But Mom, I've Got, Like, a Gagillion Hours of Homework...

Keeping with the theme of assignments (see

6/4/07

), today I write to you, most dear reader, about some of the behind-the-scenes work of creating a show from scratch. This, I realize, imperils my ratings (

kicking people in the head

and complaining about

irrepressible sexual urges

, for some unfathomable reason, gets more readership) but it is more in keeping with the purpose of this here 'blog and so I heedlessly hurry onward.

The thing about (okay: only one of the many things about) creating one's own work in a theatrical context is that--at least at the no-to-low-paying level--the creator has to do a lot of work outside the collaborative setting of a kind he or she wouldn't otherwise be doing. I mean, if I'm working on, say,

Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead

(a totally random example, and not at all a play I am performing voodoo rituals in the hope of being cast in), I will do plenty of work outside of rehearsal. There's the simple line memorization, reading up on the backgrounds of Stoppard, Hamlet, late-1960s theatre, Denmark, absurdism, determinism, Shakespeare, etc., working on any tricks or skills the director may want included, dialect training . . . it goes on and on. A good actor becomes obsessed with his or her role and the world of the play for the time he or she is working on it, and does it all to more thoroughly incorporate his or her self into it all. (Man, but I hate the standing rule about not using "them" or "they" to refer to male or female hypothetical persons. He's got the right idea over at

xkcd

.)

(Parenthetically, [this is the most parenthetical parenthetical

ever

{my boss insists on doing this in her letters: saying "Parenthetically," at the start of something

in parentheses

, no matter how many times I point out it's redundant, and I deserve a medal or ribbon or something for not throwing my keyboard at her head}] I have a giant tape X on my lumbar region today, applied by my physical therapist to remind me to sit up straight and bend--if I absolutely

must

--from the hips. I consider this some kind of oblique revenge by

Anton Chekhov

from beyond the grave for

this post

. Plus it's a sign that my body will actually explode this Saturday when I turn thirty. Parenthetically.)

When you are responsible for building the show from the ground up, however, homework takes on all-new, mammoth proportions. The best example of this I have, to date, is the period of weeks leading up to

Zuppa del Giorno

's debut of

Silent Lives

.

Friend Grey

was directing, and we were all pretty obsessed with the subject matter--silent film characters and actors--so it didn't take much to motivate us to spend all our time building that one. Yet somehow Grey managed to motivate us to spend literally every waking hour working on the show. I mean, we just never stopped. Sleep was watching silent films. Eating was learning the bread dance from Arbuckle cum Chaplin cum

Downey Jr.

and

Depp

(Brits: Please don't censor me for my use of "cum" in this context). It was, to borrow a term, ridonkulous.

As Far As We Know

is not that bad. In fact, we often eat and drink during our table sessions, so it's like the opposite. Except for the assignments, which are

hard

and just keep getting

harder

. I have written about these on past occasion (see

2/28/07

-

3/1/07

) and this last, due by early Saturday, is no exception. The assignment, as comprehended by me, is as follows:

We've been given a bunch of material. Using this material (act one of three and numerous transcripts of interviews with people from Matt's hometown and people of related significance), 1) rewrite or create a new scene far act one, or 2) create a stage "moment" with a piece of text from the interviews, or 3) present your character in an impossible situation, or 4) all of the above.

Now, this kind of assignment is how a great deal of the play got created in the first place, with even less to go on. Sometimes these assignments would be assigned in rehearsal, with ten minutes provided for a group to pull something together. I like working this way. Parameters are fun for me (I like the crunching noise they make as I break them, to paraphrase Douglas Adams). Yet somehow I always stress about these

Joint Stock

/

unCommon Cause

assignments. One I stayed up until two in the morning working on one, blasting

Damien Rice

(like that's a bad thing) and practicing punching holes in paper with my finger. It's a measure, I believe, of how high an esteem I hold my fellow collaborators in. They're all such skilled

and

talented actors and writers and directors that I feel a need to rise to their level, and that feeling is most poignant the night before a presentation.

This one's going in a funny direction for me so far, possibly because it lacks some of the specific parameters the prior ones have featured. I had an initial idea: to explore the similarities between my character (the captured soldier) and

Sara Bakker

's (the casualty assistance officer who ministers to his family). But I didn't then set to an examination of their particular scenes, or even rumination on their respective characteristics. Instead, I got fascinated with this idea of

re

writing a scene that we already had. I began to wonder how the play would read if I had been writing it by myself all along. (The answer, it seems to me, is that it wouldn't read, at least not particularly well. I couldn't have gotten more than few steps with this material by myself, and don't excel at writing naturalistic dialogue.) So what I started doing, quite unintentionally at first, was underlining any dialogue that--out of context--directly addressed the experience of the captured soldier or his family and town.

I have NO idea what I'm going to do with this yet. I have some vague notions involving gathering all these fragments together, finding appropriate music (always my favorite element of the assignments) and perhaps drawing more connections between Sara's character and my own. And that's about it. Tonight, I will sit quietly and let my mind stretch and wander over the raw material, and see what happens. Laundry will be done as well, and packing for Italy. Somehow mundane chores always help with idea flow.

And hopefully, by 2:00 AM, I'll be making props out of defunct coat hangers and leftover moving boxes. This, in the mind of a "

creactor

," is the image of a perfect sort of evening. I'm looking forward to it.

Oh Man. This is Such the Bad Idea.

A departure for Odin's Aviary, here. I'm not even going to try to relate this to theatre. Over on

As If You Care

, Mr. Younce has issued a meme challenge, and I scoop forth the gauntlet. There is a glorious site called

TV Tropes

that catalogues in a wikish fashion various types and devices from television shows. (I love this because their tropes extend far back into theatre history [Look! I just related it to theatre!], but I am way too apathetic to try and influence the site in that direction.) As a feature on their site, they have a "

story generator

" that gives one new given circumstances every time the page is

refreshed

. So the challenge is to take a random generation of circumstances and devices, preferably the first you get, and create a pilot based on those givens. Try to think of it as relating to my acting work through improvisation or storytelling. That way I'll feel a little less cheap . . .

TV TROPE PILOT

Tropage:

Setting:

Ruritania

Plot:

Prodigal Family

Mandatory Narrative Device:

Road Show

Hero:

Broken Hero

Villain:

Scary Dogmatic Aliens

Mandatory Character As Device:

Camp Gay

Mandatory Trope 1:

Delivery Stork

Mandatory Trope 2:

Unpronounceable Alias

(Optional) Stock Phrase:

Little Did I Know

(Optional) Genre:

Home And Garden

Episodic narrative loosely based on tropifagia (not to be confused with tropophobia)(but, whoa, am I ever a tropophobiac):

Okay: Stay with me here. This show will be called "Setting the Stage" (thanks be to you,

Jason Morningstar

), and will be the first legitimate combination of reality television [Home and Garden] and live theatre. The show would alternate between the two formats between episodes, twice a week, so each week there is a reality TV episode, and a fictional, directed episode. The teaser for each would appear on the other, encouraging people to watch both at least in time to find out what happens on the other next. For the purposes of my take on this meme, this will be a breakdown not of the first episode per se, but the launch of the first season, over several episodes.

The reality is the staff and crew of a smaller-scale, regional theatre, who have shopped in a show by an acting troupe they believe to be incredibly prestigious, though they haven't actually heard of them before. This theatre believes, too, that a documentary is being made about the troupe. Hence, all the cameras. The acting is (again: stay with me here) the troupe. In other words, the troupe will be comprised of television actors

playing

actors in a theatre troupe. The episodes follow the development process for the production, leading up to a convergence of the two groups--the theatre staff and the acting troupe--on production week, whereupon the characters will merge with the real people in the final work of putting up the show. Prior to that week, the interaction between the two groups will largely consist of the director of the troupe [Camp Gay] making increasingly outlandish requests of the set-building crew, costumer, box office, company manager and whatever other theatre staff who have to prepare for their arrival.

The first run of episodes will concern a production of

The Cherry Orchard

[Ruritania], which the theatre will begin preparations for in good faith. They'll be sent regular set and costume plans one might expect for that story, and buzz will be big about how the prestige of this troupe and show will help the theatre get more successful (this is the perpetual state of regional theatres anyway). We'll receive introduction to the people of the theatre, whomever they may be.

Meanwhile, the troupe begins rehearsals, during which the episodes have more to do with what happens outside of rehearsals than in them. Our main character is Peter, the illegitimate son of

Sir Lawrence Olivier

, who is just a terrible actor, but full of the love of theatre that keeps theatre alive. [Broken Hero] The first actor-episode begins with his narration: "Little did I know, when I joined the Mountebank Players, that it would lead to one of the most real experiences of my pretended life." [Little Did I Know] The action focuses on the personal lives of the actors who are playing the more minor roles (Peter plays the Postmaster). As they contend with their director, Phineas Rhett, whose "concept" for the show becomes more and more outlandish, they bounce against one another, falling in love, forging alliances and making life-long enemies. Each character is a development of certain theatrical stereotypes, real and empathetic, but capable of absurd actions.

Meanwhile (back at the Batcave), the natives grow restless. Phineas has continued to make ludicrous requests ("Tell me again why the hell we need a giant X in the middle of the stage?" one of the set painters might complain) and the theatre management is hopefully fairly nervous about how it will all come together. There have been hints about Phineas changing the ending, a prospect that no one is eager to comprehend with regards to such a classic play. We follow the interplay of personal relationships as they get tested by this tug-of-war between hope and fear. I can't write that part; it's up to reality. Meanwhile, a familiar voice has been calling the box office repeatably, asking to be transferred to various departments and asking them about the preparations for the show. No one can figure out who it is, however, and when he's asked, he keeps saying his first name is John and mashing together names from

The Cherry Orchard

for his last name. I.e., John Liubovandreievnaranevskaya. [Unpronounceable Alias]

As we approach production week, the troupe travels to the town the theatre is in [Road Show], and reality and fiction begin to merge as the actors in the troupe (characters) are introduced to the town at large and

the actors playing them have improvisations with random townies

. (Stay. With. Me. Here.) We've established their characters and relationships amongst themselves, and now get to see them interact on the fly with non-actors, both satisfying our understanding of each character and setting up expectation for their coming together with the theatre staff, who we know quite well by now as well. Peter has had all kinds of misfortune--physical injury, overheard comments on his acting, rejection by the woman playing Dunyasha, Irina, whom he has fallen in love with and who refuses to fall for actors--yet he keeps his plucky attitude. He's the one whom even those who despise him turn to for moral support in their various soap-operatic crises.

Finally (I know

I'm

thinking "finally," so I can only imagine what you people are thinking) it comes to production week. The emphasis of coverage is still the interpersonal as the fictional actors interact with the real employees of the theatre, and there's the added twist of a closed-door tech rehearsal policy, and the troupe bringing their own "special effects" supervisor. No one's seen the end of the show.

The season finale is the production itself, liberally interspersed with reaction shots of the audience and theatre staff. Essentially, the troupe begins with a very standard, period production of

The Cherry Orchard

, well constructed and acted. As they continue, however, the play becomes more and more deconstructed until the dialogue begins to sound like . . . well . . . television cliche. In addition, the new bourgeois class (Peter playing such a role) begin exhibiting strange behavior, like wearing towels on their heads and lurching about, zombie-like. [Scary Dogmatic Aliens] If they get to the end of the show (and this being a reality-TV hybrid, who's to say?), we see the ending has indeed been changed. It ends with a white helicopter descending through the ceiling, from which

John Malkovich

(clearly the mysterious caller from previous episodes) emerges, playing Gorbachev and offering to take everyone to Moscow for milk and cookies. [Delivery Stork] All the characters depart, leaving an empty stage and the sound of copter blades threshing cherry trees.

The fall-out from all this is that the theatre is let in on the "real" situation, though they never interact with the actors outside of their characters or anything like that. The theatre is granted a large sum of money (plus allowed to maintain their modifications such as tremendous fly space and a helicopter) and gets to list Malkovich as being a member of their board. Peter realizes through this experience that his love of theatre isn't best met by acting, but by working behind the scenes. Malkovich gets him a job at Steppenwolf (as a sort of "postmaster") and Irina follows him there to act and let herself fall in love with him. This leaves two openings in the Mountebank Players, the which are filled by two aspiring actors from the regional theatre's staff. And next season, they will play themselves or some hybrid thereof, and thr troupe will travel to a different theatre with a different show and a different celebrity will contribute the deus ex machina.

Fin'.

So there's my trope-inspired "pilot." I don't know how I feel about it, except to say that I love working in this format. It reminds me of my theatre sports days, given numerous disparate elements and having to construct something satisfying from them. (The overall satisfaction of this particular assignment is fairly dubious.) This product is, of course, way too elaborate and expensive for a premiere of any kind, much less a pilot or pitch, but I'm pleased with some of the interesting ideas I got to play around with. In so much of my creator/actor (or "

creactor

," as

Friend Nat

coins) work I play with the dimensions between reality and fantasy, and this presented me with some new nooks and crannies. It was a buttery english muffin of a meme.

Good night, and good luck . . .

Stop Giving Me Paying Work. I'm Busy.

Wouldn't it be nice? (And do you now have that Beach Boys song stuck in your head?)(Well, you do now, don't you [And how many of you think instantaneously of the montage in

Roger & Me

when you think of that song?]?) I'd love to say that. More to the point, to be able to make a majority of my decisions based on something other than money. The common cure to capitalism leaving you cold is to make so much money that it becomes "no object." Apart from being common, this may be the only known "cure." Can you "sense" my "scepticism" by my use of

"

quotes

"

?

Sometimes I feel like the title of this 'blog should be "Don't Get Me Wrong": Now, don't get me wrong -- I'm hoping to win the lottery someday. (Without ever playing? Yes. Without ever playing.) I will not kick thirty million dollars out of bed. Mostly because I would be smothered to death by it, and what a way to go. I'd love to be rich and famous. There. I've said it. I've put it out there, universe. Now, according to The Secret(TM), I should be getting smothered to death any day now. (And for those of you who followed the link, I beg of you: Stop playing on the conveyor belt of the universe.)

The issue of income is a constant one, but perhaps not quite so piquant with the odor of fear as when a person of modest income (read: me) finds him or herself in a position of A) Needing to spend a large amount of money, and B) Likely to soon incur large expenses owing to a lot of work coming up. Now, for a lot of people (I nearly typed "most people"--a wicked assumption on my part) a lot of work equates to more money. Not so in the case of struggling . . . well, anybodies. You're struggling. That's the unspoken struggle. You're not getting paid (or not getting paid much) for the thing you spend the most of your time on. Actors, at least, can have a certain limitation on this poverty when they pursue their careers in the most conventional sense. That is, we have to struggle to actually get the work, whereas visual artists or musicians or comedians can pretty much plunge themselves recklessly into a continuing downward spiral of self-nullifying, non-paying struggle. Yet an actor can, if said actor is so inclined, fulfill the same prophecy on his or her self. They just have to self-produce. That's the fast lane to destitution, right there.

It's not as bad as all that, I must admit. I am adopting a cynical tone for the purpose of humor, but (and maybe this is just the weather, and a cold coming on) it is rapidly growing darker than I really feel. It's great to do what you love, in almost any context. It's a trade-off, a blessing and a curse, to make your job your love, and vice versa. It's a little chicken-and-egg, but perhaps that's why so many actors one meets seem to have something to prove.

The other day I plopped down $2,400 in money orders to secure my new apartment. I had thought, due to a misinterpretation of the ad, that it needed only to be $1,600, and so part of my time spent off the day-job clock securing this apartment involved running out to my bank and acquiring another money order for $800 (and acquiring one more service fee of $5, thank you HSBC). Thankfully, I had it in checking. Often times, I don't. My account balances are a dance of heart-warming delicacy, between the needy Checking and the generous--albeit nary well-endowed--Savings. (There's also a much-neglected IRA, but he doesn't feel inferior, just unappreciated.) I got it done, and keys in hand, and then it was off to spend money on van rental and cleaning supplies. And soon I'll be off to Italy, where it is not exactly clear--as the whole venture now must be bank-rolled by the artistic director--whether or not we'll receive any per diem or such. Between gigs this summer, I have probably eight full weeks of day-job money to fund an upcoming 12+ weeks of low- or no-pay acting.

But it is ever thus. Especially in the summer, when everyone gets inspired to work. Inspiration can take one a long way, and not just into credit card debt. I schedule my summer work regardless of budget--to a certain extent--assuming I can maintain enough liquid flow through discipline or fund-juggling to make it through, and then make up the differences and debts in the Fall. I do it this way because one never knows from where one's next job is going to come, because the work can fuel itself longer than I might imagine at first assessment and because it is freeing, which is a quality an actor really can't overrate.

This is my last full week of work at my day job before beginning the sporadic and varied travel involved in my real job. It's important that I work as much as possible in order to squeeze out as much hourly waging as possible, in spite of having a new apartment to adapt and writing homework for

As Far As We Know

and the big three-O coming in for a landing this weekend. I'll do it, all the while contemplating the experience of working with Italian comedians. Of course, the best part about working in Italy is that my cell phone won't work there.

There is absolutely no way that my boss can find me to offer me paying work.

Panic Panic Panic Panic Panic ... wait. Yes: Panic.

So today was the first day, since

starting

this Aviary of Odin's, that I came into work with plenty of free time, and didn't feel remotely like doing an entry.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Perhaps you think I'm overreacting. Perhaps I am. I've been sitting here, between assignments, trying to conceive of what innocuous reason might be attributed to this change. I've considered: having finished my apartment hunt, coming up on a birthday, not having worked in a while ("a while" in this context being two weeks) and my recent forays into "interior massage," as my physical therapist(s) refer(s) to it. None of these offers me decent enough explanation, so I begin to fear the worst.

Odin's Aviary may be going the way of every previous attempt at journaling I've ever ventured, and losing relevance in my grand scheme of things.

I don't want to jump the gun on this. I mean, one day of waning enthusiasm in a five-month run is hardly a death knell. Still, it worries me. Prefer my day job over my 'blog? What's next? Preferring collating over memorizing lines? Choosing to compile uncontested divorce papers over practicing my handstand? That was part of the idea in starting this thing in this way. If there's one thing in my life I'm unlikely to lose enthusiasm for--not to mention one thing I

need to be aware of

losing enthusiasm for--it's my pursuit of fulfilling work, and a fulfilling life thereby. So the panic seemed a bit more justified in that context. This isn't just some private diary for recording my thoughts on who I'd like to sleep with (Rachael Leigh Cook,

I'm looking in your direction...

), but a gauge for and exploration of my choice of T

he Third Life

(all rights reserved).

So what do I do in my office-ensnared panic? I turn to the interwebzizines for comfort. Fortunately, I didn't resort to YouTube or some such nonsense, but turned instead to one of the great gifts of these worldwidenettingz:

xkcd

. Wherein I found

this

.

And I was struck by how funny I found it. It's so CRUEL. So cruel. But it's a delicate thing, too, up for interpretation. If there was a punchline, even one preceded by an ellipse (suggesting a pause) it would lose its charm. Instead, the punchline is the silence. I love that. I love how funny a silence, even (or perhaps: particularly) an awkward or painful one, can be. The lack of information is a significant part of the humor. Similar to Buster Keaton's

stoneface

, a stick figure can reveal nothing about the slighted character's reaction, and we are instantly compelled to identify with it, to interpret the blank according to our own experiences and needs.

AND THEN

Friend Todd

, amidst a flurry of emails confirming travel plans (apparently I am to be the Sherpa of Todd's toiletries; no sacrifice too small for our art), recommends to the kernel group of

Zuppa del Giorno

this article

. For those of you unfamiliar with Bill Irwin, for shame. Plus: You're probably more familiar than you think (he was in the music video for "

Be Happy

" and made an appearance on

The Cosby Show

. . . so everyone knows his face, if not his name). A lot of his self-generated, clown-style work is silent, though now he is clearly transitioning into more conventional theatre. He's an amazing physical performer.

All of which serves to reorient my mind toward work, and thereby away from panic. Now I'm thinking about how my noseless clown (dubbed Lloyd Schlemiel in some circles) came to life the last time I was in Italy, and how little I've done with him since, and how the few times I have revisited him it's been surprisingly fulfilling. I'm thinking about the pure joy of the first time I stilted in the New York Halloween parade, silently communicating with hundreds of revelers from the middle of the Avenue of the Americas. I'm thinking about how easily I can post my work online now, and the possibilities of that.

I'd be panicking, but I'm too excited.

That Is The Subject To Which I Am Referring!

It's a joke. It doesn't translate very well when typed. Friend Adam used to be quite fond of celebrating a victory--his or someone else's--by jumping up and shouting, "

That's

what I'm talking about!" (That's what he used to say. Now it's usually, "What!

What!

" As in, "What do you think of me now?") I got to sharing/mocking Adam's enthusiasm by chiming in with overly formal versions of this phrase, said with the same enthusiasm. Ergo: That is the subject to which I am referring! Other faves include:

• That is the topic of my conversation!

• That is what I am expositing upon!

• That is the approximate meaning of the words I am speaking!

Silliness, but it taps into a very personal aspect of my humor; specifically, the self-deprecating aspect of it. More specifically, mocking my formality, relative intellectualism and very sincere desire to join in the fun of rowdier, more relaxed personalities. It's interesting to me to think that, to some of my friends, I am that type. I do crazy things, like go to Italy and forego income for a month, or stilt walking, or standing on a platform in front of hundreds of people and crying. I have a job at a desk, and yet I insist on risking my health (usually sans health insurance) in order to elicit a few gasps or chuckles from people who probably haven't even paid for the privilege to see me do so. But most people I know, other performers, see me mostly as the conservative type.

This is on my mind today owing mostly to the apartment hunt. (ALL HAIL THE APARTMENT HUNT! ALL SERVE THE APARTMENT HUNT!) It's hard for me to phone strangers, to visit their apartments and stroll through neighborhoods that are A) unfamiliar, and B) usually not terribly similar to where I come from. I have lots of actors friends who

rule

at this sort of thing. Absolutely rule. They walk in a room smiling, shake your hand and make you feel like you're the one they've been looking for all day, yet not in a way that's overwhelming or artificial. Somehow they do it in a way that just makes you want more of their attention.

It seems like a natural extension of their craft. If you think about it, it means every part of their day is in some sense acted. We always talk about wanting to act more, we actors, and complain of not having enough opportunities. These may not be the exact circumstances we crave, these moments of conversational dexterity, but it incorporates a lot of the same skills, and it feeds so nicely into creating more opportunities for the real thing. Practice, praise, good vibes and more work, what's not to love about it?

This, however, is not me. I have my moments, true, when I captivate attention, but never in a sense that puts people at ease. Gets them excited or, at best, laughing suddenly, sure, but never relaxing or enticing them. In fact, my best bet for charming the socks off people is to trip when I come in the room and just keep up that clownish energy throughout. I used to perform in shows this way, always going, always with a forcefully klutzy energy. Hopefully I've learned enough to back off of that now and again on stage. In life, it has become balanced with a slightly more limited resource of energy and an almost complete intolerance for bullshit. Which is to say: I don't have time for this, people. Let's just say what we mean and mean what we say, and if you don't care, you don't care, and that's fine. I frequently don't care.

You've had a hard day, and want to share the details with me? Yeah, I don't care. I just want me coffee, thanks. You feel insulted to be the one who has to proctor the auditions when the show doesn't actually even need replacements right now, and want to at least feel like the actors coming in to audition find you attractive? Yeah, I don't care. I just want a job, or at least to feel like I'm fulfilling my obligation for useless auditions. You really, really enjoy walking around your apartment naked except for combat boots, and what's so wrong with that, and if that isn't cool with your roommate she should just get married already? Yeah, I DON'T CARE. I just want to find an apartment, get to the rehearsals for

As Far As We Know

already and get the hell off this subway car.

Sometimes it seems as though to be a high-functioning member of contemporary society is to be capable of dealing with a lot of bullshit. I am not functioning highly. I am done with this. But can I really be done with this? If it's going to make me unlikable and, worse, threaten my ability to get cast? I'm not talking about being a genuine person here. I want to be that regardless of my attitude toward bullshit. It's like the difference between having a great performance in which you didn't really feel in it, and the great performance in which you felt somehow like you were transcending all the pretense and sleight-of-hand to really embody the story. I want the latter. It's not enough to do good, but to do good right.

That

is the matter under discussion in my 'blog entry!