusters doesn't feel all that productive. It feels like oxygen deprivation.
However, I am determined to go through this one. I am going to experience the stewing. It will pass. I don't believe for one second that I've exhausted all of my creative reserves. I'm just percolating. Consciously, slowly, painfully percolating without the benefits of caffeine, nicotine and/or psycho-sexual drama.
Basically, I'm just sitting on the couch watching CNN until a new episode of MythBusters is on and learning to be okay with it. Sometimes carpe diem means "sitting on your ass and liking it".
Monday, March 24, 2008
You Can USE That...
Young actors can say some pretty stupid things sometimes.
That is to be expected, of course, many of them just having drank the Kool-Aid of whatever methodology they've chosen to study. I can't knock it, really, it is part of the process and I firmly believe in the Kool-Aid myself. It is in the application of the methodology- the Kool-Aid, if you will- that can trip up the young and studious actor. I know, I was there myself.
When I was pregnant with my first child all my actor friends congratulated me by saying something along the lines of, "Wow! Just think how you'll be able to use that." I remember resenting that. For the first time in my life, something was actually more exciting to me than acting and I bristled at the suggestion that I would be called upon to bring this sacred part of my life into my work. I had no specific objections to "using" my experience as a new mother in my craft. I still don't. I must admit that being a mother has, indeed, shaped my approach as an actor and as a director, but I couldn't shake the feeling that a few of these actors were referring specifically to labor and delivery. One of them actually confirmed this suspicion by saying to me, "Just think what the pain of childbirth will do for you!".
Well. That's just stupid.
When will I be called upon to use that particular sensation? When I'm starring in some MOV or playing a bit part in ER where I will be asked to sweat through some phony birth hysterics? It doesn't relate to my birth experience. Maybe it's the pain- specifically- which I should be using. But that pain of birth is not torture, it is not death, it is not linked to anything but anticipation and a most wonderful and terrifying joy. Perhaps it would be useful in portraying some religious ecstasy? Well, I already have my substitution for that.
Here is where I must pause and talk about substitutions for a bit. I worry about "substitutions", as they are called, because I feel they are sometimes over-used, or rather, used too far into the process. In terms of getting to a place of personal understanding of the circumstances I think substitutions from your own life are quite valuable. A substitution should serve only to build a bridge between your own experience and that of the character. After that you must internalize that understanding and replace the substitution with the actual circumstances of the text. The substitution should then be replaced by something less intrusive. Let's call that something an "as if". If the substitution is the bridge, the bridge should span from you on one side with your chosen substitution and the character on the other accompanied by the "as if". You have to cross the bridge. You cannot stay stuck on your own side of the bridge playing your substitution or you will be self-indulgent and outside the circumstances of the text.
Which brings us back to the whole child birth scenario. Even if you haven't given birth you can play a scene in a labor and delivery ward without having given birth yourself. It is about being specific. Clinically specific. This would require some study, but it does NOT require you getting pregnant and giving birth in order to play. As with any text, a good actor will strip down the circumstances and craft each one without glossing over or making assumptions. Walk around in your body. Add each circumstance one by one and see how your body responds. You are 30 pounds heavier. Where do you feel it? What have you eaten? When did you eat it? Your stomach is higher up and the sphincters that normally keep your stomach acid contained are strained and they relax in response. Inside your uterus is 6-8 pounds of bone and muscle with a mind of its own. How does it feel? The same muscles that engage during a bowel movement (we all know where those are) are the ones that contract during labor. Allow yourself to feel the 3-dimensional space inside your abdomen. Get a picture of your pelvic floor and how it cradles your infant. See how those muscles respond to a contraction. Etc. Etc. Then you add the circumstances of your partner, the place of birth, is it early, is it late, etc. It is something anyone who is willing to challenge their assumptions about birth and use their imaginations can do and do well. It doesn't mean you HAVE to start screaming and threatening all men in the delivery room. That is just a cliche. And even if the script calls for you to do so- there are a million different ways to do it. You can look every man in the eye and tell them how much you hate them with cool clarity. You don't have to flail and be helpless about it. Of course, it all depends on the circumstances.
When I was in acting school we had a seminar with Harvey Keitel. The moment I remember the most clearly is when Mr. Keitel got into an exchange with a fellow student of mine. I don't remember the exact exchange, but I DO remember his response. After the student had asked her question, Mr. Keitel stood straight and tall and bellowed, "WHO TOLD YOU NOT TO USE YOUR IMAGINATION?!". This was amusing enough, but since it was, you know, Harvey Keitel, it was also kind of frightening. It seemed as if he was going to find out which one of our teachers had perpetrated this crime and he would "take care of it". Which in turn made it that much more funny. I think about that a lot as I construct circumstances as an actor and as a writer. Imaginary does not necessarily mean "untrue".
I know I've mentioned this before, but it illustrates my point nicely so I will bring it up again. While working on Lady MacBeth (the Sleepwalking scene, of course) I discovered that part of her torturous dream included murdering her own little boy. At the time, I had no son. I had not given birth. I had never committed infanticide. (Umm, for the record, I still have no experience with infanticide!) However, I could construct this beautiful, pudgy little blonde boy with creamy white cheeks, fat little fingers and the smell of graham crackers lingering on his breath. I could see how he walked- being only 16 months old he would awkwardly stomp his way toward me. I could feel his trusting little arms struggling to reach around my neck as I bent down and cradled his little head in my hands. I reached my hand around the back of his head around to his soft, smooth little chin. I yanked. I felt his neck snap and his body go limp. I felt the finality of my actions. I felt my heart split as I also felt my resolve. It was purely imaginary, but it brings tears to my eyes as I think about it now. A well of horror and self loathing bubbles in my heart. I feel shaky. None of this is real. I used no substitutions. I simply constructed the moment as fully as I could and allowed myself to be connected to them physically (this being the most important step, in my opinion) and Lady M's nightmare is suddenly a reality to me. It is suddenly my reality and I feel I am a bloody monster that needs to die.
Yeah. Who told you not to use your imagination? It comes in handy and can often be a lot more direct than using substitutions. Although, substitutions come in handy when you have to kiss someone you don't find attractive or you have to construct the character's logic when it doesn't seem like any kind of logic to you. That said, you can't leave it at finding the substitution. Substitutions should never be played. They need to be swallowed, digested and the unnecessary parts excreted so that you keep what is essential to the circumstances and stay within the text- never separate from it.
That is to be expected, of course, many of them just having drank the Kool-Aid of whatever methodology they've chosen to study. I can't knock it, really, it is part of the process and I firmly believe in the Kool-Aid myself. It is in the application of the methodology- the Kool-Aid, if you will- that can trip up the young and studious actor. I know, I was there myself.
When I was pregnant with my first child all my actor friends congratulated me by saying something along the lines of, "Wow! Just think how you'll be able to use that." I remember resenting that. For the first time in my life, something was actually more exciting to me than acting and I bristled at the suggestion that I would be called upon to bring this sacred part of my life into my work. I had no specific objections to "using" my experience as a new mother in my craft. I still don't. I must admit that being a mother has, indeed, shaped my approach as an actor and as a director, but I couldn't shake the feeling that a few of these actors were referring specifically to labor and delivery. One of them actually confirmed this suspicion by saying to me, "Just think what the pain of childbirth will do for you!".
Well. That's just stupid.
When will I be called upon to use that particular sensation? When I'm starring in some MOV or playing a bit part in ER where I will be asked to sweat through some phony birth hysterics? It doesn't relate to my birth experience. Maybe it's the pain- specifically- which I should be using. But that pain of birth is not torture, it is not death, it is not linked to anything but anticipation and a most wonderful and terrifying joy. Perhaps it would be useful in portraying some religious ecstasy? Well, I already have my substitution for that.
Here is where I must pause and talk about substitutions for a bit. I worry about "substitutions", as they are called, because I feel they are sometimes over-used, or rather, used too far into the process. In terms of getting to a place of personal understanding of the circumstances I think substitutions from your own life are quite valuable. A substitution should serve only to build a bridge between your own experience and that of the character. After that you must internalize that understanding and replace the substitution with the actual circumstances of the text. The substitution should then be replaced by something less intrusive. Let's call that something an "as if". If the substitution is the bridge, the bridge should span from you on one side with your chosen substitution and the character on the other accompanied by the "as if". You have to cross the bridge. You cannot stay stuck on your own side of the bridge playing your substitution or you will be self-indulgent and outside the circumstances of the text.
Which brings us back to the whole child birth scenario. Even if you haven't given birth you can play a scene in a labor and delivery ward without having given birth yourself. It is about being specific. Clinically specific. This would require some study, but it does NOT require you getting pregnant and giving birth in order to play. As with any text, a good actor will strip down the circumstances and craft each one without glossing over or making assumptions. Walk around in your body. Add each circumstance one by one and see how your body responds. You are 30 pounds heavier. Where do you feel it? What have you eaten? When did you eat it? Your stomach is higher up and the sphincters that normally keep your stomach acid contained are strained and they relax in response. Inside your uterus is 6-8 pounds of bone and muscle with a mind of its own. How does it feel? The same muscles that engage during a bowel movement (we all know where those are) are the ones that contract during labor. Allow yourself to feel the 3-dimensional space inside your abdomen. Get a picture of your pelvic floor and how it cradles your infant. See how those muscles respond to a contraction. Etc. Etc. Then you add the circumstances of your partner, the place of birth, is it early, is it late, etc. It is something anyone who is willing to challenge their assumptions about birth and use their imaginations can do and do well. It doesn't mean you HAVE to start screaming and threatening all men in the delivery room. That is just a cliche. And even if the script calls for you to do so- there are a million different ways to do it. You can look every man in the eye and tell them how much you hate them with cool clarity. You don't have to flail and be helpless about it. Of course, it all depends on the circumstances.
When I was in acting school we had a seminar with Harvey Keitel. The moment I remember the most clearly is when Mr. Keitel got into an exchange with a fellow student of mine. I don't remember the exact exchange, but I DO remember his response. After the student had asked her question, Mr. Keitel stood straight and tall and bellowed, "WHO TOLD YOU NOT TO USE YOUR IMAGINATION?!". This was amusing enough, but since it was, you know, Harvey Keitel, it was also kind of frightening. It seemed as if he was going to find out which one of our teachers had perpetrated this crime and he would "take care of it". Which in turn made it that much more funny. I think about that a lot as I construct circumstances as an actor and as a writer. Imaginary does not necessarily mean "untrue".
I know I've mentioned this before, but it illustrates my point nicely so I will bring it up again. While working on Lady MacBeth (the Sleepwalking scene, of course) I discovered that part of her torturous dream included murdering her own little boy. At the time, I had no son. I had not given birth. I had never committed infanticide. (Umm, for the record, I still have no experience with infanticide!) However, I could construct this beautiful, pudgy little blonde boy with creamy white cheeks, fat little fingers and the smell of graham crackers lingering on his breath. I could see how he walked- being only 16 months old he would awkwardly stomp his way toward me. I could feel his trusting little arms struggling to reach around my neck as I bent down and cradled his little head in my hands. I reached my hand around the back of his head around to his soft, smooth little chin. I yanked. I felt his neck snap and his body go limp. I felt the finality of my actions. I felt my heart split as I also felt my resolve. It was purely imaginary, but it brings tears to my eyes as I think about it now. A well of horror and self loathing bubbles in my heart. I feel shaky. None of this is real. I used no substitutions. I simply constructed the moment as fully as I could and allowed myself to be connected to them physically (this being the most important step, in my opinion) and Lady M's nightmare is suddenly a reality to me. It is suddenly my reality and I feel I am a bloody monster that needs to die.
Yeah. Who told you not to use your imagination? It comes in handy and can often be a lot more direct than using substitutions. Although, substitutions come in handy when you have to kiss someone you don't find attractive or you have to construct the character's logic when it doesn't seem like any kind of logic to you. That said, you can't leave it at finding the substitution. Substitutions should never be played. They need to be swallowed, digested and the unnecessary parts excreted so that you keep what is essential to the circumstances and stay within the text- never separate from it.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
For Actors
I do not often make class announcements on this blog, however, it has come to my attention that Charles Goforth- actor/ director/ teacher and LAByrinth Theater Company Member- is going to be offering a 6 week, 10 session class this spring at Center Stage in NYC. I had the pleasure of working with Charles in LAB's Master Class this past spring and I can't resist the opportunity to encourage him in this endeavor.
Here is Charles in his own words:
"Inspiration for this class came first at auditions. For years I auditioned to "get the job," and often my concentration would sputter. As a director I've seen many actors audition, work hard and be mostly unexceptional. I felt the struggle from both sides of the table. But I saw the problem, at least for me: The reality of my audition was more compelling than the reality my character was trying to live through.
It was about the integrity of technique. So auditions became more of an internal test. They became less "did I get it?" and more "did I get down to choices that really - no, really - capture me?" I stopped "auditioning" and started doing my work while casting people happened to be watching.
I started to get hired. And as a teacher I was inspired to give other actors a chance to breathe and to focus on questions of ownership and joy: How do we begin for real? Can we sit down, and with text analysis that's personal and true, find our own "whys" in the words? Can we build actions that are fun, that pin our concentration and compel us into each arriving moment? Do we have a discipline that unleashes original acting? Can we depend on it, and can we use it to build a character different from us? In short, do we own the work?"
Classes begin March 29 and run to May 13 running 6 Saturdays and 4 Tuesday Evenings- culminating in an evening of scenes and monologues. If you are interested in more information about Charles and his classes you can email him at goforth.centerstage@gmail.com.
Here is Charles in his own words:
"Inspiration for this class came first at auditions. For years I auditioned to "get the job," and often my concentration would sputter. As a director I've seen many actors audition, work hard and be mostly unexceptional. I felt the struggle from both sides of the table. But I saw the problem, at least for me: The reality of my audition was more compelling than the reality my character was trying to live through.
It was about the integrity of technique. So auditions became more of an internal test. They became less "did I get it?" and more "did I get down to choices that really - no, really - capture me?" I stopped "auditioning" and started doing my work while casting people happened to be watching.
I started to get hired. And as a teacher I was inspired to give other actors a chance to breathe and to focus on questions of ownership and joy: How do we begin for real? Can we sit down, and with text analysis that's personal and true, find our own "whys" in the words? Can we build actions that are fun, that pin our concentration and compel us into each arriving moment? Do we have a discipline that unleashes original acting? Can we depend on it, and can we use it to build a character different from us? In short, do we own the work?"
Classes begin March 29 and run to May 13 running 6 Saturdays and 4 Tuesday Evenings- culminating in an evening of scenes and monologues. If you are interested in more information about Charles and his classes you can email him at goforth.centerstage@gmail.com.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
John Adams
It has been a long time since we've seen a historical mini-series on television. It has been even longer since a historical mini-series has had the mainstream push that HBO's miniseries event John Adams has had. The buzz before the show has caused even non-geek excitement about this decidedly unsexy historical figure.
Yes. I said unsexy. John Adams did not exactly cut the most dashing of colonial figures but David McCullough strives to give him, and his extraordinary wife, their due in this mini-series. So far.
I'll admit. I'm leery of bio-pics in general and even more concerned about drama that features such prominent historical figures. So often writers tend to weigh heavily on hyperbole, reverence and/or revulsion when it comes to such subjects. The person(s) in question are usually either overly praised or mercilessly "exposed" for their shortcomings as suits the writer's whim and rarely do I walk away with a sense of the real human. Rather, I tend to walk away with a better understanding of the writer's opinion of the person and the circumstances involved. Drama is not meant to "report", but rather to "retell" and there is a lot of wiggle room in retelling and that can lead to critical distortions of the truth.
Luckily, the first two episodes of this series seem to side-step these land mines. So far the text has yet to exalt or defile the man, but has sought to explore his dilemmas as if they were urgent- not foregone conclusions. We are allowed to empathize with Adams and that empathy is strikingly tempered by the input of his intelligent and insightful wife- Abigail.
Historically speaking, their relationship was an extraordinary partnership of intellectual equals and proves itself more than worthy of exploration by our modern culture awash with all kinds of gender role confusion and conflict. Here is where Giamatti and Linney have earned their salt. Not only have they deftly handled the circumstances of time and place, but they have shattered the expectations and preconceived notions of that time and place. In their hands, John and Abigail are loving and playful with one another in a way that brings the audience beyond the formality of colonial culture and language. Their rapport is deeply personal and the shadows of resentment that flicker through Abigail's eyes as she watches her ambitious beloved leave her to tend to the children and the farm again and again I can only describe as deeply resonant.
I do wonder, however, how much "speechifyin'" from the ornery and loquacious Adams the series can support. At the moment the speeches and the rants are fascinatingly juxtaposed with Adam's insecurity, but can that theme progress from here on out? I do hope that it can, but that is a piece of dramatic gymnastics considering the man's choices as he passes through his life. We will just have to wait and see.
The series is, on the whole, very well cast and well shot by Tak Fujimoto- with the exception of some tiresome hand-held footage during the Boston Massacre, but that can be forgiven. I understand that choice. However, I must make note of an actor who tickles my fancy somewhat these days and that is Tom Wilkinson as the cantankerous Benjamin Franklin. He blows onto the small screen with a wittily dismissive air and overshadows Adams with ease. I am eager to watch this historical relationship and all of its complexity unfold. The small taste I've had has been a delight.
If you haven't seen the first two episodes yet, find a way to catch up. You won't be sorry.
Yes. I said unsexy. John Adams did not exactly cut the most dashing of colonial figures but David McCullough strives to give him, and his extraordinary wife, their due in this mini-series. So far.
I'll admit. I'm leery of bio-pics in general and even more concerned about drama that features such prominent historical figures. So often writers tend to weigh heavily on hyperbole, reverence and/or revulsion when it comes to such subjects. The person(s) in question are usually either overly praised or mercilessly "exposed" for their shortcomings as suits the writer's whim and rarely do I walk away with a sense of the real human. Rather, I tend to walk away with a better understanding of the writer's opinion of the person and the circumstances involved. Drama is not meant to "report", but rather to "retell" and there is a lot of wiggle room in retelling and that can lead to critical distortions of the truth.
Luckily, the first two episodes of this series seem to side-step these land mines. So far the text has yet to exalt or defile the man, but has sought to explore his dilemmas as if they were urgent- not foregone conclusions. We are allowed to empathize with Adams and that empathy is strikingly tempered by the input of his intelligent and insightful wife- Abigail.
Historically speaking, their relationship was an extraordinary partnership of intellectual equals and proves itself more than worthy of exploration by our modern culture awash with all kinds of gender role confusion and conflict. Here is where Giamatti and Linney have earned their salt. Not only have they deftly handled the circumstances of time and place, but they have shattered the expectations and preconceived notions of that time and place. In their hands, John and Abigail are loving and playful with one another in a way that brings the audience beyond the formality of colonial culture and language. Their rapport is deeply personal and the shadows of resentment that flicker through Abigail's eyes as she watches her ambitious beloved leave her to tend to the children and the farm again and again I can only describe as deeply resonant.
I do wonder, however, how much "speechifyin'" from the ornery and loquacious Adams the series can support. At the moment the speeches and the rants are fascinatingly juxtaposed with Adam's insecurity, but can that theme progress from here on out? I do hope that it can, but that is a piece of dramatic gymnastics considering the man's choices as he passes through his life. We will just have to wait and see.
The series is, on the whole, very well cast and well shot by Tak Fujimoto- with the exception of some tiresome hand-held footage during the Boston Massacre, but that can be forgiven. I understand that choice. However, I must make note of an actor who tickles my fancy somewhat these days and that is Tom Wilkinson as the cantankerous Benjamin Franklin. He blows onto the small screen with a wittily dismissive air and overshadows Adams with ease. I am eager to watch this historical relationship and all of its complexity unfold. The small taste I've had has been a delight.
If you haven't seen the first two episodes yet, find a way to catch up. You won't be sorry.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
The Pleasure of Silence
There are certain films I turn to when I want to remember what drives my love for acting. Some of them I watch on purpose. Others I stumble across on TCM and swear I'll only watch this next scene but find I am unable to turn away. These films range in style and subject matter, but the thing that all of these films share is moments of silence.
Not overly dramatic silences. Sometimes the silence is shared between two characters who have just come to an understanding of the circumstances while others babble on about them. Sometimes the silence is merely a beat. Sometimes it is an entire film. That is the case with the 1928 silent classic The Passion of Joan of Arc. With the camera focused on tight close ups of the character's faces throughout you can't help but be pulled in to the very real human drama of a young girl on trial for her life. This film is naked, raw, breathtaking and heartbreaking. Each dilation of the eye, twitch of the cheek and push of the brow cuts to the very center of human emotion. The saint falls away, and we are left with a young girl marked for a painful and tragic death. Haunting.
The Passion of Joan of Arc is an exciting and difficult film. But one does not need to be tortured to experience the pleasures of silence. Last night I watched one of my favorite films, The Apartment with Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. This film benefits greatly from one of my favorite directors, Billy Wilder, who understands the power of the unspoken. The script patiently doles out information to the characters and lets them realize what we, the audience, have known all along. Watching Mr. Baxter and Miss Kubilick make their discoveries about one another in the shot gun blasts of silence that riddle this picture is the very definition of sublime. A classic example of Wilder, this film is funny, dark, and touchingly human. When Miss Kubilick blithely hands her broken compact mirror to Mr. Baxter so he can take a look at himself in his new hat he recognizes it as the compact belonging to the woman who has been having an affair with his boss. An affair he had been helping to facilitate by letting his boss use his apartment. The heartbreak falls quickly from his eyebrows to his feet. "Your mirror's broken" he says. "I like it that way. It makes me look the way I feel. " She replies. There's a beat. Neither character fully understands the circumstances of their relationship, but he has just learned something new. In a split second we see his hopes for the future fall apart. She, however, does not realize his affection for her or understand that he has just learned something about her. In that moment you can't help but feel deeply for these two people.
In To Kill a Mockingbird you'll find my all time favorite moment of silence. At the end of the film when we finally see the mysterious and previously frightening Boo Radley behind the bedroom door we get to watch Scout grow years older in a brief moment. A flame of comprehension ignites in her eyes. The world is suddenly a very different place for her and all she says is, "Hey Boo." I get teary just thinking about it.
Casablanca is overflowing with great silent moments. No one does brooding silences like Bogey. Although I think some of my favorite Bogey silences are in a lesser known film with Bogart and Gloria Graham called In a Lonely Place. Bogart plays a charming writer who falls for a beautiful neighbor. Unfortunately, he is suspected of murder. Graham believes Bogey. How could she not? He's so charming and kind, but as professional circumstances and the pressures of the investigation begin to weigh on him, his notorious temper begins to plant the seeds of fear in her mind. In a glorious and horrible twist (which I will not reveal in hopes you will search out this wonderful film!) we find Bogey and Graham staring at one another from across the room and in this silence we know exactly what will happen next even though we never see it. I love that.
Silence can be done badly, however. I find that the silences in The Darjeeling Limited are heavy handed. The scene where the brothers sit in silence with their mother and stare intently at one another is a horrible flashback to acting classes. They are powerful in the context of the classroom, but not in the context of the story. To give Wes Anderson some credit, however, I have to say the suicide sequence in The Royal Tannenbaums is moving and delightful.
Of course, I can't quite end my cataloguing of silences without bringing up that tiny little moment in Harold and Maude when Harold spots the tattooed number on Maude's arm. Neither character ever says a word about it. No one goes into therapy over it. It is a new piece of information that simply becomes a part of the dance between lovers. Isn't that lovely?
It is. It IS lovely, because the fact of the matter is that life is lived so much less in words and expressions than it is in silence. We share moments of silences with loved ones, acquaintances and complete strangers every day. When we are open to them they can be just as liberating, powerful, touching and haunting as they are in the movies. More so. Because at the end of the day- those moments are ours.
Not overly dramatic silences. Sometimes the silence is shared between two characters who have just come to an understanding of the circumstances while others babble on about them. Sometimes the silence is merely a beat. Sometimes it is an entire film. That is the case with the 1928 silent classic The Passion of Joan of Arc. With the camera focused on tight close ups of the character's faces throughout you can't help but be pulled in to the very real human drama of a young girl on trial for her life. This film is naked, raw, breathtaking and heartbreaking. Each dilation of the eye, twitch of the cheek and push of the brow cuts to the very center of human emotion. The saint falls away, and we are left with a young girl marked for a painful and tragic death. Haunting.
The Passion of Joan of Arc is an exciting and difficult film. But one does not need to be tortured to experience the pleasures of silence. Last night I watched one of my favorite films, The Apartment with Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. This film benefits greatly from one of my favorite directors, Billy Wilder, who understands the power of the unspoken. The script patiently doles out information to the characters and lets them realize what we, the audience, have known all along. Watching Mr. Baxter and Miss Kubilick make their discoveries about one another in the shot gun blasts of silence that riddle this picture is the very definition of sublime. A classic example of Wilder, this film is funny, dark, and touchingly human. When Miss Kubilick blithely hands her broken compact mirror to Mr. Baxter so he can take a look at himself in his new hat he recognizes it as the compact belonging to the woman who has been having an affair with his boss. An affair he had been helping to facilitate by letting his boss use his apartment. The heartbreak falls quickly from his eyebrows to his feet. "Your mirror's broken" he says. "I like it that way. It makes me look the way I feel. " She replies. There's a beat. Neither character fully understands the circumstances of their relationship, but he has just learned something new. In a split second we see his hopes for the future fall apart. She, however, does not realize his affection for her or understand that he has just learned something about her. In that moment you can't help but feel deeply for these two people.
In To Kill a Mockingbird you'll find my all time favorite moment of silence. At the end of the film when we finally see the mysterious and previously frightening Boo Radley behind the bedroom door we get to watch Scout grow years older in a brief moment. A flame of comprehension ignites in her eyes. The world is suddenly a very different place for her and all she says is, "Hey Boo." I get teary just thinking about it.
Casablanca is overflowing with great silent moments. No one does brooding silences like Bogey. Although I think some of my favorite Bogey silences are in a lesser known film with Bogart and Gloria Graham called In a Lonely Place. Bogart plays a charming writer who falls for a beautiful neighbor. Unfortunately, he is suspected of murder. Graham believes Bogey. How could she not? He's so charming and kind, but as professional circumstances and the pressures of the investigation begin to weigh on him, his notorious temper begins to plant the seeds of fear in her mind. In a glorious and horrible twist (which I will not reveal in hopes you will search out this wonderful film!) we find Bogey and Graham staring at one another from across the room and in this silence we know exactly what will happen next even though we never see it. I love that.
Silence can be done badly, however. I find that the silences in The Darjeeling Limited are heavy handed. The scene where the brothers sit in silence with their mother and stare intently at one another is a horrible flashback to acting classes. They are powerful in the context of the classroom, but not in the context of the story. To give Wes Anderson some credit, however, I have to say the suicide sequence in The Royal Tannenbaums is moving and delightful.
Of course, I can't quite end my cataloguing of silences without bringing up that tiny little moment in Harold and Maude when Harold spots the tattooed number on Maude's arm. Neither character ever says a word about it. No one goes into therapy over it. It is a new piece of information that simply becomes a part of the dance between lovers. Isn't that lovely?
It is. It IS lovely, because the fact of the matter is that life is lived so much less in words and expressions than it is in silence. We share moments of silences with loved ones, acquaintances and complete strangers every day. When we are open to them they can be just as liberating, powerful, touching and haunting as they are in the movies. More so. Because at the end of the day- those moments are ours.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Is the Theatre Really Dead?
Simon and Garfunkel sang that question a few decades ago. I remember the first time I heard that question in my mid-teens I was indignant. The theatre could never actually DIE. It is too much a part of the human soul!
Yeah. Little did I know that the theatre was dead, is dead and has been dead for a long time. What's worse is that I've done my fair share to kill it.
I don't go.
It's that simple. I just don't go.
That doesn't mean that I don't miss it or that I don't want to go. I have plenty of excuses. It is too expensive. I don't really care to see a musical rehashing of some film that I found mildly amusing sometime in the 1980's. Anything that is challenging seems almost too challenging. Let's face it. I'm tired. I don't go out much at all anymore. It is too exhausting and the idea that I would have to get tickets in advance, organize a babysitter and commit to NOT being in my pajamas at 8:00 PM just seems too much to bear. Although I've already said it, it bears repeating... it is just too expensive. At an average of a $50.00- $60.00 ticket for nosebleeds and $12-$15/ hour for a sitter it is just too cost prohibitive. And forget about going out for dinner beforehand. That would break the bank for a couple who is trying to live on a budget, save for "retirement" and pull themselves out of debt. As much as I love the theatre I've got bigger fish to fry.
Part of the reason I've produced theatre is so I could actually SEE some theatre. I do have opportunities to get cheap tickets to the odd show now and again, but for some reason I can't quite work up the emotional fortitude to go. Usually it works out that I would have to go see the show alone. Which is fine, except that I like to talk about the show afterward. There's nothing worse than having to scan the audience for another lone theatre goer and then trying to devise a way to get them to discuss the show with you without coming off like a freak. I usually save my commitment energy for seeing artists I know doing small shows. I like to lend my support when I can. Of course, this has its drawbacks. As a producer of "small shows" myself, I can tell you that "small shows" are often just that. Small. In which case going becomes an exercise for my directorial eye and not so much about the joy of seeing a show. I can't remember the last show I went to that I just sat down and watched. I miss doing that. Terribly.
I often sit and think about what would be a good enough deal to get me out the door to go see a show. What would it take? Well, it would take a good show, I suppose. But what does THAT mean? I've become so cynical that I find myself dismissing concepts because they seem too, well, conceptual. I'm a fan of the kitchen sink. I love simple drama done well. I suppose I would get off my ass to see a group of unknowns tackle something impossible like A Streetcar Named Desire. I don't care to see any celebrities do it. That's too much expectation- most of it bad. I don't want to go to the theatre just to cross my arms and wear a "prove it to me" scowl. That's no fun. And I don't want to go just because there's a really good light show or expensive costumes and sets. I want to see people. Real people. Not cardboard robots programmed to emote. The theatre I've seen in the past few years has just been too overwrought with self-indulgent emotional outbursts. What's even worse than that is watching someone with technical skill go to that hyper emotional place. When that hysteria reaches a peak and yet every word is clearly spoken and fully supported by breath and technically perfect... I want to vomit.
Either tone down the hysteria or tone down the technique. Together they read as rehearsed.
I know I ask for the impossible. Maybe that is so I will have the excuse to stay home. But I recognize that this also means that the audiences I want to reach are fighting to sit on their couches in their pajamas as well. Once I figure out how to reach ME I might be able to figure out how to reach THEM.
Yeah. Little did I know that the theatre was dead, is dead and has been dead for a long time. What's worse is that I've done my fair share to kill it.
I don't go.
It's that simple. I just don't go.
That doesn't mean that I don't miss it or that I don't want to go. I have plenty of excuses. It is too expensive. I don't really care to see a musical rehashing of some film that I found mildly amusing sometime in the 1980's. Anything that is challenging seems almost too challenging. Let's face it. I'm tired. I don't go out much at all anymore. It is too exhausting and the idea that I would have to get tickets in advance, organize a babysitter and commit to NOT being in my pajamas at 8:00 PM just seems too much to bear. Although I've already said it, it bears repeating... it is just too expensive. At an average of a $50.00- $60.00 ticket for nosebleeds and $12-$15/ hour for a sitter it is just too cost prohibitive. And forget about going out for dinner beforehand. That would break the bank for a couple who is trying to live on a budget, save for "retirement" and pull themselves out of debt. As much as I love the theatre I've got bigger fish to fry.
Part of the reason I've produced theatre is so I could actually SEE some theatre. I do have opportunities to get cheap tickets to the odd show now and again, but for some reason I can't quite work up the emotional fortitude to go. Usually it works out that I would have to go see the show alone. Which is fine, except that I like to talk about the show afterward. There's nothing worse than having to scan the audience for another lone theatre goer and then trying to devise a way to get them to discuss the show with you without coming off like a freak. I usually save my commitment energy for seeing artists I know doing small shows. I like to lend my support when I can. Of course, this has its drawbacks. As a producer of "small shows" myself, I can tell you that "small shows" are often just that. Small. In which case going becomes an exercise for my directorial eye and not so much about the joy of seeing a show. I can't remember the last show I went to that I just sat down and watched. I miss doing that. Terribly.
I often sit and think about what would be a good enough deal to get me out the door to go see a show. What would it take? Well, it would take a good show, I suppose. But what does THAT mean? I've become so cynical that I find myself dismissing concepts because they seem too, well, conceptual. I'm a fan of the kitchen sink. I love simple drama done well. I suppose I would get off my ass to see a group of unknowns tackle something impossible like A Streetcar Named Desire. I don't care to see any celebrities do it. That's too much expectation- most of it bad. I don't want to go to the theatre just to cross my arms and wear a "prove it to me" scowl. That's no fun. And I don't want to go just because there's a really good light show or expensive costumes and sets. I want to see people. Real people. Not cardboard robots programmed to emote. The theatre I've seen in the past few years has just been too overwrought with self-indulgent emotional outbursts. What's even worse than that is watching someone with technical skill go to that hyper emotional place. When that hysteria reaches a peak and yet every word is clearly spoken and fully supported by breath and technically perfect... I want to vomit.
Either tone down the hysteria or tone down the technique. Together they read as rehearsed.
I know I ask for the impossible. Maybe that is so I will have the excuse to stay home. But I recognize that this also means that the audiences I want to reach are fighting to sit on their couches in their pajamas as well. Once I figure out how to reach ME I might be able to figure out how to reach THEM.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The Artist Battles with the Parent
Internally there is a constant battle.
You'd think that one could be both and artist and a parent without having the two clash. It seems that they would be loving, compatible pursuits. Yeah. Not so much.
In the past week my first grader went on a field trip with his class to see a play that takes place in France in 1942. Yes. You can see where this is going. The play is about two young girls who develop a friendship -one Catholic and one Jewish- under the threat of the Nazi regime. The play was based on a children's book and was produced by a company here in New York for which I have a lot of respect. I'll admit that I was worried about the subject matter and my son's developmental readiness. However, I have also seen this particular company's work both in the classroom and on the stage for the last 3 years and I have a lot of faith in their mission and their sensitivity. I white knuckled it, signed the permission slip, paid the admission price and let him go.
Now, let it be said that there were notices coming home about the subject matter of the book they would be studying through this artist residency. There was open time during an evening family workshop to ask questions and raise concerns about the upcoming performance. Then there was the permission slip and admission fee... my point being there were plenty of times that the parents were alerted to the sensitive nature of the material. If there were concerns or misgivings, the parents had ample time (in my opinion) to talk to teachers, the principal and/or the representatives from the program. However, the majority of the parents didn't say a peep until the "damage was done" and the children had already seen the performance.
Early this week the parents' Yahoo group was ablaze with controversy- railing about developmental appropriateness and pointing fingers at the principal for allowing such a thing to be in the lower grades at all. I was stymied. After all- I took issue with it as well but I recognize that I made a conscious decision to allow my child to participate and if there was any blame to be laid it must be laid on me- as the parent. The following was part of my post in that group:
"I do think the subject matter was pushing the envelope a little for these guys. I was not going to bring it up for several more years because my son just doesn't have the context for it. He doesn't understand war or that there are perceived differences between people and other cultures. Frankly, I barely understand it as an adult. It is hard for me to wrap my more experienced mind around it so I can't imagine how the pieces fit together for him. I chose to let him have this experience, however. I elected for him to have it by signing the permission slip and handing over my money. I can't really say that I regret it. It will be slowly dissected in our home for months to come at my son's speed. I would not have chosen this time to address it, but that is more because I don't like dealing with the fact that we live in an unpleasant world where people choose to do horrible things. We live in a world where genocide is not the distant past but our present and, sadly our future as well. I'd rather not have my 6 year old know about that because he's perfect the way he is and I admit that I am rather selfish about protecting that. But the realities of the world have a weird way of imposing themselves on our children no matter what we do and I
don't think he was destroyed by the knowledge he has received. What I know is that he will tuck it away and deal with it in small increments as he acquires new bits of knowledge about history and human behavior. What he experienced at that performance and through that book will become an important part of his identification with history as he grows up. Just as my childhood experiences tromping through Civil War battlegrounds and seeing my Dad's collection of Civil War paintings depicting the carnage of those same battles has shaped me as I began to develop my sense of compassion. It isn't pleasant. It isn't the timing I would have chosen. But I have no regrets. Our cruelest natures are revealed when we are most afraid. That is how war, genocide, and brutality happen- not because of strength, but because of fear. We cannot confront fear by ignoring it. So here we are, the O'Connor Family whistling in the dark."
Well. I was then pounced upon by other parents who insisted that their children did not "get it" and that now they are suffering because of widespread developmental insensitivity on the part of the school. On one hand, I understand their anger. After all, I once gave a friend of mine a lecture for taking his seven year old to Ground Zero and showing him pictures of people jumping out of the building. I guess I justify that rant because he just sprung it on his poor kid and did it to keep his kid from goofing off while he was there. I thought he was needlessly frightening his child to get more "appropriate" behavior and not providing context from which the child could learn. But who am I to talk? I willingly subjected MY child to the Holocaust- regardless of how sensitively it was portrayed. Aren't I a monster for doing that?
Other parents were angry because there was a character who was a Hitler Youth. The point was to show the Nazis as humans too and to show how easily one can fall prey to propaganda even when it is against our better nature. And, yes, it was a musical. Nazis got to sing and dance, but it was no "Springtime for Hitler". Not in my opinion. Other parents thought it was a glorification of anti-Semitism. There are some things you just aren't allowed to explore in any context. Maybe a show aimed at families is not the place for such complexities- but I really, really WANT it to be. The artist inside me really NEEDS it to be. However, the mother inside me desperately wants to protect her child. The difficulty is, if I really want what I say I want for my child I have to expose him to unpleasant things and I need to challenge his critical thinking in ways I might not get to control.
The artist in me is angry. The fact that I live in a place where "developmentally appropriate" is even a serious discussion makes me feel pampered and spoiled. Do parents around the world have that luxury? I'm sure there are some Sudanese parents who would love to have that discussion, but with family, neighbors and friends being slaughtered they just need to survive. Yes. I have some bleeding heart, liberal guilt that my child gets the "benefits" of this debate while others are subjected to atrocities and for the most arbitrary reason of all- simple geography. My son was born somewhere that doesn't have that problem.
So, shouldn't I, as a parent, take advantage of that stroke of luck? Shouldn't I protect him from inappropriate reading material? Shouldn't I shelter him from harsh realities until he is "old enough" to be able to "process" them? I probably should. But that means that I should shield him from fairy tales and fables, myths and even the Bible. I should keep him away from Harry Potter, pirates, and Star Wars. Darth Vadar destroys an entire planet, for Pete's sake! If I did that, then I would keep from myself my most valuable teaching tool- story.
In our house the story is king. Stories mean absolutely everything. We process our feelings through other characters. We broaden our outlook through tales of another's experience. When something is too difficult to work through directly- we break out a book or a movie and filter our own confusion through a character's lens. Stories help us to understand and to be more compassionate. A story about the Holocaust is just as real to my six year old as the story of Luke Skywalker. Villains exist in story because they exist in life. We have to deal with them somehow.
I sat down with my son to gauge how the performance and the book were affecting him. After all, I had overheard him and his friends playing "Nazi" on the playground. Of course this disturbed my liberal sensibilities, especially since my son volunteered to be the Nazi. Then I remembered that he always plays the bad guys- and he is about as evil as a newborn kitten. He is six so he processes things that frighten or confuse him through play. But it still warranted a discussion.
What I learned from our discussion was that he understood that the Nazis in the play were not "real" but actors. He had empathized with the girls in the play but he had focused not on the terror but on the uplifting ending- friendship endured and a life was saved. "Playing bad guys is fun, Mom. But I'm not a bad guy in real life. In real life, I'm a funny guy." When I told him that I had considered keeping him home from the performance that day I saw a fire in his eyes that nearly knocked me off my seat.
"I'm not too young, Mom. I can handle it and I'd be angry if you ever tried to keep me from something like that."
Funny, but I think I made the right decision- against my better judgement. I have a kid whose intellect that I can trust and deserves my respect. In my own family, at least, I need to allow for that complexity and that difficulty because the apple don't fall too far from the tree.
You'd think that one could be both and artist and a parent without having the two clash. It seems that they would be loving, compatible pursuits. Yeah. Not so much.
In the past week my first grader went on a field trip with his class to see a play that takes place in France in 1942. Yes. You can see where this is going. The play is about two young girls who develop a friendship -one Catholic and one Jewish- under the threat of the Nazi regime. The play was based on a children's book and was produced by a company here in New York for which I have a lot of respect. I'll admit that I was worried about the subject matter and my son's developmental readiness. However, I have also seen this particular company's work both in the classroom and on the stage for the last 3 years and I have a lot of faith in their mission and their sensitivity. I white knuckled it, signed the permission slip, paid the admission price and let him go.
Now, let it be said that there were notices coming home about the subject matter of the book they would be studying through this artist residency. There was open time during an evening family workshop to ask questions and raise concerns about the upcoming performance. Then there was the permission slip and admission fee... my point being there were plenty of times that the parents were alerted to the sensitive nature of the material. If there were concerns or misgivings, the parents had ample time (in my opinion) to talk to teachers, the principal and/or the representatives from the program. However, the majority of the parents didn't say a peep until the "damage was done" and the children had already seen the performance.
Early this week the parents' Yahoo group was ablaze with controversy- railing about developmental appropriateness and pointing fingers at the principal for allowing such a thing to be in the lower grades at all. I was stymied. After all- I took issue with it as well but I recognize that I made a conscious decision to allow my child to participate and if there was any blame to be laid it must be laid on me- as the parent. The following was part of my post in that group:
"I do think the subject matter was pushing the envelope a little for these guys. I was not going to bring it up for several more years because my son just doesn't have the context for it. He doesn't understand war or that there are perceived differences between people and other cultures. Frankly, I barely understand it as an adult. It is hard for me to wrap my more experienced mind around it so I can't imagine how the pieces fit together for him. I chose to let him have this experience, however. I elected for him to have it by signing the permission slip and handing over my money. I can't really say that I regret it. It will be slowly dissected in our home for months to come at my son's speed. I would not have chosen this time to address it, but that is more because I don't like dealing with the fact that we live in an unpleasant world where people choose to do horrible things. We live in a world where genocide is not the distant past but our present and, sadly our future as well. I'd rather not have my 6 year old know about that because he's perfect the way he is and I admit that I am rather selfish about protecting that. But the realities of the world have a weird way of imposing themselves on our children no matter what we do and I
don't think he was destroyed by the knowledge he has received. What I know is that he will tuck it away and deal with it in small increments as he acquires new bits of knowledge about history and human behavior. What he experienced at that performance and through that book will become an important part of his identification with history as he grows up. Just as my childhood experiences tromping through Civil War battlegrounds and seeing my Dad's collection of Civil War paintings depicting the carnage of those same battles has shaped me as I began to develop my sense of compassion. It isn't pleasant. It isn't the timing I would have chosen. But I have no regrets. Our cruelest natures are revealed when we are most afraid. That is how war, genocide, and brutality happen- not because of strength, but because of fear. We cannot confront fear by ignoring it. So here we are, the O'Connor Family whistling in the dark."
Well. I was then pounced upon by other parents who insisted that their children did not "get it" and that now they are suffering because of widespread developmental insensitivity on the part of the school. On one hand, I understand their anger. After all, I once gave a friend of mine a lecture for taking his seven year old to Ground Zero and showing him pictures of people jumping out of the building. I guess I justify that rant because he just sprung it on his poor kid and did it to keep his kid from goofing off while he was there. I thought he was needlessly frightening his child to get more "appropriate" behavior and not providing context from which the child could learn. But who am I to talk? I willingly subjected MY child to the Holocaust- regardless of how sensitively it was portrayed. Aren't I a monster for doing that?
Other parents were angry because there was a character who was a Hitler Youth. The point was to show the Nazis as humans too and to show how easily one can fall prey to propaganda even when it is against our better nature. And, yes, it was a musical. Nazis got to sing and dance, but it was no "Springtime for Hitler". Not in my opinion. Other parents thought it was a glorification of anti-Semitism. There are some things you just aren't allowed to explore in any context. Maybe a show aimed at families is not the place for such complexities- but I really, really WANT it to be. The artist inside me really NEEDS it to be. However, the mother inside me desperately wants to protect her child. The difficulty is, if I really want what I say I want for my child I have to expose him to unpleasant things and I need to challenge his critical thinking in ways I might not get to control.
The artist in me is angry. The fact that I live in a place where "developmentally appropriate" is even a serious discussion makes me feel pampered and spoiled. Do parents around the world have that luxury? I'm sure there are some Sudanese parents who would love to have that discussion, but with family, neighbors and friends being slaughtered they just need to survive. Yes. I have some bleeding heart, liberal guilt that my child gets the "benefits" of this debate while others are subjected to atrocities and for the most arbitrary reason of all- simple geography. My son was born somewhere that doesn't have that problem.
So, shouldn't I, as a parent, take advantage of that stroke of luck? Shouldn't I protect him from inappropriate reading material? Shouldn't I shelter him from harsh realities until he is "old enough" to be able to "process" them? I probably should. But that means that I should shield him from fairy tales and fables, myths and even the Bible. I should keep him away from Harry Potter, pirates, and Star Wars. Darth Vadar destroys an entire planet, for Pete's sake! If I did that, then I would keep from myself my most valuable teaching tool- story.
In our house the story is king. Stories mean absolutely everything. We process our feelings through other characters. We broaden our outlook through tales of another's experience. When something is too difficult to work through directly- we break out a book or a movie and filter our own confusion through a character's lens. Stories help us to understand and to be more compassionate. A story about the Holocaust is just as real to my six year old as the story of Luke Skywalker. Villains exist in story because they exist in life. We have to deal with them somehow.
I sat down with my son to gauge how the performance and the book were affecting him. After all, I had overheard him and his friends playing "Nazi" on the playground. Of course this disturbed my liberal sensibilities, especially since my son volunteered to be the Nazi. Then I remembered that he always plays the bad guys- and he is about as evil as a newborn kitten. He is six so he processes things that frighten or confuse him through play. But it still warranted a discussion.
What I learned from our discussion was that he understood that the Nazis in the play were not "real" but actors. He had empathized with the girls in the play but he had focused not on the terror but on the uplifting ending- friendship endured and a life was saved. "Playing bad guys is fun, Mom. But I'm not a bad guy in real life. In real life, I'm a funny guy." When I told him that I had considered keeping him home from the performance that day I saw a fire in his eyes that nearly knocked me off my seat.
"I'm not too young, Mom. I can handle it and I'd be angry if you ever tried to keep me from something like that."
Funny, but I think I made the right decision- against my better judgement. I have a kid whose intellect that I can trust and deserves my respect. In my own family, at least, I need to allow for that complexity and that difficulty because the apple don't fall too far from the tree.
Monday, February 04, 2008
There's Nothing For Me to Watch!
In my present emotionally and hormonally vulnerable condition I have found that an afternoon at the movies is fraught with peril. There is very little that the multiplex can offer me that will not cause me to spend the remainder of the evening huddling in a corner trying to think of happy thoughts to erase the visions of terror and gore from my mind. The few options that are left are dreary in their mindlessness and their paint-by-numbers approach to entertainment.
I'd like to see Sweeney Todd or There Will Be Blood. I might even venture into the land of the Cohen brothers for No Country for Old Men, but I am all to familiar with the torturous hijinx and nihilistic coolness of which the Cohen brothers are capable. I've been warned away from these films by good friends who don't want to receive an angry and disgusted phone call from me after my viewing these pictures. Don't see it while you are vulnerable like this. It won't be pleasant. But it isn't just my pregnancy that keeps me from these films- although it does make me a bit more reactive than usual. I still haven't seen Boys Don't Cry, and that is because I can't. You see, I get it. I get it that causing others pain is bad. I understand that murder is morally reprehensible. I don't need to see gory war scenes, because I already get it. I wonder if there isn't any other subject matter under the sun? Or are we just reliving those lazy glory days in the stands at the Colliseum?
I want to see films that challenge me and even challenge my moral compass, but I want to be able to sit through them without vomiting. There are some who would argue that the gore helps to emphasize the immorality of certain actions and how far we have slipped as a culture. I say that is an over simplified justification for making blood and death somewhat sexy. How many times does the guy in the trunk have to come back to life only to be horribly beaten to death? Haven't we seen that gag already? And it is a gag. Don't kid yourself. We know the dilemma. There is a moment in which the character can redeem himself by choosing to face the consequences of his actions and perhaps try to save this person's life. But that is never an option, is it? We always know there's a tire iron. It is never a surprise when the victim takes way too long to die, but we'll have to sit through it to justify having just spent $11.75 for the honor of seeing this picture.
There are more creative and less sensational ways of depicting violence that actually highlight the moral dilemma as opposed to the blood and guts. How many times have I watched Fail Safe and been appropriately horrified? The action is that film is simply people talking, and I am riveted. If you think blood is necessary for suspense, how about All the President's Men? I even know what happens in that film step by step before I see it, but there is a looming sense of danger throughout. It can be done, but blood lust is ruling our entertainment at the moment.
I keep thinking about that Mike Judge movie Idiocracy where the number one film is a movie called Ass. That's all it is. For 90 minutes is an ass farting. It was up for several Oscars that year. That's the joke in the film. However, I don't think Mike Judge's assessment of the future is too far off from the now. My options for film viewing today are "Blood and Guts", "Fart Jokes", or "Tepid, Sentimental Chick Flick". God help me! Have we run out of things to discuss? Have we run out of things to care about?
Oh, I know. We've had some political thrillers and the occasional Grisham novel made celluloid, but even those films are dry and lacking in discourse. They are agendas on screen. All answers without any questions. No one cares to discover anymore. They just titillate and agitate. I am far from impressed.
The movies I mentioned above, might be good movies. But I'll never know, because my stomach and my nerves can't afford to sit through them. There's nothing for me to watch.
I'd like to see Sweeney Todd or There Will Be Blood. I might even venture into the land of the Cohen brothers for No Country for Old Men, but I am all to familiar with the torturous hijinx and nihilistic coolness of which the Cohen brothers are capable. I've been warned away from these films by good friends who don't want to receive an angry and disgusted phone call from me after my viewing these pictures. Don't see it while you are vulnerable like this. It won't be pleasant. But it isn't just my pregnancy that keeps me from these films- although it does make me a bit more reactive than usual. I still haven't seen Boys Don't Cry, and that is because I can't. You see, I get it. I get it that causing others pain is bad. I understand that murder is morally reprehensible. I don't need to see gory war scenes, because I already get it. I wonder if there isn't any other subject matter under the sun? Or are we just reliving those lazy glory days in the stands at the Colliseum?
I want to see films that challenge me and even challenge my moral compass, but I want to be able to sit through them without vomiting. There are some who would argue that the gore helps to emphasize the immorality of certain actions and how far we have slipped as a culture. I say that is an over simplified justification for making blood and death somewhat sexy. How many times does the guy in the trunk have to come back to life only to be horribly beaten to death? Haven't we seen that gag already? And it is a gag. Don't kid yourself. We know the dilemma. There is a moment in which the character can redeem himself by choosing to face the consequences of his actions and perhaps try to save this person's life. But that is never an option, is it? We always know there's a tire iron. It is never a surprise when the victim takes way too long to die, but we'll have to sit through it to justify having just spent $11.75 for the honor of seeing this picture.
There are more creative and less sensational ways of depicting violence that actually highlight the moral dilemma as opposed to the blood and guts. How many times have I watched Fail Safe and been appropriately horrified? The action is that film is simply people talking, and I am riveted. If you think blood is necessary for suspense, how about All the President's Men? I even know what happens in that film step by step before I see it, but there is a looming sense of danger throughout. It can be done, but blood lust is ruling our entertainment at the moment.
I keep thinking about that Mike Judge movie Idiocracy where the number one film is a movie called Ass. That's all it is. For 90 minutes is an ass farting. It was up for several Oscars that year. That's the joke in the film. However, I don't think Mike Judge's assessment of the future is too far off from the now. My options for film viewing today are "Blood and Guts", "Fart Jokes", or "Tepid, Sentimental Chick Flick". God help me! Have we run out of things to discuss? Have we run out of things to care about?
Oh, I know. We've had some political thrillers and the occasional Grisham novel made celluloid, but even those films are dry and lacking in discourse. They are agendas on screen. All answers without any questions. No one cares to discover anymore. They just titillate and agitate. I am far from impressed.
The movies I mentioned above, might be good movies. But I'll never know, because my stomach and my nerves can't afford to sit through them. There's nothing for me to watch.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
We Love You Miss Hannigan!
If there is anything you could blame for my involvement in the theater it would have to be "Annie". Every redheaded actress I know has her "Annie" story. Every one of us outgoing reds figured we WERE Annie. We were all spirited, charming and resourceful! Clearly it was a role made for only me (us!). The stories only take two tracks, either it was her crowning achievement or the role that got away. For me, it was the role that got away.
I was too old to play Annie when the opportunity finally came to my small midwestern town. I auditioned anyway and I did not get a part, but I was offered a chance to create fairy tales from improvised structures with other too-old-for-Annie theater geeks for the summer. That was clearly that. It was a way for me to write out loud and get immediate satisfaction as opposed to the hours I had previously spent plunking away on my mother's electric typewriter working on short stories that only my best friend would read.
I was never really the musical theater type. I can sing but I'm not showy. As a general rule, musicals aren't what floats my boat. With that being said, I can't help but find it fascinating that of the top three theatrical events that have most influenced me, two of them were musicals. The first being "Annie" and the second being a musical about the lynching of 4 black men in Duluth, MN called "The Last Minstrel Show". I've been raving about that show for over 15 years. It completely changed the way I looked at the theater.
"The Last Minstrel Show" was produced at Penumbra Theater in St. Paul, MN. I spent the entire performance with my jaw dragging on the floor beneath my seat. The black cast performed in black face for a white, liberal Minnesota crowd. They made you comfortable with racist humor, let you laugh at it and then pulled the rug out from underneath you and showed you what you just did. It was eye opening. It made me see that I did not understand as much about the world as I thought I did. This is a huge feat to pull off with a cocky teenager, but I left the theater with that heady feeling of having learned a little too much about myself and the world I lived in. Damn that was good.
Every once in a while I think about auditioning for a musical. For laughs, I guess. Of course, now that I am older I keep thinking that the only musical role for me would be Miss Hannigan. "Little Girls" is a song that I began to truly understand as I spent two years as a stay at home mother. Boy, little brats can just burrow under your skin! Every time I see Carol Burnett do it in the film version I can't help but get a little twitchy wishing I could have a crack at it. Of course, I've only seen auditions for that role twice in the last few years. Both times I've been visibly pregnant. Damn. That just won't do! It seems that "Annie" will be forever out of my reach and I have no hopes of ever being in "The Last Minstrel Show". That would just be wrong.
Of course, there is a musical in the works with Playful Substance- believe it or not. It won't be as fluffy as "Annie" and I doubt it will be as confrontational as "The Last Minstrel Show" and I probably won't be IN it. This is all just as well, I suppose. Every time I tell someone I will be working on a musical I laugh involuntarily. I just can't believe it. It doesn't seem to fit somehow- which, I suppose, is precisely the reason to do it.
I was too old to play Annie when the opportunity finally came to my small midwestern town. I auditioned anyway and I did not get a part, but I was offered a chance to create fairy tales from improvised structures with other too-old-for-Annie theater geeks for the summer. That was clearly that. It was a way for me to write out loud and get immediate satisfaction as opposed to the hours I had previously spent plunking away on my mother's electric typewriter working on short stories that only my best friend would read.
I was never really the musical theater type. I can sing but I'm not showy. As a general rule, musicals aren't what floats my boat. With that being said, I can't help but find it fascinating that of the top three theatrical events that have most influenced me, two of them were musicals. The first being "Annie" and the second being a musical about the lynching of 4 black men in Duluth, MN called "The Last Minstrel Show". I've been raving about that show for over 15 years. It completely changed the way I looked at the theater.
"The Last Minstrel Show" was produced at Penumbra Theater in St. Paul, MN. I spent the entire performance with my jaw dragging on the floor beneath my seat. The black cast performed in black face for a white, liberal Minnesota crowd. They made you comfortable with racist humor, let you laugh at it and then pulled the rug out from underneath you and showed you what you just did. It was eye opening. It made me see that I did not understand as much about the world as I thought I did. This is a huge feat to pull off with a cocky teenager, but I left the theater with that heady feeling of having learned a little too much about myself and the world I lived in. Damn that was good.
Every once in a while I think about auditioning for a musical. For laughs, I guess. Of course, now that I am older I keep thinking that the only musical role for me would be Miss Hannigan. "Little Girls" is a song that I began to truly understand as I spent two years as a stay at home mother. Boy, little brats can just burrow under your skin! Every time I see Carol Burnett do it in the film version I can't help but get a little twitchy wishing I could have a crack at it. Of course, I've only seen auditions for that role twice in the last few years. Both times I've been visibly pregnant. Damn. That just won't do! It seems that "Annie" will be forever out of my reach and I have no hopes of ever being in "The Last Minstrel Show". That would just be wrong.
Of course, there is a musical in the works with Playful Substance- believe it or not. It won't be as fluffy as "Annie" and I doubt it will be as confrontational as "The Last Minstrel Show" and I probably won't be IN it. This is all just as well, I suppose. Every time I tell someone I will be working on a musical I laugh involuntarily. I just can't believe it. It doesn't seem to fit somehow- which, I suppose, is precisely the reason to do it.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Why A Happily Married Woman Should Not Listen to Sticky Fingers
I'm guessing that any woman over the age of let's say 28 has received a mixed tape (CD for the young 'uns) at some point in their dating careers. I'm willing to bet that at least one of those gifts has contained a track from The Rolling Stones "Sticky Fingers". After all, what teenage boy can resist wooing his love with "Wild Horses"? And he shouldn't resist. It works. Well, it worked on me. Some of the time.
There are quite a few recordings that I find are dangerously soaked with the memories of other men. Even men I didn't particularly fancy, but as I grow older and slightly wider I now fancy the memory of being fancied. I have never said I wasn't vain.
The musicians in my danger zone such as Simon and Garfunkel, The Allman Brothers, Alice Cooper, The Cure, Jefferson Airplane's "Surrealistic Pillow" in particular, betray that I was clearly a midwestern gal escaping the sticky horrors of early 90's pop by tuning in to classic rock stations on my crappy car stereo. When your tape deck doesn't work the classic rock station can be your only friend, until you get that cigarette lighter adapter for your crappy CD player. The first time I heard Tom Waits' "Blue Valentines" I was in a car. Thank god I wasn't the one driving or I would have had a seriously embarrassing accident - "Wrong Side of the Road" is still the HOTTEST song ever recorded as far as my pants are concerned. I still don't listen to that in the car. The explanation for the resulting injuries would be too humiliating to endure.
I don't drive much anymore. Living in Brooklyn means that driving is not really necessary. However, I do crave the joys of late night drives to distant destinations with a lover drifting off to sleep in the passenger seat. Which brings me back to "Sticky Fingers". I cannot listen to "Moonlight Mile" without feeling the hum of the engine, the lazy warmth of a stray hand on my thigh and the taste and smell of a cigarette dangling from my mouth as the lines on the highway slide beneath the car in time with the swell of strings. There is always the possibility of paradise at the next off ramp. Road weary bliss chilling in an ice bucket at the Econo Lodge with the smell of chlorine, damp siding and him.
Do you see what I mean? A happily married woman should not listen to "Sticky Fingers".
There are quite a few recordings that I find are dangerously soaked with the memories of other men. Even men I didn't particularly fancy, but as I grow older and slightly wider I now fancy the memory of being fancied. I have never said I wasn't vain.
The musicians in my danger zone such as Simon and Garfunkel, The Allman Brothers, Alice Cooper, The Cure, Jefferson Airplane's "Surrealistic Pillow" in particular, betray that I was clearly a midwestern gal escaping the sticky horrors of early 90's pop by tuning in to classic rock stations on my crappy car stereo. When your tape deck doesn't work the classic rock station can be your only friend, until you get that cigarette lighter adapter for your crappy CD player. The first time I heard Tom Waits' "Blue Valentines" I was in a car. Thank god I wasn't the one driving or I would have had a seriously embarrassing accident - "Wrong Side of the Road" is still the HOTTEST song ever recorded as far as my pants are concerned. I still don't listen to that in the car. The explanation for the resulting injuries would be too humiliating to endure.
I don't drive much anymore. Living in Brooklyn means that driving is not really necessary. However, I do crave the joys of late night drives to distant destinations with a lover drifting off to sleep in the passenger seat. Which brings me back to "Sticky Fingers". I cannot listen to "Moonlight Mile" without feeling the hum of the engine, the lazy warmth of a stray hand on my thigh and the taste and smell of a cigarette dangling from my mouth as the lines on the highway slide beneath the car in time with the swell of strings. There is always the possibility of paradise at the next off ramp. Road weary bliss chilling in an ice bucket at the Econo Lodge with the smell of chlorine, damp siding and him.
Do you see what I mean? A happily married woman should not listen to "Sticky Fingers".
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Why Some People Aren't Anywhere
I know perfectly well why I am not rich and famous. My priorities are all wrong. I have never had enough hunger, drive (or self-esteem) to go out and hunt down opportunities, agents, press, etc. It has taken me a long time to come to terms with that. As an actor I should crave these things and search them out like a crazed, half-starved animal. I never have. I never will. I am quite content to do my little projects and hope that people will come and enjoy themselves. I know I won't get far with this method. I've spent a lot of time feeling inadequate about it, but my world view has expanded enough to allow me to appreciate small contributions to life. It's the little things, right?
One thing I do feel good about is that I am dependable. Sometimes a little too dependable, but regardless, my word is my bond. I am professional. It amazes me how many people in this business aren't. A lot of these people are the crazed, half-starved animals that I am not. I don't see how they can afford to be so flaky and so driven at the same time. Maybe this is why we are all still toiling away in the trenches of off-off (off!) Broadway venues.
I've been working as a producer on this one night event and I am floored to have people back out 3 days before the show. Why? Well, I've gotten plenty of excuses. Some of them seeming somewhat reasonable until you begin to ask "Why couldn't you have backed out three weeks ago?" or "There are 7 people in your project, why can't someone else pick up the slack?". I can only assume that is because the work has not been done.
I've fielded freak out phone calls about dates when people haven't even consulted their calendars. I've had people ask me to just pick up and move the entire project to another night 2 weeks in the future- forget the fact that space is hard enough to come by in this city and that all of the publicity has already gone out and we are on a budget of exactly $0.00. Yeah, you don't have enough time. Welcome to the theatre, my friends. You will always be strapped for time. The show will never be fully written. Your show will never feel "good enough". Yet, my experience is that you just have to put your head down and DO IT. No matter the outcome, you'll always be glad you did. And if circumstances prohibit you from participating- show good form and keep others abreast of the situation so you can exit graciously.
It isn't just this particular project. I've been experiencing this lack of professionalism and courtesy in so many other areas of my life as well. Recently I had someone who hired me for a project caution my enthusiasm by saying, "Don't go overboard. I don't want this to get TOO successful". What? Who says that? I've witnessed people using intimidation and passive aggressive guilt tactics to goad their employees and contractors into taking over projects so they don't have to take responsibility for a particular task. It blows me away that I could live in such a competitive environment and still find people who behave this way. Although, to be truthful, when I've been in less competitive environments I've experienced more professionalism.
I am by no means perfect. After all, I'm clearly ticked about recent developments and am venting on a blog. That is, admittedly, a sad state of affairs. I wonder if I kicked things up a notch and was at a defferent level if I would find more of the same? Or would people behave differently? It seems an awfully weird time in my life to be considering any kind of advancement. Someone once told me that genius rarely surrounds itself with inferiors. People who are true successes work to surround themselves with people who not only match their abilities but exceed them. It gives them a challenge.
Perhaps I underestimate myself and I need to surround myself with people who are much smarter than I. Maybe that is what my hunger should be for- not to validate myself with the trappings of "success" or "fame" or "fortune", but to challenge my abilities and to grow.
Of course, the person who told me that genius thing... she was a total crack pot.
One thing I do feel good about is that I am dependable. Sometimes a little too dependable, but regardless, my word is my bond. I am professional. It amazes me how many people in this business aren't. A lot of these people are the crazed, half-starved animals that I am not. I don't see how they can afford to be so flaky and so driven at the same time. Maybe this is why we are all still toiling away in the trenches of off-off (off!) Broadway venues.
I've been working as a producer on this one night event and I am floored to have people back out 3 days before the show. Why? Well, I've gotten plenty of excuses. Some of them seeming somewhat reasonable until you begin to ask "Why couldn't you have backed out three weeks ago?" or "There are 7 people in your project, why can't someone else pick up the slack?". I can only assume that is because the work has not been done.
I've fielded freak out phone calls about dates when people haven't even consulted their calendars. I've had people ask me to just pick up and move the entire project to another night 2 weeks in the future- forget the fact that space is hard enough to come by in this city and that all of the publicity has already gone out and we are on a budget of exactly $0.00. Yeah, you don't have enough time. Welcome to the theatre, my friends. You will always be strapped for time. The show will never be fully written. Your show will never feel "good enough". Yet, my experience is that you just have to put your head down and DO IT. No matter the outcome, you'll always be glad you did. And if circumstances prohibit you from participating- show good form and keep others abreast of the situation so you can exit graciously.
It isn't just this particular project. I've been experiencing this lack of professionalism and courtesy in so many other areas of my life as well. Recently I had someone who hired me for a project caution my enthusiasm by saying, "Don't go overboard. I don't want this to get TOO successful". What? Who says that? I've witnessed people using intimidation and passive aggressive guilt tactics to goad their employees and contractors into taking over projects so they don't have to take responsibility for a particular task. It blows me away that I could live in such a competitive environment and still find people who behave this way. Although, to be truthful, when I've been in less competitive environments I've experienced more professionalism.
I am by no means perfect. After all, I'm clearly ticked about recent developments and am venting on a blog. That is, admittedly, a sad state of affairs. I wonder if I kicked things up a notch and was at a defferent level if I would find more of the same? Or would people behave differently? It seems an awfully weird time in my life to be considering any kind of advancement. Someone once told me that genius rarely surrounds itself with inferiors. People who are true successes work to surround themselves with people who not only match their abilities but exceed them. It gives them a challenge.
Perhaps I underestimate myself and I need to surround myself with people who are much smarter than I. Maybe that is what my hunger should be for- not to validate myself with the trappings of "success" or "fame" or "fortune", but to challenge my abilities and to grow.
Of course, the person who told me that genius thing... she was a total crack pot.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Freedom to Fascism
Due to Michael Moore's success and the rise of the documentary as popular entertainment, I have learned to approach new documentaries with some serious trepidation. Unfortunately, "Freedom to Fascism" validated every last one of my nuveau doc fears.
I am a very critical viewer of entertainment. Over the years I've also become a skeptical consumer of "investigative reporting". I know enough about narrative construction to be able to see when I'm being manipulated and I don't appreciate it.
Let's get this straight. Michael Moore is the only Michael Moore we have. I've stated my views on his work before. It is not documentary- it is cinematic essay. His style is unique, as is his personality. I find him entertaining. I find his reporting to be challenging but not without its rather significant deficeincies. His work should be viewed with a critical eye, but it is always skillfully and humorously assembled. Aaron Russo's "Freedom to Fascism" tries to follow the angry fat man model, but he has neither the cinematic skill nor the humor of Michael Moore.
First off, Russo spends the first half of the film trying to shoot down the 16th Amendment to the Constitution claiming that it was never fully ratified and therefore should be null and void. He also makes the argument that even if said amendment were legal that the Constitutional definition of the word "income" is suspect and that it would not and should not apply to personal wages. Through all of this, Russo throws many quotes and comments in text upon the screen to support his points. Not once does he ever show us the 16th Amendment. Wouldn't you think that would be important to share with your audience? Especially since Russo presumes his audience needs to be schooled on so many other aspects of the law, wouldn't the 16th Amendment be something he should explore in depth? At the very least using a reading of the amendment to provide us with some context? The brief claim he makes about the amendment's apparent lack of ratification by the states is not explored. It is simply stated as fact. I'm sorry, Mr. Russo, but I need to know how it became the 16th Amendment without being ratified. I'm not saying you're lying. I'm saying that a critical point in your story is missing.
Throughout the film, Russo and his interview subjects keep repeating the phrase, "Show us the law.". This refers to the federal law that would require us to pay tax on our personal income. I do, indeed, find this intriguing, especially since no one in the documentary is ever shown a law. I do think this is, legitimately, something for us to demand as a nation. However, Russo's interviews never feel complete. It seems as if Russo becomes impatient with the length of the interviews (perhaps owing to his less than engaging interviewing style) and rather that playing them out he simply freezes the frame and narrates as he pleases over the frozen image. Russo talks a lot in this film and his tone is alarmist.
The editing in the film is sloppy. Which surprises this viewer as Russo spends a lot of time building his own credibility by referring to himself a few times as "...an award winning filmmaker". I am certain he is. Just not for this film. The music is heavy handed and the end of the film consists of an angry diatribe written by Russo that the audience simply reads off the screen. Seems a little lazy and preachy to me. This is not documentary. This is an ineloquent Op-Ed piece written by an angry man.
I have nothing against Russo's anger- except for the fact that it makes for a poor documentary. I get quite frustrated with artists who complain out of one side of their mouths that the Bush Administration is fear mongering and using propaganda to sell the American people a bill of goods and then they go right out and use the same tactics to sell their own point of view. That kind of "reporting" shows absolutely no respect for the intelligence of its audience. Couldn't a more traditional documentary about the process of ratifying the 16th Amendment stir an audience to question? Couldn't an investigative examination of how the Fed really works give us an appropriate wake up call? Many of us don't know how it works and I am sure we would be shocked to discover the facts in black and white. If you agree with Russo that a more sensationalist approach is required to get the peoples' attention, then I have to sadly shake my head. That would only mean that we accept that assessment of our collectively low intelligence. Personally, I think we can do better. I think we could have more coherent arguments to the cause. Instead we are left with what feels like a slapdash fifth grade book report assembled the night before it was due.
I was not given enough actual information in this film. I was yelled at, spoken down to, preached at, and then given a website to visit. Presumably so I could take further abuse. While I agree that we need to demand, as a nation, some serious reform and the return of our individual liberties and rights to privacy, I do not believe this film was an effective tool in that fight. This tool was a piece of crap designed to herd sheep.
I'm no sheep. Give me some credible reporting.
I am a very critical viewer of entertainment. Over the years I've also become a skeptical consumer of "investigative reporting". I know enough about narrative construction to be able to see when I'm being manipulated and I don't appreciate it.
Let's get this straight. Michael Moore is the only Michael Moore we have. I've stated my views on his work before. It is not documentary- it is cinematic essay. His style is unique, as is his personality. I find him entertaining. I find his reporting to be challenging but not without its rather significant deficeincies. His work should be viewed with a critical eye, but it is always skillfully and humorously assembled. Aaron Russo's "Freedom to Fascism" tries to follow the angry fat man model, but he has neither the cinematic skill nor the humor of Michael Moore.
First off, Russo spends the first half of the film trying to shoot down the 16th Amendment to the Constitution claiming that it was never fully ratified and therefore should be null and void. He also makes the argument that even if said amendment were legal that the Constitutional definition of the word "income" is suspect and that it would not and should not apply to personal wages. Through all of this, Russo throws many quotes and comments in text upon the screen to support his points. Not once does he ever show us the 16th Amendment. Wouldn't you think that would be important to share with your audience? Especially since Russo presumes his audience needs to be schooled on so many other aspects of the law, wouldn't the 16th Amendment be something he should explore in depth? At the very least using a reading of the amendment to provide us with some context? The brief claim he makes about the amendment's apparent lack of ratification by the states is not explored. It is simply stated as fact. I'm sorry, Mr. Russo, but I need to know how it became the 16th Amendment without being ratified. I'm not saying you're lying. I'm saying that a critical point in your story is missing.
Throughout the film, Russo and his interview subjects keep repeating the phrase, "Show us the law.". This refers to the federal law that would require us to pay tax on our personal income. I do, indeed, find this intriguing, especially since no one in the documentary is ever shown a law. I do think this is, legitimately, something for us to demand as a nation. However, Russo's interviews never feel complete. It seems as if Russo becomes impatient with the length of the interviews (perhaps owing to his less than engaging interviewing style) and rather that playing them out he simply freezes the frame and narrates as he pleases over the frozen image. Russo talks a lot in this film and his tone is alarmist.
The editing in the film is sloppy. Which surprises this viewer as Russo spends a lot of time building his own credibility by referring to himself a few times as "...an award winning filmmaker". I am certain he is. Just not for this film. The music is heavy handed and the end of the film consists of an angry diatribe written by Russo that the audience simply reads off the screen. Seems a little lazy and preachy to me. This is not documentary. This is an ineloquent Op-Ed piece written by an angry man.
I have nothing against Russo's anger- except for the fact that it makes for a poor documentary. I get quite frustrated with artists who complain out of one side of their mouths that the Bush Administration is fear mongering and using propaganda to sell the American people a bill of goods and then they go right out and use the same tactics to sell their own point of view. That kind of "reporting" shows absolutely no respect for the intelligence of its audience. Couldn't a more traditional documentary about the process of ratifying the 16th Amendment stir an audience to question? Couldn't an investigative examination of how the Fed really works give us an appropriate wake up call? Many of us don't know how it works and I am sure we would be shocked to discover the facts in black and white. If you agree with Russo that a more sensationalist approach is required to get the peoples' attention, then I have to sadly shake my head. That would only mean that we accept that assessment of our collectively low intelligence. Personally, I think we can do better. I think we could have more coherent arguments to the cause. Instead we are left with what feels like a slapdash fifth grade book report assembled the night before it was due.
I was not given enough actual information in this film. I was yelled at, spoken down to, preached at, and then given a website to visit. Presumably so I could take further abuse. While I agree that we need to demand, as a nation, some serious reform and the return of our individual liberties and rights to privacy, I do not believe this film was an effective tool in that fight. This tool was a piece of crap designed to herd sheep.
I'm no sheep. Give me some credible reporting.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Deceptively Difficult Skill
I've always believed myself to be a good and responsive listener, both in my personal life and in my art. I learned long ago that listening is, by far, the most important skill for an actor to develop. Nothing can happen when actors only hear cue lines and fall in love with the sound of their well trained voices and dramatic pauses filled with tension. (That tension usually being caused by an actor consciously or unconsciously holding his breath in an attempt to sustain a prefabricated moment.) I wanted to be spontaneous and emotionally nimble on stage. I studied people. Body language, breath, intonation... any clue I could use to feed into my system I devoured with great passion. When I choose to pay attention, I can be quite astute at reading others on several different levels. I can read my immediate reactions to what the other person is giving me and consciously choose a response. I can pick apart potential motivations and circumstances behind the other person's words and actions and it helps keep me from flying off the handle- which is an old habit of mine. I am capable of performing a number of highly useful social tricks to keep myself out of trouble while occassionally being able to diffuse situations. In short, my training rocks.
Of course, the operative word here is "choose". I need to choose to use my training. I find I can use it with strangers, acquaintences. co-workers, business associates and friends- but I stink on ice when I'm with my family.
I don't mean to be a jerk at home and there ARE times when I can use those skills as a wife and a mother. But if I am really honest with myself I would have to admit I don't use those skills at home as often as I should. Perhaps it is because active listening is a lot of hard work. It requires a lot of effort from the system to take in all the information, arrange it. analyze it and react with sensitivity. Maybe I am just too tired to work that hard after 6:00PM. Maybe it is because I let my guard down at home and feel, somewhat selfishly, that those who love me most should put forth that kind of effort for me and coddle me while I am at home. Or perhaps I just fall into the role of being human when I am with my family and humans don't often put listening as their number one priority. Keeping tabs on others' emotions and your own 24 hours a day is beyond a full time job- especially when you're a hormonal wreck like me these days!
I guess every time I feel that I have really mastered something I need to take a step back, look at the whole of the situation and be prepared to eat a little humble pie. No one, but no one masters being a human being and we are all bound to have blind spots. I can fully admit to this, but it is a bit easier not to know where those blind spots are and wander through life feeling somewhat self-righteous! Having to admit to shortcomings- especially when they are shortcomings which you have already spent so much time trying to correct- is very difficult. However, this is what keeps me in my craft. There is always something more to work on. There is always some way to be better. Most of all, these lessons are applicable in my daily existence.
I'm slowly getting used to the taste of humble pie. If I can, I try to have it a la mode.
Of course, the operative word here is "choose". I need to choose to use my training. I find I can use it with strangers, acquaintences. co-workers, business associates and friends- but I stink on ice when I'm with my family.
I don't mean to be a jerk at home and there ARE times when I can use those skills as a wife and a mother. But if I am really honest with myself I would have to admit I don't use those skills at home as often as I should. Perhaps it is because active listening is a lot of hard work. It requires a lot of effort from the system to take in all the information, arrange it. analyze it and react with sensitivity. Maybe I am just too tired to work that hard after 6:00PM. Maybe it is because I let my guard down at home and feel, somewhat selfishly, that those who love me most should put forth that kind of effort for me and coddle me while I am at home. Or perhaps I just fall into the role of being human when I am with my family and humans don't often put listening as their number one priority. Keeping tabs on others' emotions and your own 24 hours a day is beyond a full time job- especially when you're a hormonal wreck like me these days!
I guess every time I feel that I have really mastered something I need to take a step back, look at the whole of the situation and be prepared to eat a little humble pie. No one, but no one masters being a human being and we are all bound to have blind spots. I can fully admit to this, but it is a bit easier not to know where those blind spots are and wander through life feeling somewhat self-righteous! Having to admit to shortcomings- especially when they are shortcomings which you have already spent so much time trying to correct- is very difficult. However, this is what keeps me in my craft. There is always something more to work on. There is always some way to be better. Most of all, these lessons are applicable in my daily existence.
I'm slowly getting used to the taste of humble pie. If I can, I try to have it a la mode.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
T-Shirts
Some months ago I began noticing some brilliant t-shirts. Some were political, some were just funny. I have a list of some of my favorites. This is in no particular order.
My friend Ben has a gorgeous t-shirt featuring a clown vomitting a rainbow into a toilet. I saw a black man sporting a shirt that read, "Hey Lady, I don't want your purse". Then there was the skinny guy in Alphabet City wearing a shirt with a big sandwich on it. Underneath the sandwich it said "SILF". I've had to explain that one to a surprising number of people. Which makes me a little embarrassed to have found it so funny. But I did. I found it very funny.
As I was watching my usual Sunday morning political talk shows I couldn't help but think about yet another brilliant t-shirt that I saw on the back of a man that looked an awful lot like Jerry Garcia. His shirt read, "I Never Thought I'd Miss Nixon".
Me either. But W can sure make you nostalgic for the good ol' days. I just can't fathom, for the life of me, how Richard Nixon could get nailed so completely due to runaway paranoia while this guy gets away with such amazing incompetence! A few years ago, Nixon was the demon who slipped a ruphie in America's Pepsi and stole our collective innocence. Watergate traumatized us. Now that we've got Bush, Nixon seems like that goofy uncle that drank too much at weddings and annoyed everyone but once his liver failed and he was gone forever the family started to miss his antics. I miss the days when politicians simply lied to us about break-ins and blow jobs.
I know. I can't idealize Nixon. What he did was wrong, and crazy. But the big difference here is that Nixon got called on it. Bush is going to ride out his term like a petulant debutant with "senioritis". How is that humanly possible? Is it all because of Cheney? Are we that much more frightened of Cheney? Gulp.
On the back of a Spiderman comic that I bought for my 6 year old son is an ad for some mail-order t-shirts. One of the designs features a vampiric George W. Bush going for Lady Liberty's jugular. I gave an involuntary laugh when I saw it. My son said, "Mom? Who's that guy and why is he sucking on Lady Liverby?". Sigh. How do you explain to a six year old that the president the adults in his country elected is a guy who would sanction torture, keep sick kids from receiving health care, attack the wrong country, spy on his constituency, leave American citizens stranded in putrid water and squalid conditions with no relief, and trample on the Constitution... among other things? And most of all, how do I explain all that without infecting his mind with the liberal bullshit that is so prevelant in my neck of the woods?
"Son, that's George W. Bush. He's the President of the United States and some people don't like him."
"So, they make t-shirts like this. Is he a real vampire?"
"No. Some people think that he is not living up to the promise of America and this is the way someone chose to express that. In some countries an artist might go to jail for drawing a picture like that."
"Did the guy who drew that picture go to jail?"
Pause.
"Is he in jail, Mom?"
"Probably not."
"Do you like the President?"
"I don't like the way he is being President. No."
"But do you like him?"
"I can't say whether I'd like him as a person, sweetie. He might be an okay guy to chat with at a barbeque."
"If he wanted to be friends, would you be friends with him?"
"I wish I could say that I would, but I probably wouldn't."
"Why?"
"He doesn't seem to be very sensitive to other people's problems so I can't imagine he would be that good of a friend. I want to have good friends in my life."
"Do you hate him?"
"No. I try not to hate anyone."
"Even when they hurt you?"
From my kitchen fire escape I can see the hole in the sky where two towers used to stand. I can look across my courtyard and see people who lost loved ones. People who saw unimaginable horrors. People who had to stay inside, pull their shades and lock their doors in fear of vigilante reprisals for something that they took no part in. My son is six. He has no knowledge, no reference point for these things. I know that some day he will need to understand the events that have shaped our nation over the first years of his life. I want him to understand, not to parrot his mother's position. But it is abundantly clear, with each scandal, each self-important press conference, each defiant sneer that this arrogant, condescending, cocksure jackass is America's number one security threat sitting in the White House. His refusal to listen to facts or draw rational conclusions from those facts makes me want to rip my hair out. But I've heard neighborhood children repeat the political views of their parents and even though I might agree with some views I find their inclusion in the discussion as distasteful as watching the young'uns in the Fred Phelps clan spewing their parents' hateful views.
"Even when they hurt you. Sometimes you have to work a little harder, but hate hurts no one more than the person who does the hating. Best to avoid it, son. Best to avoid it. Do those t-shirts come in extra large?"
My friend Ben has a gorgeous t-shirt featuring a clown vomitting a rainbow into a toilet. I saw a black man sporting a shirt that read, "Hey Lady, I don't want your purse". Then there was the skinny guy in Alphabet City wearing a shirt with a big sandwich on it. Underneath the sandwich it said "SILF". I've had to explain that one to a surprising number of people. Which makes me a little embarrassed to have found it so funny. But I did. I found it very funny.
As I was watching my usual Sunday morning political talk shows I couldn't help but think about yet another brilliant t-shirt that I saw on the back of a man that looked an awful lot like Jerry Garcia. His shirt read, "I Never Thought I'd Miss Nixon".
Me either. But W can sure make you nostalgic for the good ol' days. I just can't fathom, for the life of me, how Richard Nixon could get nailed so completely due to runaway paranoia while this guy gets away with such amazing incompetence! A few years ago, Nixon was the demon who slipped a ruphie in America's Pepsi and stole our collective innocence. Watergate traumatized us. Now that we've got Bush, Nixon seems like that goofy uncle that drank too much at weddings and annoyed everyone but once his liver failed and he was gone forever the family started to miss his antics. I miss the days when politicians simply lied to us about break-ins and blow jobs.
I know. I can't idealize Nixon. What he did was wrong, and crazy. But the big difference here is that Nixon got called on it. Bush is going to ride out his term like a petulant debutant with "senioritis". How is that humanly possible? Is it all because of Cheney? Are we that much more frightened of Cheney? Gulp.
On the back of a Spiderman comic that I bought for my 6 year old son is an ad for some mail-order t-shirts. One of the designs features a vampiric George W. Bush going for Lady Liberty's jugular. I gave an involuntary laugh when I saw it. My son said, "Mom? Who's that guy and why is he sucking on Lady Liverby?". Sigh. How do you explain to a six year old that the president the adults in his country elected is a guy who would sanction torture, keep sick kids from receiving health care, attack the wrong country, spy on his constituency, leave American citizens stranded in putrid water and squalid conditions with no relief, and trample on the Constitution... among other things? And most of all, how do I explain all that without infecting his mind with the liberal bullshit that is so prevelant in my neck of the woods?
"Son, that's George W. Bush. He's the President of the United States and some people don't like him."
"So, they make t-shirts like this. Is he a real vampire?"
"No. Some people think that he is not living up to the promise of America and this is the way someone chose to express that. In some countries an artist might go to jail for drawing a picture like that."
"Did the guy who drew that picture go to jail?"
Pause.
"Is he in jail, Mom?"
"Probably not."
"Do you like the President?"
"I don't like the way he is being President. No."
"But do you like him?"
"I can't say whether I'd like him as a person, sweetie. He might be an okay guy to chat with at a barbeque."
"If he wanted to be friends, would you be friends with him?"
"I wish I could say that I would, but I probably wouldn't."
"Why?"
"He doesn't seem to be very sensitive to other people's problems so I can't imagine he would be that good of a friend. I want to have good friends in my life."
"Do you hate him?"
"No. I try not to hate anyone."
"Even when they hurt you?"
From my kitchen fire escape I can see the hole in the sky where two towers used to stand. I can look across my courtyard and see people who lost loved ones. People who saw unimaginable horrors. People who had to stay inside, pull their shades and lock their doors in fear of vigilante reprisals for something that they took no part in. My son is six. He has no knowledge, no reference point for these things. I know that some day he will need to understand the events that have shaped our nation over the first years of his life. I want him to understand, not to parrot his mother's position. But it is abundantly clear, with each scandal, each self-important press conference, each defiant sneer that this arrogant, condescending, cocksure jackass is America's number one security threat sitting in the White House. His refusal to listen to facts or draw rational conclusions from those facts makes me want to rip my hair out. But I've heard neighborhood children repeat the political views of their parents and even though I might agree with some views I find their inclusion in the discussion as distasteful as watching the young'uns in the Fred Phelps clan spewing their parents' hateful views.
"Even when they hurt you. Sometimes you have to work a little harder, but hate hurts no one more than the person who does the hating. Best to avoid it, son. Best to avoid it. Do those t-shirts come in extra large?"
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Theater Mama
I guess it is time to come clean.
I've been absent for a while and I've let things go to seed a bit. The truth is, my husband and I are expecting another child. Which is an overly polite way to say that I'm pregnant again. For some odd reason, I find it somewhat distasteful to say that I'm pregnant. It feels somehow vulgar and I notice that people avoid saying it directly. The word is getting around and people approach me and say things like, "I've heard a rumor..." and "I hear you're expecting!", but no one says the word "pregnant". The word feels a bit like a punch in the neck. Sort of, well, shameful. I actually feel less dirty announcing "Hey everybody! I went and got myself knocked up!" than I do saying, "I'm pregnant." (In fact, that's exactly how I announced it to my fellow Playful Substance company members. It seemed an appropriate audience for that kind of announcement.) It is more than a little surprising to me that I should have such a negative reaction to a word that means something quite lovely.
On the flip side, though, I have no trouble discussing the physical and emotional experiences that go along with my tender little euphamism. Which makes my aversion to the actual word all the stanger.
I'm on the verge of entering the second trimester and the nausea and extreme fatigue have moved out of the way to make room for heartburn and psychotic mood swings. With my last...pregnancy... (shudder)... I went into a social and professional coma and did not emerge for nearly 2 years. I am acutely aware that depriving myself of these outlets lead to a doozy of a depression and I am determined to keep that from happening again. The challenge is (and there is ALWAYS a challenge) that I need to strike a rather precarious balance between my usual breakneck pace and paying attention to what my body needs. Normally, being extrememly busy makes me happy. It makes me feel vital, useful and needed. But it is also very easy to sink into the comfort of bed and a plate of spinach stuffed potatoes in a pair of yoga pants and fool myself into thinking that is exactly what my body needs. The fatigue is so convincing and energy so hard to come by. Pants don't fit. Shoes with heels are hard to manage and wouldn't it be nice to hide in a nice warm cave until I could come out pretty again?
Ah. Vanity thy name is woman. Damn straight it is.
Then there is something called "pregnant brain". Words get lost. Organizing thoughts becomes increasingly difficult and communication blunders abound. Last time I definitely had a sense that I was gestating more than a child, but also my creative ability. I couldn't write. I couldn't paint. I couldn't plan. Once my son was born, however, it all came pouring out but I had not nurtured the outlets for it. So the outlets disappeared and I was left with an overwhelming need to express, no means to express it and no audience to receive it. I am struggling with that now. I am producing a couple of shorts along with "Adventures in Mating" (see link on the right) and it is a monster battle to keep myself on task. I'd prefer sleep. I'd prefer a documentary on the Big Bang or String Theory. I'd prefer any passive bit of entertainment because I wear out so quickly these days. Of course, I know from experience that over-indulging in such things will leave me with a huge deficeit once the baby is here in the world. I may want to stop working for the time being, but it will ruin me if I do.
So. Here we go. Going through the motions so my body doesn't forget and so I don't lose myself in the process.
But the occassional spinach stuffed potato isn't so bad either.
I've been absent for a while and I've let things go to seed a bit. The truth is, my husband and I are expecting another child. Which is an overly polite way to say that I'm pregnant again. For some odd reason, I find it somewhat distasteful to say that I'm pregnant. It feels somehow vulgar and I notice that people avoid saying it directly. The word is getting around and people approach me and say things like, "I've heard a rumor..." and "I hear you're expecting!", but no one says the word "pregnant". The word feels a bit like a punch in the neck. Sort of, well, shameful. I actually feel less dirty announcing "Hey everybody! I went and got myself knocked up!" than I do saying, "I'm pregnant." (In fact, that's exactly how I announced it to my fellow Playful Substance company members. It seemed an appropriate audience for that kind of announcement.) It is more than a little surprising to me that I should have such a negative reaction to a word that means something quite lovely.
On the flip side, though, I have no trouble discussing the physical and emotional experiences that go along with my tender little euphamism. Which makes my aversion to the actual word all the stanger.
I'm on the verge of entering the second trimester and the nausea and extreme fatigue have moved out of the way to make room for heartburn and psychotic mood swings. With my last...pregnancy... (shudder)... I went into a social and professional coma and did not emerge for nearly 2 years. I am acutely aware that depriving myself of these outlets lead to a doozy of a depression and I am determined to keep that from happening again. The challenge is (and there is ALWAYS a challenge) that I need to strike a rather precarious balance between my usual breakneck pace and paying attention to what my body needs. Normally, being extrememly busy makes me happy. It makes me feel vital, useful and needed. But it is also very easy to sink into the comfort of bed and a plate of spinach stuffed potatoes in a pair of yoga pants and fool myself into thinking that is exactly what my body needs. The fatigue is so convincing and energy so hard to come by. Pants don't fit. Shoes with heels are hard to manage and wouldn't it be nice to hide in a nice warm cave until I could come out pretty again?
Ah. Vanity thy name is woman. Damn straight it is.
Then there is something called "pregnant brain". Words get lost. Organizing thoughts becomes increasingly difficult and communication blunders abound. Last time I definitely had a sense that I was gestating more than a child, but also my creative ability. I couldn't write. I couldn't paint. I couldn't plan. Once my son was born, however, it all came pouring out but I had not nurtured the outlets for it. So the outlets disappeared and I was left with an overwhelming need to express, no means to express it and no audience to receive it. I am struggling with that now. I am producing a couple of shorts along with "Adventures in Mating" (see link on the right) and it is a monster battle to keep myself on task. I'd prefer sleep. I'd prefer a documentary on the Big Bang or String Theory. I'd prefer any passive bit of entertainment because I wear out so quickly these days. Of course, I know from experience that over-indulging in such things will leave me with a huge deficeit once the baby is here in the world. I may want to stop working for the time being, but it will ruin me if I do.
So. Here we go. Going through the motions so my body doesn't forget and so I don't lose myself in the process.
But the occassional spinach stuffed potato isn't so bad either.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Stories, Stories Everywhere
There is a certain joy in my morning routines. One of them is the delightful ritual of dropping my son off at his neighborhood school. Every morning I pass neighbors and nod hello. I hand out a few warm smiles and receive a few as well. My son gets high fived. We meet up with classmates on their own walks to school. The weather is crisp and pleasant and the neighbors are welcoming. Once the children line up and head in to their classes it is time for the PTA parents to make thier rounds outside, catching other parents to chat or to work out details for this bake sale and that fundraiser. All in all, it is a lovely way to spend a few minutes of my morning.
This morning, however, my deeply disturbed mind came up with a rather titilating question. If any two parents here were going to have a scandalous affair, who would be the most likely? Now, I don't suspect anyone. Let's make that clear. But, WHAT IF? Would it be the older mother whose husband works a lot and she stays at home volunteering hours and hours to various causes? Would she fall for the short, awkward but very attentive father with the indistinguishable accent? Would it be the single father with the rowdy child who woos a mother going back to school despite her husband's obvious disapproval? How about the hyper organized, Puerto Rican mom and the over protective father who has any number of reflective patches applied to his childrens' winter coats? Who could it be and, more importantly, how might that go? What would happen when word got out on the playground? Would the other parents pretend it wasn't happening? Or would they rip them to shreds? Or would that depend, entirely, upon the two parties involved? Oh how I wonder...
This morning, however, my deeply disturbed mind came up with a rather titilating question. If any two parents here were going to have a scandalous affair, who would be the most likely? Now, I don't suspect anyone. Let's make that clear. But, WHAT IF? Would it be the older mother whose husband works a lot and she stays at home volunteering hours and hours to various causes? Would she fall for the short, awkward but very attentive father with the indistinguishable accent? Would it be the single father with the rowdy child who woos a mother going back to school despite her husband's obvious disapproval? How about the hyper organized, Puerto Rican mom and the over protective father who has any number of reflective patches applied to his childrens' winter coats? Who could it be and, more importantly, how might that go? What would happen when word got out on the playground? Would the other parents pretend it wasn't happening? Or would they rip them to shreds? Or would that depend, entirely, upon the two parties involved? Oh how I wonder...
Friday, November 02, 2007
Appropriate Forum
Navigating my way through this new and rather restrictive view of my life in art has become tiresome and old. This occurred to me as I was trying to make my way past a pregnant woman who was slowly and unpredictably zig zagging on the sidewalk in front of me. At first, the fact that she was dressed in a huge parka and flip flops amused me. Then the crusty foam at the corners of her mouth disturbed me. The straw that broke the proverbial camel's back was represented by the handful of scratch off lottery tickets that distracted her from her surroundings and made her impossible to get around. I was impatient with myself for being impatient with her. After all, this is a woman who is clearly in some kind of trouble. However, I am not without my own concerns and I could do very little for her in a brief roadside interaction. Especially when she was completely oblivious to me and my many parcels to begin with.
Once I had finally mounted the steps to my apartment building I caught myself dissecting this woman, her situation and my responsibility to her. In my wildest super compassionate fantasies what could I do for her? Oh, and what lessons could she teach me? (God I am such an after school special.) I then forced myself to think a bit more abstractly. The absolute frustration I felt while trying to get around her is not like the daily frustration I am experiencing with my creative endeavors. It is as if I have placed a big, odd, meandering, clueless pregnant woman in front of me wherever I go!
A few months ago a fairly prominant New York playwright sampled some of my work. Well, not the kind of work I usually like to show off- he read my chicken scratchings for a scene between two characters from a play I've been kicking around that had previously not had a scene together. I wrote the scene not to have the scene in the play, but to help illuminate for me what kind of relationship was between them. I needed to explore some subtext and discover whether or not their interaction was the missing piece in this play. Clearly, he didn't quite understand why I had written it and what I had written it for. I suppose that it is possible that not everyone organizes information and creates in quite the same manner as I do. His response to me was this:
"I think you might be too young to write a family play."
Well, he's a successful writer so he must be right. Regardless of the fact that he has not seen one word of the play itself and that I didn't quite articulate to him what it was I was doing with the scene, he must know better. I've put the play away.
I've tried to take it out and work on it, but I keep judging my work as I go. This is too close to something in my real family. That is too self-indulgent. This is funny but too private. It goes on and on and on like that. In my heart I know that he was wrong. (I know for a fact that he thinks I'm a lot younger than I actually am.) I know that this play is exactly where I am at in my creative life. But the meandering pregnant lady has a sign on her back that says, "Is this really the appropriate forum?"
I am heading into a part of art and expression that is personally dangerous. I've become entangled. In a simpler times my private life was MY private life. I could do with it as I pleased. I could drink a lot, make an ass of myself, say and do whatever I felt. It didn't matter. It was just me. But now my private life isn't just my private life. Now my private life belongs to so many others whose right to privacy is just as valid as mine.
So I feel stuck behind this woman, frustrated at my observations of her but too tongue tied to make the real, honest observations from which real art grows.
I've placed a lot of restrictions on myself and those restrictions are deadening my work. But I fear lifting them. As much as what I want to express is about love I know from experience that honesty can often be mistaken for malice. In short, I haven't given myself permission to say what I want to say. To be more accurate, I should say that I haven't given myself permission to feel what I need to feel. I'm letting this woman get in my way. I don't need to knock her down or make passive aggressive sighs of discontent.
I could just get her attention and say, "excuse me".
Once I had finally mounted the steps to my apartment building I caught myself dissecting this woman, her situation and my responsibility to her. In my wildest super compassionate fantasies what could I do for her? Oh, and what lessons could she teach me? (God I am such an after school special.) I then forced myself to think a bit more abstractly. The absolute frustration I felt while trying to get around her is not like the daily frustration I am experiencing with my creative endeavors. It is as if I have placed a big, odd, meandering, clueless pregnant woman in front of me wherever I go!
A few months ago a fairly prominant New York playwright sampled some of my work. Well, not the kind of work I usually like to show off- he read my chicken scratchings for a scene between two characters from a play I've been kicking around that had previously not had a scene together. I wrote the scene not to have the scene in the play, but to help illuminate for me what kind of relationship was between them. I needed to explore some subtext and discover whether or not their interaction was the missing piece in this play. Clearly, he didn't quite understand why I had written it and what I had written it for. I suppose that it is possible that not everyone organizes information and creates in quite the same manner as I do. His response to me was this:
"I think you might be too young to write a family play."
Well, he's a successful writer so he must be right. Regardless of the fact that he has not seen one word of the play itself and that I didn't quite articulate to him what it was I was doing with the scene, he must know better. I've put the play away.
I've tried to take it out and work on it, but I keep judging my work as I go. This is too close to something in my real family. That is too self-indulgent. This is funny but too private. It goes on and on and on like that. In my heart I know that he was wrong. (I know for a fact that he thinks I'm a lot younger than I actually am.) I know that this play is exactly where I am at in my creative life. But the meandering pregnant lady has a sign on her back that says, "Is this really the appropriate forum?"
I am heading into a part of art and expression that is personally dangerous. I've become entangled. In a simpler times my private life was MY private life. I could do with it as I pleased. I could drink a lot, make an ass of myself, say and do whatever I felt. It didn't matter. It was just me. But now my private life isn't just my private life. Now my private life belongs to so many others whose right to privacy is just as valid as mine.
So I feel stuck behind this woman, frustrated at my observations of her but too tongue tied to make the real, honest observations from which real art grows.
I've placed a lot of restrictions on myself and those restrictions are deadening my work. But I fear lifting them. As much as what I want to express is about love I know from experience that honesty can often be mistaken for malice. In short, I haven't given myself permission to say what I want to say. To be more accurate, I should say that I haven't given myself permission to feel what I need to feel. I'm letting this woman get in my way. I don't need to knock her down or make passive aggressive sighs of discontent.
I could just get her attention and say, "excuse me".
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