Fairy tale of new York

My current favorite song...

Dewey's Library

My guinea pig, Dewey, has been tearing through a lot of books lately. Literally. Or maybe, literarily. His cage is the typical mesh kind, with a door in the center, and I always leave this door open. Guinea pigs, unlike hamsters and other rodents, aren't very curious about new places (much like me), and tend to stay in the cage. When one of us walks by, he'll come to the opening and lean out, looking for a scratch and a snack (though not in that order, I'm sure). Last week, I got the idea to stack some books outside the cage, under the door, so that it lies straight out, like a diving board. Dewey treats this like a porch, and from time to time he leaves the cage and hangs out there. I noticed he was trying to nibble through the wire at the top book, so I made sure it was one I didn't care about.

He is currently chewing his way through Dan Brown's Angels and Demons. He is halfway through chapter three right now, and reports that it is hard to put down.

Shakespeare: "Macbeth" (Judi Dench) - sleepwalking scene

Dame Judi, kicking ass and taking names in the scene of her lifetime...the moment beginning at 4:55 is bone chilling...

CATcerto. ENTIRE PERFORMANCE. Mindaugas Piecaitis, Nora The Piano Cat

This cat, let's be honest here, is terrible at the piano...no sense of tempo, touch or emotion--just a cold, technically weak pawing at the ivories...the good news, though, is that she's better then Joan Osborne...

Feeling Blue ...

Found this letter in my desk tonight:

My Dear Nephew, November 30, 2004

Have a very happy birthday!

I am sorry I haven’t got a nice birthday card for you but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. One of my friends (from our days at Anchor Hocking) visited me this afternoon, and I told her about our (you & I) trips to the country to see the cows. She thought that was nice and cute. Then I bragged about you and your acting and I showed the snapshot of your dad and his 6 children. Oh yes I bragged about your wife too. So do you suppose she got it that I think a lot of you & Dani? I forgot to tell her how I got our shift foreman to let me go to the hospital to see my first nephew. That was a great day for your Grandma Mann and I. We loved you then & that love just keeps on going.

Well, Mark I hope you will have a great day.

Love you

Aunt Bern

Bern (short for Bernice) has Alzheimers Disease, and lives in an assisted living facility now. She no longer remembers me--though my sister, who works there, said Bern was in her office and saw a picture of our family, and put her finger on my face and held it there for a while. I haven't been able to bring myself to visit her yet, though I think I will tomorrow.

Jeff Black "Easy on Me" live @ Evening Muse 11.17.07

Jeff Black is my latest musical crush...

BAN BAN CALIBAN

Been a while since I written for this blog, but I promise more attention will be paid.

There are three performances left of Shakespeare’s The Tempest, in which I am playing Caliban. The production has run for five long weekends now, and I think everyone is a little over it. During The Three Musketeers, I told my pals in the cast, on the final weekend, that I had “run out of handsome”, meaning I no longer had the oomph to do all the things it took to transform me from the middle-aged, sedentary creature I am to the active, dashing, mysterious Athos. It felt like I’d pitched the performance to run for four weeks, and that last week was a slog to the finish. Couldn’t wait for it to end, though I miss the entertaining folk who made up the company.

Now I am experiencing the same thing with The Tempest. I am running out of monster. Instead of looking forward to getting to the theatre and slogging on all that makeup—which was fun at first—and getting to say all those gorgeous lines, I find myself daily checking the weather reports and praying for rain (this is an outdoor production).

So, I am thinking, in an attempt to jumpstart my enthusiasm, I will jot a few things down about the process of becoming Caliban, the man-monster.

This is a part I’ve always wanted to play, and can now cross it off my list. I’d played Prospero 17 years before, on the same stage, and had failed at it. I was too young at the time, 33, and just didn’t get the character into my bones. The experience left a bad taste in my mouth, and I swore I would never do the play again, unless I was Caliban. The company had produced a couple other versions of the play since then, but I wasn’t interested.

Cut to this spring. My plan was to audition for The Tempest only, and to, in the parlance of the local theatre “suicide it”, meaning I would accept only the role of Caliban. It’s called “suicide”, because you run the risk of pissing off the casting people, by taking the decision out of their hands—I nearly always do it though, because deep down I know that I am only energized by playing the roles I WANT to play. Not for me the buzz of acting just to act. I have never loved doing it enough to do a role I didn’t like.

So anyway, I also listed The Three Musketeers, and suicided it for the roles of Athos and Cardinal Richeleiu, but figured that was going to be impossible. As the rehearsals would run through April and May, my schedule at the school where I work would make it difficult to cast me, because I had many conflicts, and would miss all but about 15 days of rehearsal (last year, in the production of Macbeth, I could only give them 10 days for the role of Macduff). When John Kuhn called me, offering me both Athos and Caliban, I was surprised, but loved the idea of a challenge, playing 2 very physical roles back to back, outdoors in the teeth of the summer.

I am an outside/in actor, always have been, though as the years go by the two directions have gotten closer together. But usually, I need to know how I am going to look very early on. I didn’t want to play a native islander, as is the vogue over the last 20 years. I consider it a very hackneyed approach, to treat the story as if it’s a tale of European conquest of the hapless natives of the New World. I wanted to be a monster, green and scaly and fantastical. Pam Hill, the director, trusted me enough with the character to let me work it out with the costume designer how I would look. This is a positive move, in character with how I think theatre should be as regards costuming. I hate being a meat puppet, forced to wear whatever a costumer has decided I would wear. Especially in Shakespeare. I can pretty much guarantee the costumer hasn’t researched the role as much as me in any show I do, so why shouldn’t I have a say in what I feel my character requires in costuming? I also had misgivings about this costumer in the past—she costumed the 12^th Night I was in a few years back, and had no grasp of the character or the play, it seemed to me. I was Malvolio, and in the scene where he wears yellow stockings, she costumed me in a terrific 1920s era suit—but a yellow suit. So, the reveal of the yellow stockings produced a very understandable “so?” from all concerned. The reason for the yellow suit? She had one in stock, and thought it looked good. Nothing about character. She just wanted that suit walking around on stage. Anyway…

I began sending her tons of pics of creatures and animals and other Calibans, to see what we could cobble together. She liked one pic of a Caliban who wore a unitard, and asked if I was amenable, and I said I was. When it came, it was so hot, I told her I could not wear it for 5 weekends of shows in the summer heat. Anyway, by this time, I was sort of landing on an idea for a look—a sort of hybrid of the narrator/singers from Marat/Sade, and pics of island lepers I’d seen on the interwebs. I also liked the idea of a kind of look from The Fly, in which the character was half man, half fly. Caliban is the son of a witch and a demon—sort of like the Cheneys. So the costumer cut off the long sleeves and one of the legs, and painted the remaining one to look like reptile scales. She also put scales on the chest.

She gave me a bunch of ratty cheesecloth and rope, and a pair of ripped breeches and a torn shirt, and left me to do the rest. I have a set of long rubber finger nails that I applied ( “and I with my long nails will dig thee pignuts”, and I ripped some of the cheesecloth into strips and wrapped them around my hands. Later in the run, I began taping down the ring finger of my right hand, hiding it under the cheesecloth, as if Caliban had lost a finger to leprosy. I used the rest of the cheesecloth to make a turban and a jaw sling that stretched over my head, and under my chin, so I resembled the leper look I’d seen in pictures.

I was also beginning to come round to the view that Caliban was a native islander, albeit one seen through the eyes of an Elizabethan, and backstoried with a demonic, fantasical heritage. His reactions are those of a child brain, a sort of “boy raised by wolves” kind of approach. He had no words to express himself until taught by Prospero and Miranda, and he is certainly a ‘new soul” in his lack of wisdom and foresight. But he is a natural, and survived all those years without his mother by a native cunning and an ear always attuned to the natural earth. And he is enslaved by Prospero, after his failure to control his impulses when it came to the nubile Miranda. Even though this was beginning to inform my choices (GOD, I hate that word “inform” as it used in theatre—so non-specific, so pseudo-intellectual—I heard Jessica Simpson talk about something that informed her choices as Daisy Duke—AAUUGH!”)—I still believed he is more than just a native islander. The language is specific in the play as regards his heritage, and I was beginning to see a marriage of both approaches.

The last addition of makeup was to apply several different shades of green to the exposed part of my body, which takes about an hour all told, and then I streaked it, like veins, with all the colors that appear on the set—reds, blues, oranges, yellows, purples—so he might be a chameleon, if he needs to be, and blend in. For my face, I tried to make it crude and painted—slashes of black for a unibrow and nose bridge, slashes of red around the mouth (we don’t want to imagine what it was he was eating before his line ( “I must eat my dinner”).

Throughout the run, as often happens, the performance changed, grew more detailed within the scenes, and yet simpler. I always remember reading that Sir John Geilgud said a professional actor learns to simplify his performance in a long run, learning how to conserve energy while still producing the same effects. I felt Caliban was too strong and dark in the first scene and needed something to established that he was in fact one of the comic characters, so about 7 performances in I hit upon a bit of business where I try to summon up a curse on Prospero (“ All the charms of Sycorax/toads, beetles, bats light on you!”) and finish with a conjure man gesture toward him, and after a beat during which nothing happens, I repeat the gesture, then give up. This always got a laugh, and set me up for the rest of the show.

The difficulty I had was with the drunkenness. I resisted the director’s insistence that I be more inebriated, because I didn’t want it detracting from the verse. But I found a way to do it eventually, though I confess I always tried to drop a lot of the drunkenness during “The Isle is full of noises” speech, because it just to beautiful to gabble away. I found if I said it simpler, with wonder and a longing for life before the Europeans, it helped with the delivery of it. Made it unfussy, more direct, less singsongy. And I hope, moving, if one can be moved by such a beast.

Physically, the long nails informed (that word again) my movements—I kept them moving, twisting, as if they had a life of their own. I turned one leg inward to give him a sloping walk, a shuffle. Watching my guinea pig gave me the idea of twitching and popping up in surprise or fear. I tried to flinch each time someone tried to touch me. The final physical touch was to create a sense of a “mountainous” throughline—by that I mean in the early scenes I bow and scrape low when I am browbeaten by Prospero, and when I am terrified of the two drunken sots who find me. I fall backward and expose my belly to Stephano when he first comes over (later in the show, when I am nearly passed out with drink, Stephano tickles my belly and I shake a leg like a dog). As his plot to murder Prospero takes hold with his companions, I gave Caliban a taller aspect, nearly as upright as the other two scene partners. Then when his plot begins to unravel, he drops low again, finally all the way to the floor in the final scene, when he is towered over by his finely dressed master. So the shape of the physical performance, if graphed, would look like a single peak of a mountain.

So this was the technical underpinning of the performance. The next post will be a scene by scene description of Caliban’s time on stage. Oh boy, you are all thinking!

Below are some of the pics I used in coming up with my Caliban look...

Sarah Palin

Just read Todd Purdom's piece in Vanity Fair on Sarah Palin, and while no one despises that woman more than I (even while ashamedly admitting I find her pretty damn hot), I have to say I found the article to be about 50% hatchet job. Which makes it 100% invalid, for me.

There are several examples where he falls back on an old journalistic technique of using the word "many" which is vague and can be misleading. He'll say things like (not a direct quote) " ...which had many people in Alaska wondering why?" My first response is, really? Many? You took out a poll? What are the numbers, please." Even the word "some" --another journalistic chestnut-- is inaccurate and vague. Often it is the opinion of the writer himself, but newspaper style calls for him not to include himself in the story, so he falls back things like " In a move that has some people questioning his sanity..." Some? Who please? If it was relevant to mention, then the names of the sanity questioners are relevant too.

The use of "many" is too open to interpretation, and I don't trust political writers to appreciate the difference. 3 people in 100 is not many when talking about people who cheat on their taxes. 3 people in 100 who are child molesters living on my block is too fucking many!

He often criticizes Palin for her sometimes capricious personality, but show me the politician who isn't narcissistic, self-important, and petty when they can get away with it. Lyndon Johnson was notoriously so--hell, even Lincoln knew how to screw over a person for an advantage. All politicians think the world revolves around them. They used to say, walk into the Senate Chamber and say "Excuse me, Mr. President?" and 100 heads will turn.

There is a peculiar anti-intellectualism in America which is, frankly, getting old. "He's got a lot of book learnin', but he ain't got a lick of common sense." Of course the people who say this don't read, and consider themselves chock full of common sense. Sarah Palin is locked into this feeling...er, feelin'. She seems rather proud of what she doesn't know. The new conservative columnist for the NY Times, Ross Douthat, draws the distinction between Obama and Palin:

"Our president represents the meritocratic ideal — that anyone, from any background, can grow up to attend Columbia and Harvard Law School and become a great American success story. But Sarah Palin represents the democratic ideal — that anyone can grow up to be a great success story without graduating from Columbia and Harvard."

Sarah Palin has always been a party of one--the Palin Party. Her history of rising through Alaska state politics on the backs for former mentors and friends is a local legend up there. Many people say so. :)

Purdum suggests she is vaguely conservative,but an Alaskan conservative is a different animal. Up there, they say a liberal is someone who owns a .357 Magnum or smaller. Her core beliefs are whatever propels her forward.

Really? And what politician doesn't reserve the right to change his or her opinion when faced with the possibility of electoral defeat? Can you say the name of that great Democratic Senator, Arlen Specter, perchance?

Anyway, as I say, I have always considered Palin a joke. She is no more qualified to be President than I am. And I, at least, have read a book. And a magazine. And a paper. And can name them. But just because she can't doesn't mean Vanity Fair can just hatchet her at will. Or...does it?

backstage habits

I have always found the backstage habits of actors fascinating, though I gotta say, much less so these days than when I first started out. These days, the thing I see most of the time are actors walking around or sitting with their Blackberries in hand, intent on whatever it is they are watching or reading. Boring. The level of conversation backstage has dwindled, to my old fogey way of thinking--the amount too. Often these days, there will be a group of actors sitting around, but all are looking down at their phones--if you didn't see the devices in their hands, you'd think by their attitudes that they were at a prayer meeting--heads bowed, hands in laps, lips moving silently. I have even seen them text each other while sitting there--no joke! I suppose that could be useful if you are pissed at someone " Dude--you are sitting nxt 2 th biggest ASS in ths cast!"

Young actors are particularly involved with their phones in a deeply profound way. I watch them come off stage and run to their dressing areas and pick up their phones first thing, even before looking in a mirror (surely the oldest actor habit since the invention of the mirror). I wanna ask--because I am a sarcastic bastard about these things--" Are you a pediatrician? Is there an emergency C-section you may have to rush off to perform at any moment?" Because, honestly, I can't think of any other reason for rushing to your phone in the middle of a show.

I know this dates me, but I don't care. I have always seen the theatre as a bubble, as an escape from the world. Once I show up, around 6:30 for an 8pm curtain, the world can't touch me. If one of my parents dies, I don't wanna know about it till after curtain call. My time there is spent getting ready, getting my head in the performance, silently running lines to myself, or quietly with my scene partners, working on makeup and costume issues, and trying to keep the engine running hot. I don't want to be taken out of that place. I can chat a little with cast members, but always with an ear cocked toward the stage, listening to scenes I am not in, or listening to myself in my head as I go over my next entrance. And if I see another actor who looks like he or she are doing the same thing, I don't butt in to chat. I leave them to their preparations. I am not saying my method is right for everyone, but I can't imagine texting my friends between scenes, or watching videos. It would interrupt the flow of continuity I need to keep things going. And, I gotta say, those actors who I do see texting between scenes?--their performances could probably benefit from a little more attention to the internal intangibles and keeping the world waiting at the door.

My backstage process has evolved over the years. I used to be very chatty, prided myself on being able to be social in the wings, then turn it on the moment I walked into the lights. But you know what? Looking back, I wasn't as good then as I am now. These days, I tend to keep to myself backstage. As I said, I try to keep the engine's RPMs running at a consistent level. That's why a part like Caliban in The Tempest (which I am currently performing), who is only in 5 scenes, leaves me exhausted at the end of the evening. Because I am not just working during those five scenes--I have done them over and over again before going out on stage to do them. I pace around, mutter to myself, stretch, run in place, do any number of things to keep hot. My mantra, to anyone who asks, is " I never warm up because I never cool off."

Back in the day, I use to watch older actors knit, or do crosswords. These were time-honored activities designed to keep busy between scenes without being distracted from their performances. Personally, I approve more of knitting, which is a mindless physical activity that doesn't get into your head--crosswords always took me away from the immediate task at hand. And maybe that's what those particular actors need. To each his own. But in any case, the world could not and did not enter, unlike with cell phones. One old school actor I knew when I first started in theatre, used to sit at his dressing table and copy out his all his lines onto a notepad. Every night. We knew not to interrupt him--when he wasn't on stage, he was writing down his lines. It was a mind-numbing thing to contemplate, but it worked for him.

I don't comment on the use of phones backstage. What would be the point? People would respond with patronizing smiles, and think, " What an old stick-in-the-mud (or whatever the latest word would be :) )--doesn't he know the world has changed, and this is how we roll now?"

I get it. But just because everyone does it, doesn't mean it is correct. Or effective. It's like I tell my kids at the high school--" You have 22 hours in the day to talk to your friends and be unfocused and undisciplined and divide your energies--why not try to devote yourself to just one thing for these 2 hours?"

Great Quote from Bernard Levin

"If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger, if your wish is father to the thought, if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if youo have seen better days or lived in a fool's paradise - shy, be that as it may, the more fool you, for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that is the long and short of it, if you belive that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blod, if you li low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the devil his due - if the truth were known (for surly you have a tougue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinkin idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut, tut! for goodness' sake! what the dickens! but me no buts - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare."

The Red Cross

Today, they threw my blood away. Yes, the Red Cross didn't need my blood.

A few years ago, a doctor mentioned to me that I had the gene for hemochromatosis, which is a blood disorder whose main feature is that iron doesn't get washed out or dissolved or whatever happens to it through the normal course of digestion. It stays in the body, collecting in the joints and, more dangerously, the organs, causing early death and annoyance. And of course, armed with this news, I promptly forgot all about it.

Flash forward to this spring, when a blood test revealed abnormally high levels of iron in my blood. It was a little unnerving. The doc showed me the sheet full of test results, and my eye immediately went past all the digits and incomprehensible abbreviations, to the bold red ink which, in all caps, sirened ALERT! It even had the exclamation point, though really, the red ink was enough for me. Punctuation was a little redundant at that point. I mean, there wasn't much chance there'd be ALERT?, was there? Or ALERT;

So, I was referred to a gastro-enterologist, which is the specialist who, in addition to your guts and pancreas and liver, also handles this hemo thing. I told her I had hemochromatosis, and after weeks of tests, which included a colonoscopy, an Upper GI, and a liver biopsy, she was able to tell me that...I had hemochromatosis.

There is no drug for this thing. It is something that affects mainly people of northern European heritage (thanks mom and dad--couldn't be Italian or Lebanese, couldja?-- you Scots-Irish-German bastards!), and is the most commonly inherited disease of that tribe, according to Dr. Wikipedia. The treatment is medieval--every so often, I go in and they drain me of a few pints of the red stuff, and that's supposed to set things right as rain, for a while. They don't use leeches, though, but that seems to be the only difference. I tried to go in a give blood back when I first saw the ALERT!, but the Red Cross turned me down after testing my blood. They said it would clot in the bag, and that I needed a prescription for them to do a "therapeutic draw."

So that's what I did today. Prescription in hand, I went to the Red Cross center, did a little paperwork, and then they drained me of a pint of my valuable, iron-laden juice. I watched the nurse take the warm bag of blood, and the tube that connected me to it, and carried them to a large trash can covered with HAZ MAT stickers, and dropped them in.

No chance to feel like a hero here. Even though I was doing it for myself, for my own health, I looked forward to getting the blood donor sticker that I could wear around for a day or two, along with my bright red gauze that, seen together, would announce to the world " This man cares about his fellow man--he donates blood!" I saw myself steering conversations around to it at dinners:

" Do you like your steak rare, sir?"

" You bet," I'd say," The rarer the better, gotta replace some of that stuff I donated, ya know."

Or maybe I'd be on the scene of an auto accident, standing there with the other rubberneckers, and the driver would be bleeding from a head wound, and I'd announce, " Too bad I can't give any blood to help this man--it's too soon after my last donation! You have to wait a few months, ya know."

But no sticker for me. I was lucky they even gave me a cookie. They didn't bother to thank me, and why should they, really? I wasn't doing anything for them. In fact, I was interfering with their proper duties, the collection of blood for local hospitals. Every time they have to bleed me, they are taking time out from the heroes who donate for selfless reasons. Those people's blood was going out to help war veterans, pregnant mothers, children in dire need of the lifesaving fluid.

Mine? They didn't need it. Didn't want it. Threw it away in a dumpster, where it will be hauled out, and either incinerated (a sort of dress rehearsal for my cremation), or shipped along with all the other selfish people's blood to a facility in New York, where some day it will suddenly wash up at Jones Beach (a dress rehearsal for my move to New York).

addictive movies...

I invented this list for FB, and am sort of curious to see how it spreads--or metastasizes, depending on your view of these things.--it reveals more about you than listing your favorite movies--you must list 10 films that, whenever you flip channels and come across them, you have to stop and watch them. Very often these movies aren't Oscar caliber--(who really wants to watch The Piano ever again, anyway?)--but run-of-the-mill, or even, BAD movies...and tell us why they are addictive... 1. Demolition Man--Stallone, Snipes, Bullock--I can't help it, I am powerless before this movie... 2. Oscar--Stallone (again), an attempt at a 30's style screwball comedy, and Tim Curry in his second campiest role...add these together and you have 90 minutes you'll never get back--every damn time it's on... 3. That Thing You Do!--I have been threatened with death if I ever so much as pause for 2 seconds on this film, while surfing... 4. Starship Troopers--again, powerless before it... 5. The Band Wagon--Fred Astaire, the goddess that is Cyd Charisse--this actually is a pretty good film, until it decides it has spent way too much time on plot and story, and just ends in about 150 musical numbers in a row ...TCM has been playing it a lot lately, and I am down with it every time...I even have it DVR'd, but that doesn't seem to make a difference... 6. Idiocracy--about 1/2 brilliance, 1/2 dreck, but if its a choice between this film and The English Patient on the next channel, you know where my surfing stops... 7. Anything with Elvis in it--what can I say--I am not proud of it... 8. Field of Dreams--this is actually a fine movie, but I have watched it so many times, and will watch it countless more times, that my darling wife actually has a seizure when she sees it on the TV-- it is a male chick flick, I get that--" People will come, Ray, people will most definitely come...and watch this speech over and over and over and over again...and sob every time... 9. Natural Born Killers--below-average acting, Oliver Stone at his most self-indulgent, pretentious and obvious in its ...oh, let's call it "theme"...but, Mitch and Micki, if you are on, I am right there with you, hating myself every .4 second shot length along the way... 10. The Matrix--Before you can say anything--NO! It is not a good movie--the acting is either terrible or non-existent, the actors mostly just pose-- the dialogue reads like it was written by a fanboy who had to write an extra-credit project for his remedial english class--the logic of the universe they've created breaks down completely if you let yourself think about it for more than 5 seconds (which is 4 more than it deserves)-- Keanu Reeves-- way too much slow motion-- far more than their fair share of sunglasses ( the next three movies that studio put out had no sunglasses in them at all, because the Matrix took em all...true story--Carrie Ann Moss looks like Keanu Reeve's mother, or at least his hot math hot teacher--Joe Pantoliano--ok, that thing I said about using up all the sunglasses? OK, that wasn't a true story, but consider this: what if it was?--all this stuff is on the negative side. And what's on the positive side, you ask? Well, after some 107 viewings, I've yet to find something, but I will, I promise, just give me a few more years of viewing...

Russell Banks Extended Interview

Russell Banks, talking about the Lake Placid Film Forum--at 2:20 he talks about Trailer Park...woo hoo!

trailer park #10

Well, TrailerPark played to a standing "O" at the Lake Placid Film Forum last weekend, and the book's author, Russell Bank, in whose hands the potential future distribution of the project rested, pronounced it worthy, saying ''The morality of the characters and the themes and tone of the book translated to screen''

Nice! The following comes from the co-directors, who evidently have gotten married and created a joint email account:

First of all, to those who came to the premiere in Athens, thank you and I hope you enjoyed the movie. To those who couldn't make it, I'm sure there will be many other opportunities to see the product.

We just got back from the Lake Placid Film Forum where we were lucky enough to screen the film for Russell, as well as some other industry professionals such as Richard Russo and Courtney Hunt and 300 other audience members. Everyone responded really positively and Russell was absolutely thrilled. He is going to do everything he can to help us get into festivals and hopefully get some kind of distribution down the line. We even did a little Q and A and people were asking how we managed to get such a great cast for a student film, so thank you to all for that. We are currently take the summer to re-edit and make some tweaks and changes, but hopefully we should be able to get some DVD's out to everyone in the fall.

In the meantime, follow the blog, keep in touch, and let us know how everyone is doing post Trailerpark.

And I still haven't seen it!!!

De Mayne's Final Lesson (Scaramouche, 1952)

My favorite Hollywood swordfighter is Mel Ferrer, who moves so cleanly and elegantly--this clip from Scaramouche, in which he fights Stewart Granger, is a great example of swordfighting for the stage/screen...

Sonny and the Red Shoes

                                                        Sonny, napping with Duckie
                                                

The other day, while I was mowing grass out back, our Goldie Sonny got one of Dani's shoes and ruined it. He has a thing for little seams--he likes to very delicately chew the straps from her high heels, or the velcro strap from the backs of my ballcaps. It's as if he likes degree of difficulty--he could easily just shred these things, but he prefers close work.

This pair of shoes of Dani's was brand new, she had had worn them maybe once, and she had a couple of new outfits she was eager to wear with them. I put the damaged shoe on her little telephone desk in the kitchen.

As I was in my truck, backing out to head to the park for  a show, Dani pulled into the driveway, home from work. I tried to prepare her--" Before you go in the house, I want you to think about the Sonny you miss when you're away on trips. I want you to think how terrible you felt when he was ill that one time. I want you to see that eager-to-please face that's in there right now, so happy to have you home." Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and I told her what he did. He hasn't done anything like this in a long time, actually, he's gone from being that evil puppy who scored deep gouges in our drywall with his teeth, and who destroyed countless shoes and pillows and teddy bears, to being an adult dog whose main weakness is that he counter-surfs when you aren't looking, and he likes to shred napkins.  All in all, an admirable Golden Retriever.

But not the sharpest tool in the shed. He doesn't often think things through. He has to be a good host when you come through the door--when you first walk in, he is there, wagging and making Scooby noises. Then he disappears for a few seconds, and always come right back with something in his mouth, a gift for you, just his way of saying thanks for being you. Usually it is a squeaky toy, or the pitiful remains of a teddy bear he's shredded, or a bone, or whatever he can get his mouth around in a hurry and get back to you. He once brought me one of our kittens, who dangled from his soft mouth in resignation.

 Dani told me she steeled herself before entering, remembering it was her fault that she left the shoes near his napping place, so it was really like leaving crack next to an outreach center. She walked through the door, Sonny greeted her with his usual enthusiasm, disappeared, and came back with-- of course-- the other red shoe in his mouth. One might think he was rubbing it in, bringing the undamaged mate to the shoe, but I like to think Sonny is a "glass half-full kind of guy". He was just demonstrating that there was still one perfectly good shoe, so, you know, when you think about it, everybody wins! Dani stood there for a moment, shocked by his stupidity ( none of us should be anymore), then she started laughing, and dropped down and gave him a big hug. So you know, in a way, he was right--everybody wins! 

trailer park #9

This is a short entry--the premiere of the film happened without me, as impossible as that sounds.  Difficult for me to imagine anything happening without me, but there it is--my mom and sister Lisa went down, linked up with Lisa's son Nathan and his wife Amy. They saw my dad and his wife there with another couple--my mom said she didn't see him in the film, which is bad--he was more excited about this thing than I was, in all truth. Hope she just missed him--mom would miss me in a movie unless someone pointed me out to her... 

I also had a few former and current students attend as well, which was nice. I get reports that I did a good job--but then what else are they gonna say? " Hey, saw that film of yours--you sucked!" 

They had posters of each of the principal characters displayed at Memorial Auditorium, where the premiere was held. Here's mine:

Sigh. They move on to the Lake PLacid Film Forum next weekend, where I'll miss that as well. I'll be sweating like a whore in church in Schiller Park, in my wig and doublet and hose and boots, swinging a sword and trying not appear too winded after each fight...

Just Don't Care

The Tony's? Don't care. I know I should, being a theatre guy, but I don't. Don't know what plays are up for an award, and don't care. Unaware of honorees and presenters, and guess what--don't care. Couldn't even begin to tell you what shows are running in NY at the moment--and--you guessed it--don't care. Who are the biggest Broadway stars these days? Don't know and don't care.

I read the NY Times online each day, except for the arts section. I dunno why, but I never ever do. I stick with the front page, intl. news, and opinion page--the rest doesn't apply to me at all. Don't care.

I don't judge my friends who do care. We all have things we care about. NY theatre just isn't one of them, for me.

But that isn't all. Fashion--don't care. Celebrity news--don't care. Automobiles--don't care. Blood sports--don't care. Plight of the homeless--sorry, don't care. Abortion--not my bidness, don't care. Hockey--don't care. Basketball--don't care. Tennis--please! Home decorating--obviously don't care. 

Don't care. You can't make me care. Just don't freakin care.

Caliban Costume

I just learned I'll be wearing a Spandex body suit as Caliban in next month's The Tempest. Put...the...donut...down...and...back...away...slowly...

Prerelease...

Conor Hogan, supervising producer of Trailer Park, sends along this leaked version of the film--

http://senduit.com/cac4fe

The Other Paper Arts They barely take time to buckle their swash

The Other Paper Arts They barely take time to buckle their swash

Shared via AddThis

Medical Fu

Had a liver biopsy today, and it wasn't fun, though not as bad as I was given to believe. Back in the mid 90s, while undergoing a series of tests that would ultimately reveal inoperable pancreatic cancer, my uncle described his liver biopsy as the most painful thing he'd ever experienced. He swore if they ever wanted another, he'd refuse. Through the years, I have heard other tales of the painful procedure, one woman describing it as more painful than childbirth.

I am here to tell you that it was nothing like the worst pain I have ever felt. In fact, I barely remember the procedure, thanks to the miracle that is called "the twilight drug"... I have always reacted strongly to anesthesia--a little goes a long way for me, and they always have to revive me afterward, but even though they told me it wouldn't be very strong, more of a relaxing kind of thing,  I knew I was gonna be sleeping through the whole thing. And I did. Even though the chattiest prep nurse in history ramped up the degree of difficulty--in the brief span before the doctor came, and before she connected up the good drugs, I learned that she is the oldest of 6, put her mom in a home last year, is the most common-sensical member of her family, has a niece who is 18 and pregnant and lazy, has a nephew who is 25 and just quit his job of 4 years so he could continue a two week party streak with his buddies ( Oh, to be young again!)...kinda got in the way of my chi, as I was trying to ease into unconsciousness...fortunately, my unconsciousness skill set is highly developed, and about three seconds after the drug hit my vein I was gone. I woke up in the recovery room, confused at first and thinking that the procedure hadn't happened yet, and then when I discovered the bandage, enormous relief waved over me that I had escaped pain worse than childbirth. I could have taken it, but why? The miracle of modern medicine!! 

Tonight though, it feels like a very big guy hauled off and hammered me in the liver. They took three slices of it, and I thought I smelled sauteed onions coming from the next room. 

Trailerpark - Official Full Length Trailer HD

Here is the official trailer to Trailerpark!

Stavros Flatley: Lord Of The Dance - Britain's Got Talent 2009 - The Final

This has destroyed me--laughing uncontrollably all morning, erasing the anger of a lost day due to rain...

Day off!

Had a full run last night, before an excellently sized and dispositioned crowd, and played it well. Got lots of laughs, made few mistakes, the fights got much sharper than they had been, and got applause when they were finished.

At long last, a day off. No work, no The Three Musketeers, No The Tempest. Weatherman called for bright sunny skies, 82 degrees, 10% chance of rain. My plans included finishing some landscaping, taking the hounds for a romp in the woods, making a picnic for Dani and me when she gets home from work. All of which I would have done, were it not for the biblical amounts of rain, house rattling thunder, and Jovian bolts of lightening everywhere. 

Sonny, our Goldie, ran out for a pee just before the deluge, ran back to the house, swatted on the door,  ran past my outstretched hand that held his snack, and into the living room, where he tried to dig himself under the coffee table. He is afraid of thunder. Right now he is under my legs, with paws over his eyes. It's sort of adorable, but I feel for him. And I am a little awed by the thought that he considers me reliable protection against lightening.

Another Damned Rainout!

I am accepting full responsibility for this mess--before the last three shows, I have looked at my other 2 musketeers, just before going onstage, and said, " It is impossible that we will have rain tonight"--sort of tempting fate, I guess, except Fate can't seem to resist temptation...  the first time, we rained out in the beginning of the second act, last night we got a whole show in, but it rained hard a half hour after we finished, and tonight it rained a few scenes into the first act, and we halted, and waited, along with a massive amount of audience members, who hunkered under the massive trees in the park--then the rain passed, and we squeegeed off the stage, and started up again, got through Act One, and began Act Two, then lightening began flashing all around (no rain though), and as we all carry a lot of small lightening rods on our belts, the show was cancelled, almost precisely in the spot it was cancelled opening night. It is forcing our critics to put in some real time to see a show that barely runs 2 hours. 

The pic above is Dani and me backstage, during intermission--she is in her wench costume...

Opening NIght, Redux

Well, as I feared, rain played hell with our opening night. It rained off and on throughout the day, then the skies cleared about an hour before opening, and we were good to go. There was a fundraiser event out in the audience area, called the Tent Dinner, in which a circus tent is erected over the upper portion of the lawn, and a lot of contributers and mucky mucks come for a dinner and auction (I think) and then afterward carry their chairs down to the lower area and watch the show. We got off to a fast start, and things were rocking along. Lots of laughter and applause from the groundlings--we knew we were in for a fun time, when the Athos, Aramis, and Porthos got entrance applause, meaning the moment we burst through the curtain the audience broke out into applause. Lotsa fun, that.

So, we made it to the intermission, and we could hear the winds beginning to roar over the floor mics, and we knew we were screwed. Act Two begins with a montage of swordfighting, and we'd just finished that when the heavens opened up on us, and a steady rain came down, and the show was finished.

So, last night we strapped up again. It was a beautiful day, blue skies and gentle breezes, and while there was no tent dinner, there was a good sized crowd. We were a little off on some timing things, and there were some excellent costume malfunctions to keep us all entertained--Aaron Deuschle, who plays Aramis, had his hat, wig, and doo-rag blow off during a fight. Zach Hartley, who plays Porthos, lost his footing and fell badly. Later, during one of his fights, his opponent got his sword caught on Zach's belt somehow, and so lost that fight even before it began.

During intermission, the winds kicked up suddenly--it was a cold wind of the kind that must have inspired the old wives to tell of ghost winds that blow ill omens. We were a little nervous, as we hadn't done act two in three days, due to rain outs. There were some timing and costume snafus here and there, but we made it to the end of the show to strong applause and cheers.

Afterward, there was a party at Aramis' house, where I was overserved to a profound extent (even though I was serving myself from a jug of Bloody Marys I'd made early in the day). It lasted till 3:30am--at least, that's when I left a front porchful of hardcore partiers, who were still talking and arguing theatre issues as I drove away.

Today, I rehearsed the first Caliban scene in the Tempest, and came home to do a little gardening and pet cuddling before heading back to the park for this evening's performance.

Here's a link to the review which came in while we were at the party last night:

http://dispatch.com/live/content/local_news/stories/2009/05/29/review_three_musketeers.html

opening night!

We open tonight. Maybe. Weathermen all over the city are predicting thunderstorms, hail, lightening, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria! Last night, our final dress rehearsal was called off after 4 scenes because of rain...so we went to Gressos instead and celebrated Kristina Kopf's (Queen Anne) birthday...

The drag about the rain, besides losing a rehearsal, which is never good, is all the stuff I have wear and take off...by golly, here's a marching order of preshow activity:

I arrive at 6:15, with the other fighters. I go into the dressing hole--er, room--and get out of my 21st century clothes. I tape both ankles with athletic tape, then strap up the left one with a high ankle brace with whalebone stays, and the right one with a low ankle brace. Then I wrap both knees with ace bandages, and cover them with thin foam kneepads. Then I put on my Musketeer knicker/breeches and a tee shirt. After that, I force on the knee-high boots, which takes supreme effort after all that taping and bracing. 

Next I put on my wireless mic. This is a little involved. I have a long piece of thick wire that I have shaped like a horseshoe, except that ends curl down. To one side I have taped the long mic wire with black tape. Then I put the rig on my head, curving round the back of it and over the ears, like a headphone. The mic end is now positioned at my sideburn. The plug end hangs down my back. I run this between my teeshirt and my good ole 17th century puffy shirt. Around my waist I strap an ace bandage that holds the rest of the mic unit (about the size of a deck of cards). I have someone plug the mic wire into the unit, after having first turned it on. Oh, almost forgot--each night we roll a fresh condom over the mic unit, to protect it from body sweat. I am saving all the used condoms on the wall above my mirror. Then I tuck in  my puffy shirt, button on my vest, and go up top to the stage for fight rehearsal. 

I stretch and stretch, using a program of exercises Angela Barch  (fight choreo) taught us back in April. Then I go through my list of fights with my fellow combatants, first just marking it (meaning going through the motions), then doing it up to speed.

By now it is nearly 7pm, and the other actors have arrived and the dressing room is jammed (there are around 25 people in this show, with 70 costumes). At my tiny little table (I will post pics of the dressing hole in the near future), I sit and try to apply a little makeup. Long experience in Schiller Park has taught me to be sparing of it, because it will all sweat off in 10 minutes anyway--actually, it sweats off in the dressing room. 

Next I put on my tabard, which is a kind of smock, blue, with the fluer-de lis design on the front. Then I tie a lace collar over the tabard, and then buckle on my sword belt over that.

Now the wig. It is long and straight--not the wig seen in the previous post--and difficult to manage. I put on a wig cap, and then with Angela and Dani's help, we pull on the long wig. It has a shortish ponytail that needs freshening up each day, and all the dangling hair needs brushed out and combed. The ladies pin it all up, arranging strands and spraying down the flyaway bits.

By now it is about 7:45pm, 15 minutes till curtain, and all I have left to do is place my cloak and  jacket backstage (these I put on later in the show), jam my too small musketeer hat over my wig, then put on the long black gloves, put my sword in the sword belt scabbard (called a frog), and pace around, getting my brain around the coming performance.

So last night I did all that, 8 pm comes, the show begins, and 10 minutes later we are back in the dressing room, taking it all off, as the rain blows in thick sheets all over the park.

Tonight, signs point to the same result. But the rest of the weekend looks wonderful--low to mid 70s and clear, mid 50s at night--maybe a trifle chilly for the audiences, but perfect for us on stage.

And so begins my summer. For the next ten weekends, from Thursday-Sunday nights, I will be in Schiller Park--the first five as Athos, the dark and dangerous musketeer, and the last five as Caliban, the green and dangerous "hag-born whelp" from The Tempest.

The Three Muskies

We have a week and a day till opening, and we're getting there, slowly, slowly. Lots of things changed when the set was installed, and we've spent the last three days working out transitions and re-staging fights, and so forth. Monday night, while running off stage on the dark (no back stage lighting yet) I stepped on an electrical extension cord and my ankle buckled and I went flying. For the last two days I have had it taped and braced, and still can't move very well.

Which hacks me off mightily! When I first accepted the role of Athos, I thought I better get into shape for all the fighting it requires. I lost about 15 pounds, stopped smoking ( 5 weeks now), and started light workouts and lots of stretching and flexibility. I was feeling pretty good. In fact, I haven't felt this good in a long time. But I forgot that while I was getting into a little better shape, I still have bum ankles and bum knees. The structure is faulty, even though the surface is getting some new paint. So, I will be wearing the usual puffy shirt, wig, big boots, and so forth, and underneath, I will be swathed in bandages, tape, and braces, on pretty much any part that moves. 

It's like I told my father years ago when I first started Arden Shakespeare--I asked him to build a few set pieces for my production of 12th Night--a sundial bench, a period-looking bath, and a a few other items. When I visited him to inspect the stuff, I found them half done, and he was taking his time. My dad is a craftsman when it come to carpentry--nobody better, and he takes great care over everything he produces. I finally had to tell him " Dad, this only has to look good...from a distance...for 3 weeks...then we tear it all down." He was aghast. 

Well, that's going to be me. I just have to try to look good--from a distance-- for 4 weeks, and then I can break down completely. 

One of my castmates is leaving the production for a weekend to attend a premiere of a film she did that is being shown at the Hollywood Black Filmmakers Festival, or something like that. One of the wenches in the show will step up to fill her role for that time. When this was announced, I leaned over to Dani and whispered "Tell me again why I am missing MY premiere??" Of course, my role in the play is larger and more complicated with the fights and all, but still...

Robin Christopherson as Milady De Winter, and me as Athos

genitalia

Why is a jerk called a "dick", but a brave guy has "balls?" A wimp is a "pussy", but a real uber-jerk is a "cunt." And both "dicks" and "cunts" can also be "assholes."  

You're welcome...

Suzuki Method of Actor Training

I've been reading a lot lately on the Suzuki Method of Actor Training, and while I'm sure many people have derived great benefit from it's teachings (which include such tenets as awareness of the body's corporal center, the relationship of the feet to the center, the development of energy through off-center exercises, etc), I have to quote Spencer Tracy, when asked about the Method:

"I am too old, too tired, and too talented to care."

Been a little while...

Haven't posted much lately, but not for any lack of things to say--just too busy, directing The Crucible at the high school by day, and rehearsing The Three Musketeers at night. But soon I will be back, and dear readers, both of you will be happy!

Trailer Park #8

My final day on the set was April 12, and it was a short day. I had to come out of my (Dewey Knox's) trailer and yell at a drunken Terry (played by a sober Tyler). It was a night shoot, and we were pretending it was well after midnight, when in fact, it was just after dark. The sequence was this: I yelled some rough equivalent of "Get off my lawn", Tyler invites me to perform an act most generally thought of as impossible, and then the scantily clad Doreen (played by the scantily clad Dinah) comes out of her trailer to yell at Terry (Tyler) as well. Her husband Sean (played by her former classmate John), comes out of their trailer with a coat to wrap around Doreen, and back in they go.

This was filmed a number of different ways, and Tyler cut his hand pounding on the rusty exterior of one of the trailers, so I expect to hear he'll soon accept a lifetime engagement playing Capt. Hook.

I quit smoking a few weeks back, and this surprised many on the set, including Patrick (co-director), who said I smoked more than anyone he ever met. Not smoking makes breaks and downtime meaningless, changing them from something eagerly longed for to something to be endured.

After channelling my non-smoking grumpiness into the grumpiness of Dewey Knox, I next had to do a little ADR--for those of you not versed in the arcane language of film, ADR stands for Another Day Ruined--no, no, I'm kidding, I kid, I'm a kidder, you know that about me...it means Actors Don't Read...no,no, just a joke, again with the kidding, I kid because I love...it means, and I am serious this time...uh, something about recording lines, dubbing or looping, I guess. Stand by...

Ok, just googled it, and it means Additional Dialogue Replacement. I thought it meant Additional Dialogue Recording. Whatever it's acronymic  meaning, the upshot is that you stand in front of the screen while a scene you've previously filmed rolls by, and you record additional words which are then  inserted into the scene. The scene was the exterior Michigan shoot from February, with all of us scrabbling on the frozen lake for a bunch of money that was flying around. The directors felt like there wasn't enough grunting and stuff to fill the moments, so several actors were rerecorded for extra noises, and so I stood there in front of the mic and grunted and made exasperated noises, and such like, all the while biting my sleeve because in the scene I had a glove dangling from my mouth.

After ADR, I then went to a trailer where some young videographers recorded me answering questions about the whole process. I think I sounded stupid and pretentious--as I was talking I was thinking to myself "Oh, just shut up you arrogant dweeb!" I hope they decide my video contribution isn't needed.

Then, as promised, I picked up my newest little pal... a young (month old) guinea pig, black and white like a Jersey cow, and I adopted him. Or her. Turns out the only way you can tell if a Guinea Pig is male or female is to read " Twilight" to them and see they like it. You can also set them in front of the TV and tune in to the Lifetime Channel, and go away for a while. If you come back and they've created rudimentary tools and used them to commit suicide, you'll know you were dealing with a male.

So, anyway, I christened the rodent "Dewey" after my character. The production was nice enough to include a cage and some food, and after waving bye bye to the admirable and dedicated crew, Dewey and I hit the road, getting home around midnight. Didn't tell Dani I was bringing home a new member of the menagerie. Earler, I'd mentioned to Frederick Lewis (the professor who conceived the whole process of Trailer Park) that my wife had no idea that I was bringing home a guinea pig, and in fact, had threatened me with death whenever I mentioned that I was gonna do it. Frederick looked at me with those wise eyes, and said, " That's how you've decided to play it, eh?" I said " Yes, I am going with the completely blind-siding her with the guinea pig option. After carefully considering all the alternatives, this is the one I've chosen." 

This harkens back to a time-honored truism I discovered many years ago, that no matter what dumb-ass, idiot fool thing we end up doing, it began somewhere earlier that day as a damn good idea. 

I arrived at this amazing life-fact years ago, when my then girlfriend Glenda told me how her dad's brother got liquored up one night, and called her mother (the uncle's sister-in-law) at 3am and asked her if she'd mind giving him a blowjob. Of course, the answer was no, and he quickly hung up the phone, but not before she'd yelled " Ed, is that you?!" Many recriminations and allegations followed, a permanent rift opened in the family, all over a question that began earlier in the day as a damned reasonable request. 

I could see Ed sitting alone in his house trailer (it sort of has to be a trailer, don't you think?), drinking beer after beer, stacking the cans on the card table in front of him, and as the wall of cans rose up ever higher, he kept revising his plan--"should it be a blowjob, and maybe just a handjob? How about I don't call her at all--nah, that's no good... how about I ask her to dinner instead...no...I really think blowjob is the best option here..." and so on, into the early hours until, finally, " Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do! I am gonna call her up and ask her if she'll do this perfectly innocent thing for me, and even if she says no, there is no way this could ever come back to haunt me--she would never tell my brother what I said. This is the perfect plan, the best way to proceed with this business. And right after this next 12 pack, I am gonna pick up that phone and dial her number."

One imagines Ed on the phone, smiling, his face shiny and red, glowing with anticipation, and then, as he heard himself say the words "Dolores, suck my dick" to his sister-in-law, suddenly realizing how horribly awry it all had gone, and in a sober, blindingly clear flash saw the end game of all this, the unhealable breach between his brother and himself, the hatreds and embarrassments that would last even unto the grave.

How could this have gone so terribly wrong? It had seemed so perfect just five minutes ago!

Anyway, by the time I got Dewey home, Dani was asleep, so I took his/her cage into my little office, and installed her/him there. The next morning, while Dani was in the bathroom getting ready for work, I got out of bed, tiptoed into the office,  took Dewey out of his/her cage, and carried (let's settle on "it" for now) into the bedroom, and put it on my chest, under the blanket. Dani came in to kiss me good morning, and I pulled down the blanket just a little, and said " Meet Dewey!" I don't think she saw the guinea pig at first, and thought I was making some Ed-like request, until Dewey whistled and after an initial frozen moment, she finally laughed and said, " You really did it, didn't you?" 

Of course, now, a week later, Dewey and Dani are best pals, and Dewey couldn't possibly care less about me. When I come in, it hides in its little house inside the cage , but it whistles and gets excited when Dani enters the office. 

So anyway, whenever I see my little guinea pig ignoring me and  loving my wife instead, I'll think of Trailer Park, and of the wonderful young artists I met there. It's been both fun and educational,  just like the Lifetime Channel. 

Twitter

Gave up on Twitter the other day. Just don't see the point. I saw only marketing bullshit or the usual "drinking coffee...yay" pointlessness--both areas of extreme annoyance to me.

Trailerpark: Behind the Scenes - Guinea Pigs!

guinea pig fu!

Items of interest, or not...#2

1. I believe sleep apnea is a totally made up medical problem, like PTSD or chronic fatigue disorder, or you know, cancer. I don't deny it exists, I just question whether it is a problem. Oh, the doctor explains it all to you, all the risks, and the treatment options, but I can't help but believe it's the equivalent of William H. Macy's car salesmen in Fargo, trying to push "that TruCoat, that's good stuff there."

2. Someone recently said new housing builds in Central Ohio has increased 42% over last year. Hmm...perhaps, but wasn't last year's something like 875% down from the previous year? I'm no math guy, but I think that translates to maybe one guy's garage getting built in Obetz.

3. Douchebag update--Remember when I mentioned that around Oscar time Mickey Rourke was talking about wrestling WWE star Chris Jericho, and that suddenly these plans got squelched by some last minute career management advice by his new handlers? At the time, I posited that you can't keep a dedicated douchebag down--Rourke has always aspired to a career like Pacino's, but carries himself publicly more like Mr. T. He doesn't seem to get that a career is more than the movies you do (based on his output in the 90s, he better hope so)--it's also how you carry yourself when you are in public. Class begets class, and dignity  dignity. If Pacino attended monster truck pulls and made appearances at county fairs, he wouldn't have the cache he has now.

Well. The Mick couldn't help himself . The other night he attended a Jericho match and when it was over climbed into the ring and pretended to knock him out with one punch. Douchebag meter just jumped a few ticks. Can Wild Orchids IV: The New Beginning be far behind?

4. Are there more annoying creatures in the world than foodies? Probably there are, but not by much...shoe fetishists maybe.

The Three Musketeers #1

The Three Musketeers--May 28-June 28. This is the first production of the 2009 Actor's Theatre season in Schiller Park. And it will be something of a milestone for me--it was 20 years ago that I first stepped on the stage in Schiller Park, in what was then known as Actor's Summer Theatre's production of Othello. I was 30, and playing Iago, a role I'd dreamed about since I first read the play in high school. 

I remember the audition as one of the most grueling I'd ever been through (and it still ranks up there, after over 100 other shows). After the initial monologues, we did cold readings, in my case mostly for Cassio, with an Iago tossed in here and there, but it was evident the director saw me more as a Cassio type. When he called a few days later to invite me to call-backs, he said " You'll be reading for Cassio, maybe Roderigo..."and here he broke off, and I heard some muffled voices off the phone, and he came back and said, "Oh, and maybe some Iago too." Turns out his stage manager--and girlfriend at the time--was advocating for me as Iago.

I hung up the phone determined to get Iago. I read and reread the play in the days leading up to callback, and I doubt I was ever as focused on getting a particular role at auditions as I was for that. I don't recall actively deciding to downplay my readings as Cassio, but it is true I didn't bother preparing anything for it, either. I started off reading for Cassio, which is a good role, but one I knew I could do in my sleep--earnest, romantic young officer..zzzzzz...I wanted the bad guy, badly.

Gradually, the Cassio scenes dropped off, and the Iago scenes started coming more frequently. This audition process was nothing like the current regime's routine, which is 2 monologues, and maybe a speech or scene from one of the plays, and you are out of there in a hour. No, this audition, which was conducted by a Ph.d student from OSU, lasted well over 5 hours. It just kept going. Now and again, the director would call out "the following 5 names are excused" and the herd would thin out. At the end of it all, it came down to me and another guy for Iago, and it became dueling Iagos. First him, then me. Alternating scene after scene. We did the whole play, every Iago scene. Other actors came up to read the other roles with us. It was a nightmarish audition. Now, many years later and long experience as a director, I recognize the classic signs of directorial impotence. He just couldn't make a decision. So he put it off.

I was new to the company, fairly new to town. Othello was the 2nd play I'd auditioned for in Columbus, the first being All My Sons at Gallery Players, in which I was cast as one of the neighbors. The other prospective Iago was a founding member of the company. And on we went, hammering it out, scene after scene. I felt sorry for Wesley Coleman, who was playing Othello to both of us, and was getting quite a workout. It finally ended after we each did the epilepsy scene, where Othello goes into a seizure and Iago gloats while the Moor is unconscious.

I later learned that scene is what got me the role. When Othello passes out, instead of laughing and gloating, as is usually done, I froze, then walked slowly up to his body, pushed it with my toe to see if he would come out of it, and when he didn't, I began to dance a little Irish jig around his body.

 Through the process of exploration in rehearsals, I had gradually stopped doing it, until one day the artistic director dropped by to watch a runthrough, and asked the director why I wasn't "jigging" anymore. She asked him to ask me to put it back in. He laughed, " She said to tell you that's why you were cast in the first place."

The 1989 Othello in Schiller Park was an especially important show for me. It rather put me on the map in the Columbus theatre scene, though that map may be a little one, and leads to nowhere in particular. I went right from  Othello to back-to-back shows at CATCO, and back to Actor's Summer Theatre the following summer, as Claudius in Hamlet. By then, the Dispatch, in a feature story on the season's offerings, listed me as one of the company's "stalwarts", as if I'd always been there. 

Othello was also important, because I made several important friendships from it. Most notably, Wesley Coleman, who played Othello. I plan to write more about him in future posts. He died in April 1999, ten years ago, and for the ten years between our meeting and his death, he was a fine and warm a friend as ever I had. 

Our friendship became cemented during a rehearsal when I challenged his reading of a line. We had pretty much started teasing each other from the start, insulting and baiting each other. We were both pretty vain about our voices, and our line deliveries, and one night as I listened to him speak " I pray you, in your letters/ when you shall these unlucky deeds relate...", I noticed he emphasized the word "shall", which is off the iambic beat. The accented word is "these", so I went up to him during a pause and said, " You know, you're saying that line wrong." He turned to me, puffed up his 6'2" 275 lb. frame, and his deep, James Earl Jones voice, said, " What...did...you...just...say...to...me?" I said, " You're hitting "shall", and it's off the beat. You should be hitting "these"--'you shall THESE unlucky deeds relate."  To quote Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster, he gave me the "frowning of a lifetime--and he meant it to sting." But I started laughing, and he did too--though he never changed his reading. Throughout the rest of the rehearsals, whenever he came to that line, he would turn toward me as he hammered the word "shall" into my face, reminding me he was his own man.

  

 Iago 1989

But more on his own man in later posts.

Othello also introduced me to Mary Ann Best, who played Desdemona, and who would be my long-suffering companion for seven years. And to Vicky Bragg, who has been a dear friend for lo these 20 years. And to quite a number of other people who have been constants in my life ever since, and for whom I am grateful to know.

I wasn't intending to do this, but perhaps I'll start a little bit of reminiscing of my 20 years of Shakespeare in the Park. Unless I get a wave of comments begging me to stop. But perhaps I will look at you all and say "Shall!"

                

         

Some Trailer Park stuff

Here's an article from the Columbus Dispatch about the film:

http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/life/stories/2009/03/28/1_TRAILER_PARK_--_somewhat_l.AR0_ART_03-28-09_D8_LEDCFLM.html?sid=101

And here is a video shot on a day I wasn't there-- you can tell because the weather is nice...

http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/multimedia/audio_slideshows/2009/03/movie/index.html

 

Bad Gigs

Last year, during the run of Macbeth in Schiller Park, a cast-mate announced she'd booked a commercial, and after accepting the general congrats all around, smiled at me and said " I apologize, Mark"

This took me by surprise. Then I realized she must have heard me sound off about commercials at some point. She wasn't really apologizing, of course, just acknowledging that she remembered my opinions of the subject. Which are, when all is said and done, complicated.

First of all, I condemn no one for doing commercials. I recognize they are a necessary evil, and allow actors to make some extra cash, and in some cases, amazingly good cash. No problem with that at all.  They're just not for me.

It's just that I didn't get into the performing racket to sell someone's products. I lack the acting talent, I suppose, to be enthusiastic about the Olive Garden, or auto parts. I admire those who can, but I wonder, also, if they aren't wasting their time and talents. Every time I see a douche commercial (and why must I be subjected to a douche commercial??), I look at the actress and think "Four years undergrad, two years MFA, all to sell douche products. Hey mom, your sacrifices for my college tuition finally paid off"

And it isn't really acting, is it? Actors can delude themselves into thinking it is, but it isn't. The objectives are entirely different. Many actors I know have to invent some sort of playable objective so they don't have to face the knowledge that they were not hired because they were talented--they were hired because they had a "look", and that "look" is to be used entirely in service to a dancing doughboy, or a Honda Civic. 

However, commercials are one step ahead of the gig I resent the most--the walking costumes. People who hire actors to be in costume at their parties...this chaps my ass! It lacks dignity, and encourages the belief that actors are not "people of parts", to use the old Tudor expression. And yet so many actors are eager for the gig--so you'll see a wonderful actress, for example, with a four octave singing range, one who has trained in the best schools, wearing a Cinderella costume at a Disney party for some spoiled little brat on her 7th birthday. I burn when I see this.

Maybe my sense of dignity is too high. I don't even like taking photos in costume, in character, for publicity purposes. It feels undignified. If the paper wants my picture, they can use my head shot. Or a still from the play--one that wasn't set up for the camera, but rather was filmed while the action was going on.

It's all about money, I know. But that doesn't fly for me. Wait tables, drive cabs, work in call centers...these are honest labors, and don't dilute or cheapen the art form you've chosen to to do. I have been asked several times, recently, if I would be interested in starting up acting classes, and while I like the idea of it, I would feel like a failure if a student of mine ended up performing in a commercial. Maybe I could make them sign a pledge not to, before accepting them as students.

Trailerpark - Guinea Pig Folly

The crew recording guinea pig sounds--from last fall

Trailer Park #7

Saturday the 21^st was my penultimate shooting day. I don’t return again until April 12. It was a short day, compared to my other days. I arrived at 2:30 and was on the road home around 8pm. The good thing was that, other than the dinner break, there was little waiting around. Things moved along quite speedily, which is to my taste. I would have been perfect in an old Hollywood film, or a Roger Corman picture—just keep it moving, is my motto. Probably wouldn’t have been good for a Michael Cimino film, or one of those 70s auteurs… too much waiting, too many takes.

 

I met one of the main characters for the first time. Merri Biehler plays Flora, the character with all the guinea pigs, who eventually burns down her trailer. Odd. I’ve been on this picture since February, and she since January (she was in the first scenes shot), but we’ve never been on set the same time until now. I’ve filmed a number of scenes where I am supposed to be looking at her from my window, but of course I was just looking at an eye-line point, or a freezing grip.

 

Merri is a very sweet woman, and quite meticulous in her approach. Our styles on set are quite different. She constantly asks questions, seeks clarification, discusses all aspects of the shot and the set-ups, while I usually ask very little. I tend to stay in my own head. Most of the questions I do ask have to do with whether I can change a line, or asking where the frame line is (in other words, what is actually being seen in the shot. They say Brando was a master at acting within the frame—if his left arm was out of the shot, it remained at his side, while the right arm did all the gesturing. He also tended to wear only the costume pieces needed—if he was being shot from the waist up, he wasn’t wearing any pants.)

 

For Merri and me, it’s just a matter of style—neither is correct nor incorrect.

 

The guinea pigs were the stars of the day, actually. There were a number of cages set up in the trailer belonging to Merri’s character, and the guinea pigs were being shuttled in and out from their own trailer to the set trailer, presumably to stay warm. They were much noisier than the hamsters from a few weeks ago, and more skittish. Merri and I went to their warm trailer to get acquainted with them, and most protested at being held. One, however, only a few months old, was quite happy to be held and cradled. He made a shimmering, soft, purring sound as I held him against my chest and stroked his fur. He also started chewing on the earpiece of my glasses, which were in my shirt pocket.

 

While the crew were busy setting and focusing the cameras and lights on the guinea pig cages, the rodents were endlessly entertaining—chasing each other round the pen, scratching and grooming in their high speed ways, yawning and stretching and whistling-- in short, being all a guinea pig can be. Yet, when “action” was called, they all sat there, quietly chewing, resting, doing nothing at all. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I heard the Michigan J. Frog song from the old Warner’s cartoons “ Hello my honey, hello my baby, hello my ragtime gal.”

 

I suspect very little of my close-ups will be usable from this day’s shooting. My left eye inexplicably swelled up a few days before shooting—looks like Rocky after the fight. Dunno why. Probably pink-eye, which is going round Columbus, or so I hear. Though the eyeball itself isn’t red, but the lid is badly swollen and rimmed with red along the lash line. I used what makeup I could, but it looked like I had a week old shiner. Sheesh!

 

Tonight, my dad makes his film debut. He’s an extra in the bar scene, and will get to be in a bar fight. I told the directors he is uniquely qualified for this role. He is very excited—I warned him that there will be lots of waiting, but he said that was OK, he was interested in watching the process. There was talk that someone would be leering at a girl, which starts the fight. Dad reeeaaally wants to be the leerer.

 

I wish I could be there to see it all—but I have a medical procedure (ok, it’s a colonoscopy) in the morning, which requires the usual preamble of fasting and laxatives and misery, so no visiting the set for me. He was really hoping I’d come down for it, and we’d go golfing on Friday. But I’ll be anticipating quite a different kind of hole-in-one. OK, TMI…moving on…

mark's aphorism

Was watching a show tonight in which a character said he wanted to "die on his own terms", and I got to thinking...no one ever really dies on their own terms, do they? They died on the best terms they could get that day. And the terms get worse and worse. 

Slightly Unfocused Political Ramblings

Ok, it is time someone said it—bi-partisanship is dead, Mr. Obama. I appreciate the attempt, but the fact is, no one wants it. Not really. You were elected to lead. Your party was elected in a sweeping rejection of Republican ideas, ideals, and practices. They are on the refuse heap, politically, for perhaps a generation (more likely just a few election cycles). Keep them there, Mr. President. They have no leaders, not one. When a party sees as its standard-bearer a bloviating radio commentator like Rush Limbaugh, it has officially, terminally, and in a way, sadly, bottomed out. And when a newt like Bobby Jindal is seen as the next Great Brown Hope, well, my dear elephants, in the words of the great Harold Hill, “ Ya Got Trouble.”

 

Of the last 28 years, Republicans have held the White House for 20 of them. Of the last 15 years, they have controlled Congress for all but three of them. And look where we have come:

 

Internationally hated (at most) or disrespected (at least) by countries who were nominally our allies. Torture as policy. Civil liberties bent over the table and rogered senseless. A lack  of transparency in governmental affairs so pervasive it makes the Nixon years seem like a hippy vegetable co-op. Domestically—need I say more?

 Yet the Republicans seem to blame the Democrats for it all. I laugh whenever I hear this, but it is a bitter laugh. Remember how every problem during the Reagan and Bush I years were blamed on Jimmy Carter’s measly four little years? How the Bushies blamed their malfeasances on Clinton? I have heard, recently, Republicans blaming part of the country’s ills on the Clinton years. Ha! Last time I looked-- while stipulating to the personal douchebaggery that has always been a blight on the Clinton terms-- the nation’s economy in those years was strong, the federal budget was balanced, and there were no foreign wars. Former (and boy do I love using THAT word) Vice President Cheney, in a recent interview, performed a most amazing reverse backward jackknife and double somersault dive in the pool of “what the fuck???” by laying most problems America is facing either on Clinton’s doorstep, or on Obama’s. He forgot a certain period of time that occurred, oh, let’s see, between 2000-2008. The man, obviously a student of the Big Lie, knows if you say it loud enough and often enough, it creates an echo, and people start to think they’ve heard it from several places, when in fact it is coming from one source. That’s the way he ran his own secret intelligence shop. One piece of raw intel, repeated endlessly until it began to sound like a whole host of buzz. And then you end up with “yellow cake from Niger.”

 

Mr. Obama, you’ve only been in office for some 40 days. I appreciate the tone you’ve tried to set. But the Repubs are incapable of gratitude. And really, they can’t be seen as grateful. That would make them seem ballless to Rush Limbaugh. So they have to continue along in their tone-deaf way, rejecting any attempt at economic stimulus as “tax and spend”, which, when you think about it, is a far more responsible way to do government business than “cut taxes and spend”, which is what the recent 8 years of Republican rule accomplished. I think every time a Republican legislator says that phrase, someone should hold them up to the light (and I promise you by doing so they will cast no shadow). Someone should say, “ You, advocating fiscal responsibility??? PLEEASE!”

 

Soon now, Al Franken will be installed as the Democratic Senator from Minnesota. And the Dems will have 59 votes. 1 vote away from the 60 needed to stifle Republican stall tactics. And I think it will be fairly easy to sway 1 Republican. Easier than if you had to sway a few, though common sense would suggest the opposite. With one guy to get, all you do is say, “ I have one bridge in the budget…, who wants a new bridge in his state? Anyone? A new hospital, named for him?” And the ones who were too slow? Well, their hometown papers will get many stories about how their guy wasn’t taking care of business. Names should be named.

 

Lately, it’s been reported that Repubs who voted against the spending bill are now touting the projects that are coming to their districts. They are claiming that they’ve been bringing home the bacon. Maybe I am missing something here. These guys put in earmarks for their people, then voted AGAINST the bill, then brag about how they got money for local projects?? Isn’t that sort of like seeing that your kid needs an inhaler, but you refuse to take him to the doctor for it, and then your neighbor hears about your kid and buys the inhaler for him, and then you take credit for making it happen. I know the shame meter is pretty low in Washington, but goddamn!

 

Mr. Obama, it’s time to take off the gloves. Be ruthless. Demonize the demons and reward the Republican quislings. Frame the debate as a referendum on Americanism. The Repubs have behaved in a most un-American way—shafting the people in favor of the greed of the few, pre-emptive wars, trampling on the Bill of Rights—what’s more un-American than that? Get messy, sir. Get your hair mussed. Your hero Lincoln, and your other one, FDR, were masters at it. Offering discredited thinking a place at the table is irresponsible. At what point do you imagine they are going to come around? Sad to say, but some dogs can’t be rehabilitated. Some dogs are too damaged, and have to be put down. You don’t have to like it. But that’s why you get the sort of big bucks.