James Thierrée

Don't get your fingers in a cramp from

Googling

and

Wikipediating

the name. He is Charlie Chaplin's grandson. He deserves to be regarded in his own right. He has been performing in circus since he was four years old. I have finally seen him perform with his company, in their show

Au Revoir Parapluie

(

Goodbye Umbrella

). The company performed at

BAM

's Harvey Theatre. The last time I was in this theatre was a few years ago, close to when it had just opened. I was stilting in the lobby with

Cirque Boom

as a sort of warm-up to their contribution to

The Lysistrata Project

, which was a national initiative begun to protest the war in Iraq. As I took my seat for

Au Revoir Parapluie

, along with Friends

Kate

,

Patrick

,

Dave & Zoe

, I considered how long it had been since I worked with them all, how long it had been since I performed in a circus show.

Then I watched the show, which made my lungs laugh, my heart burst and my spleen evaporate. Plus it tickled.

Oh guys, guys guys: I can't spend the whole entry raving, but I could. There was so much about the show that I found personally appealing that I actually didn't notice the lack of concrete narrative, which usually irritates me when I attend circus/theatre. It reminded me of good classical music, the way it transports me so that my free association and emotions provide me with my own story. Circus performed with seeming ease, pathos and humor allows one to relax in that just-right way, a way that makes an audience receivers more than interpreters. The older one gets, the more their critical faculty takes over their personality, because they have more and more comparisons available. Great art, in any medium, allows us to happily (gratefully) release that faculty.

So this isn't a critique of the show. I was too inspired by it to be objective, and anyway it's sold out this time around (as opposed to closed, which is what most shows are by the time I get around to my opinion of them). No, all I'm saying, party peoples, is that capital-a Art still exists, and the French probably have more of it than we do. (Stupid French [it's a

joke

, Sara].) Plus (see, you knew that wasn't

all

I was saying), I am very inspired to make my own pale, incomparable imitation-of-style piece based on the show.

There was just so much to it that I want to be doing in my own work, yet am not. I've always been a fan of direct-address that breaks the fourth wall in one way or another (though I remain ambivalent about the Brechtian convention of "breaking character" to speak with the audeince, when in fact you're still speaking lines someone else wrote).

Au Revoir Parapluie

did this with action and clown, but no actor-spoken dialogue. It was completely sincere, yet transported the audience with music and surreal imagery. The performers were all capable of circus feats, yet also strong clowns and actors, sensitive and expressive and subtle. There was nothing pretentious to the show, even when I was amazed by it. Joy without guilt, catharsis without lingering sorrow.

When I was a young man, fresh out of my first professional theatre experience, I was driving around the southern states with my girlfriend of the time (

Friend Rachel

this was, for those of you keeping score at home) and whilst we mused on our performance futures I fantasized about a company of actors trained in dance, and vice versa, who would create brilliantly sincere and physical debut shows. I was going to call it Sugarsweet Willpower, which proves, as though nothing else ever did, that there's a good reason a lot of our youthful ambitions never come to fruition. This was prior to my even contemplating the worlds of circus or commedia dell'arte, and obviously I wasn't well-versed in theatre companies already at work on similar goals. No, I felt this idea was unique and timely, as well as of course feeling fully qualified to found just such an institution.

Ah, me.

It may be a bit gauche at this point, starting my own theatre group. It's kind of what all my comrades do. "Oh, Jeff started a company now? Yeah. Neat. So . . . how 'bout them Mets?" It's not something I'm interested in doing, at least not from a practical standpoint. I've seen too much of the "Artistic Director" process to be fooled by the name, and anyway, where would I find a Producing Director I could work with? (Who are these people? What makes them sign up for all the sucky parts? It ain't the pay, I'll tell you that much.) No, no company-birthing for this persnickity mother. What I might do, given the right circumstances, is make a show.

I say "might," because of

these

three

entries

, from which not much has yet arisen. I'm chomping at the bit to express myself, but not tearing up the track, and I feel as though the gate has been open a long time now. I hope this show was the poke in the rump I apparently need. I'm keeping it alive in my mind, replaying moments and recording my own ideas. It's interesting to me that I have so many outlets for creative expression, yet feel somehow that there's something personal, important and specific I have yet to express in my work. I want

Zuppa

shows to hang from the ceiling. I want

Kirkos

to craft another comedy. I want

UnCommon Cause

to improvise in performance (more). The most direct answer to all of these wants is to just do it myself.

Just as soon as the holy daze is over . . .

Notions (Part 2 of ?)

Friend Davey

responded in some detail to a post of mine from earlier this week:

"When you first mentioned Punch and Judy in your blog, I imagined it as

giant oversize puppets looming over you and Heather. I think I even

went

so far as to describe it like that to a friend of mine. So when later,

you

posted about P&J and then about Stilt costuming insects later, I was

confused, b/c in my head you had already mentioned doing Punch as giant

oversize

puppets, why split them up! So I had to re-read and

understand that

somehow I had added the giant puppets into the mix. What is

Patrick's Sukeu

mask?I saw your sister this weekend and she told me that her

biggest shock was

seeing you come out playing the Trombone. I can't

believe I missed it. The

clown film is ambitious, and ultimately sounds the

most... you I guess.

The most all around you. You've lived in the city

for the better part of your

adult life. It's about time you made it a

thank you card you ungrateful

bastard :P Seriously though, I think the clown

film would be an amazing

piece. Planning on staying in one clown for

the duration will be

challenging no? Does he go back to boring drab at

the end, or does he find

the rest of his troupe?"

All excellent, thought-provoking responses, Davey (even without the bizarre poetic structure Blogger decided to enact upon it), and I thank you and encourage everyone who's interested to chime in on these things. I've been giving a lot of thought to the subject of collaboration lately. So much so, it may be a good new topic heading. Now, if that isn't momentous, I don't know what is.

And I admit: I probably

don't

know what is.

The Punch & Judy thing is in such early stages of development that it's hard to say just what it will be. It's entirely possible that it would--at least at some point--involve Heather and I dressing in enormous P&J puppets, like you see in the NYC Halloween Parade. However, I'm more interested in keeping it simple to begin with, and exploring the characters and situations associated not only with the story itself, but the history of its audiences as well. I mean, we were watching Punch and Judy from an early age. It's just that

Mister Rogers

made them be nice to one another.

Years ago

Friend Patrick

, who is a brilliant mask maker and actor, made me a mask styled after discussions we'd had and named after the alter ego Friend Davey bestowed upon me in high school. It's very raven-like, with a rather long, stout beak and round eyes and for years now I've only played with it in private, experimenting and trying to allow, rather than force, what that character wants to be.

The clown film (working title:

Red Signal

) is ambitious indeed, particularly given that I know virtually nothing about film making and have no budget even for my day-to-day life, much less for a film. Still, for a couple of years now I've been mulling over the possibilities for making a sort of digital video demo of the piece, and Davey's questions help to move it along. No, it would not be hard to stay in the same clown the whole time. I'd have to chart out his progress to keep it all organized in my mind while filming non chronologically, but it would be essentially my personal clown character, and that's not hard for me to access or stay in. Now, as for the end: Good bloody question. I never thought he'd go back to drab completely, but it's a possibility. I also never even considered that he might find his "troupe." I got locked into thinking of it as a love story with a girl/city, but maybe it could be different.

Also, a couple of other things tickling my fancy (which is illegal in some states):

• Directing now, as an adult, a short play I tried to direct toward the end of college: Mimosa Pudica, by Curt Dempster. First step would be rereading the thing, because it's entirely possible that my tastes have changed. Drastically. But this is my first mental in-road to the possibility of directing more.

• Writing a show called . . . wait for it . . . The Project Project. This may be the stupidest idea I've ever had, but I'm particularly ticklish to it. The idea would be to write a play based on my experiences trying to collaborate to create a play. The idea is a comedy, for now, and would somehow revolve around the action of making a show from scratch, from beginning to end. I recognize this may be a completely Freudian impulse (no, not that kind)--trying to exert control over something inherently uncontrollable (oh...okay: that kind).

Ain't No Party Like A "The Office" Party . . .

Some of you have been awaiting this post for a while now. Like, about three days. Man, am I sorry it took me so long, but when you have an experience as profound as I recently have, you have to allow yourself at least a little time to let it settle in. See if you don't. When you return from a pilgrimage, you need a little "me time" padding at the end. I'm not even sure I'm ready to write about this, but, then again, maybe it's good that I try. Maybe, just maybe, it will further me in understanding the experience.

Last weekend I traveled out to Scranton for work. This is by no means an unusual experience. In fact, nearly half of my adult acting career has been spent in affiliation with

The Northeast Theatre

or their commedia dell'arte branch,

Zuppa del Giorno

. Hell, I go out to Pennsylvania all the time, too, to catch other shows in their season, visit friends and perform or teach workshops at events outside the theatre. Love Scranton. It's like that friend you had in high school about whom everyone else's response was, "You hang out with

him

?" (I probably was "that friend" more often than I had one such.) But you know what they all don't. That, in spite of appearances, this was one of the coolest friends to have, if you took the time to truly get to know him. So: Yay: Scranton!

Scranton was having its biggest event in recent memory last weekend:

The first annual "The Office" Convention

. A couple of months ago I received an email from TNT informing me of this and asking me--along with all their other previous improvisatorily trained (some of them by me, he admitted with trepidation) actors--if I would not like to contribute to a semi-improvised performance in conjunction with said convention. I deliberated a bit. It sounded like a custom-made suckfest, to be honest with you. Improvising in a mall? For an audience who was there to see celebrities? I have participated in events before that I have since blocked from my memory, lest they convince me never to mount the boards again in my whole life ever ever (perhaps a future entry will be devoted to

The Dreaded Borders Incident

from our efforts to promote

Noble Aspirations

). Ultimately I decided to go for it, however. I love the show and improvising in general and, frankly, realized it can never hurt to brush sleeves with working television actors.

Various things came to be in the intervening weeks. I spent two months night-and-day improvising to create and perform

Prohibitive Standards

. Friend Sam came to be inscripted to direct the event, and Friend Steve to craft an initial scenario. Finally, just about every cast member but the five most major was confirmed to attend, and at least one--Oscar Nunez--had promised to perform with us in our little shopping mall adventure. Last week, in my few days back in New York before heading out again, I tried to save up energy for . . . well . . . I knew not what. But I had lots of indications that, whatever it was, it was going to be surreal.

The first of these occurred around 4:00 PM Friday, when we New Yorkers were scheduled to meet our ride on the corner of 32nd Street and 8th Avenue. It was a dismal day of swelling, cold rain when we individually happened upon the realization that there

is

no

32nd and 8th. It is one of those rare idiosyncrasies of midtown New York city planning, a result of Madison Square Garden and the main branch of the post office on either side of 8th, like enormous children engaged in a game of

slot car racing

. We knew our ride was "a limo being sent out for us." There were four of us, and we promptly set about keeping our eyes open for a regular old town car, debating whether it would have Pennsylvania or New York plates.

When we found our ride at last, we found it was a white, stretch, SUV limousine. No foolin'.

Bear in mind: The actors were being paid a $50 food stipend for the weekend. They did, to their great credit, put us up in a very nice hotel.

Further surreality came upon us as we arrived in town late, due to weather and confusion. After getting checked in to the hotel, we all sqeezed into David Zarko's

Prius

(penance for our boat trip out) to be driven to the rehearsal, already in progress, in

The Steamtown Mall

. (Or: "The Mall at Steamtown," depending how posh you wish to sound.) We walked right in through the front doors to discover an informal sort of party going on. Everyone of our cast of non-Office folk, about a dozen, was there on a stage in the dead center of the mall that was decorated with huge replicas of the cast members' faces. There were also several people representing the

Scranton Chamber of Commerce

, who had brought with them a cooler full of wine and beer. I wasn't planning to partake. Then I found out we weren't working from a written scenario, and were just going to be assigned characters that we were welcome to throw out as well. For three hours we were brought drinks as we tried to choreograph a concluding brawl to our as-yet-unknown scenario. I had to concentrate to avoid imagining scenes from the film

Dawn of the Dead

. The perk for me (continuing our foray into the surreal experience) was to wish aloud for a paper shredder on stage, and actually have a maintenance man bring one down in a matter of minutes.

The next morning we were rehearsing in the theatre (there is no rest for capitalism) and had a few more actors to incorporate, so the brawl changed completely. We also did character interviews as a way to explore our burgeoning, soon-to-be-realized-whether-they're-ready-or-not characters. We also did a little

Viewpoints(TM)

work for a warm-up. What else did we do? Let me see.... Um.... It's all kind of a blur, really. Over the entire three hours there was a mounting sense of dread, born in part from the recognition that there just wasn't enough time to create something reliably good. The best we could do was plan an entrance and exit, promise to try not to interrupt one another and give the rest to God. There are, after all, no atheists in foxholes.

At 1:30 we came to the mall in pieces, and all was chaos. The stage area was already teeming with fans being warmed up by schwag give-away and a local team mascot (who, as it turns out, can do a wicked handstand IN A GIANT PENGUIN OUTFIT) and various of our cast didn't have their cell phones in their costumes, so it was nigh impossible to get together on anything. Once, miraculously, we were all in the general area of the stage, assuring eager audience members that we wouldn't be blocking their view much longer, everything held in place for a good twenty minutes. Not a one of us knew what was going on, and there was no one to tell us. We moved in our entrance groups from side to side of the stage as an emcee (likely self-appointed) berated the crowd with commands to clear the stairways, and threatened to forcefully expel them if they acted up in the presence of the celebrities. I was reminded of high school pep rallies, and contemplated the possibility that there may be no such thing as a terminal velocity when it comes to that plummeting feeling one gets in one's stomach at such times.

Then, unexpectedly, I was buoyed. A family asked me and my comrades (as we nervously awaited some sign from above for when to take the stage) if we were part of the entertainment. We informed them we were, and they were instantly excited and bashfully asked if they could take their picture with us. As we got into place to have our photograph taken, they explained to us that they were "stockholders," which meant that they had paid a good amount for a ticket to all the events this weekend. Big fans of the show, and they were just as excited to get a moment with us--we working stiffs (with occasional limo benefits)--as they were to be there at all. We had to cross to the other side of the stage for our entrance (again), and bid them a fond farewell. That's part of what's great about "The Office"; it makes heroes out of regular joes.

Well, the performance itself was chaos, utter and complete. We all entered the stage at once, rather than as a start to our story. Friend Geoff, thank goodness, and his scene partner Will had been warming up the crowd for about twenty minutes as bumbling security guards, so our entrance as relative nobodies had a strong enough precedence so as not to seem utterly random. No sooner had we sat down at the long table, when the performers from the show arrived to screams of delight.

Oscar

,

Daryl

and

Andy

(the other one) sat down with us, and we were off. No one could hear us, of course, because the acoustics were God-awful and the mikes were all set at different levels. Control of the "meeting" bounced between Friends Heather and Sam, who were just trying to keep the ball passing to the cast members. Oscar seemed most at home in the chaos, spinning off some really wonderful replies. Daryl was a crowd favorite, and eventually really got the spirit of the thing. Andy, poor guy, seemed a little confused. I can't say as I blamed him.

For my part, I quickly gave up on speaking. I wasn't near a mic, and could tell anyway that only the cast members were going to get substantial laughs for speaking, invited as they are into everyone's home once a week. So I became shameless quickly, an eager accountant who kept standing up from the table when he was referred to, and had to be asked to return to his seat.

The climax of my performance, quite clearly, came about in establishing a conflict with one actor who was playing an environmentalist and kept complaining about Dunder Mifflin's recycling policies. At one point I took the shreddings of report pages from the shredder's canister and threw them in his face. Shameless? Yes. But effective. I found three times to do it, and the third time coincided with the ending brawl, in which I made sure to cover a good portion of the audience in paper as well. If any show executives were watching, I probably dropped a nuke on any possibility of their being impressed with my performance. But, hell: the crowd loved it.

That was the note the performance ended on, and we got good applause for it. It was fascinating to watch the actors from the show get wrangled (eventually) off the stage by their respective assistants, whose job, it seems, is to be abrasive so the stars can be genial. They were just that--all of them--and I was impressed with how ready they had been to play a mall with us. Thereafter, we collectively sighed and were hosted to dinner and an open bar on the second floor of

The Banshee

. The cast broke up there for various destinations. I went with a small group to the nearby, quaint little town of Waverly to watch another amateur production: A haunted house, hosted by theatre students of Friend Michaela. As we wound our way through bloody dioramas, startled by the occasional thrust arm or sound effect, I thought about how useful fear is, and wondered how much of it I would visit upon myself just for that feeling of relief, and occasionally satisfaction, when it passes.

As They Say In This Biz, That's All There Is...

So

Prohibitive Standards

has had its last call. Yesterday we ran the scenario for the last time, and received our last applause. I have, of course, work coming up to comfort myself with. This weekend is

the

The Office

convention

at which a large group of

TNT

actors (including this guy) are performing, and then there's the chance of participating in First Look again, the acting company of NYU's graduate playwriting class. That latter comfort is doubly so, as the playwright providing the material in this case is an old friend and comrade of the boards,

Avi Glickstein

. Thereafter, no work is waiting, and my intention (the which we hope will finally be fulfilled in part owing to publicly confessing it here) is to enroll in an audition class to brush up the old chrome. All good things. Still, one goes through a feeling of some grief whenever a show comes to a close, especially when it's one you've made yourself.

Some retrospective analysis is owed, too. I realized, just before we opened, that I was playing three-and-a-half characters (I'll explain in a minute) and that each of them had something to tell me about where I stood with myself right about now. When a "creactor" works on a show with his or her fellow "creactors" and "crewriters" and "credirectors" (Nat: my readership may never forgive you

that term

) some of that creactor's personality and personal life inevitably end up in the show. Get closer to the particular contribution of the given contributor, and you get closer to his or her story. In the case of the creactor, this is his or her character creations. So: My characters . . .

My primary character (that is to say, the one with the most involvement with the story) was Joe "The Barber" Barbara. This was an actual gangster of the time, about whom you can read more at

the

Prohibitive Standards

research 'blog

. I made great efforts to steadfastly ignore and refute any historical accuracy in my portrayal of the goon. I think it's probably very unlikely that he was even in Scranton in December of 1933. So my Joe ended up being a rum-runner on the run with his girlfriend (

Heather Stuart

reprising her most popular role of

Miss Dimple

) making a last shipment to the Jermyn on their way to settle down in Kansas. He was a control freak, accustomed to using the threat of violence to turn negotiation to his advantage. He also suffered from a strange phobia, whereby he passed out whenever anyone touched him. His arc was to bluster about trying to beat everyone at everything, gradually realizing throughout that control isn't terribly satisfying, and that to be truly safe he has to allow himself to be a little vulnerable.

My secondary character was Buddy "Bud" McPherson, a Scranton cop who had a working relationship with the owner of the Jermyn's supper club. Bud was an orphan with strict morals who grew up under the tutelage of the church and savored stage performance all his life, from vaudeville to musical theatre. He also was a teetotaler, and prided himself on his ability to stay on the straight and narrow. Unfortunately, he was also a total coward. Bud feared just about anything that moved, and only succeeded as a cop in how amenable he was to compromise (a suitable tactic in the permissive nature of Prohibition-Era Scranton). His arc was thinly penciled into this show, as he was more of a device than a fully formed character. Most of his transformational experiences took place offstage, in the form of finally resorting to drink to try and overcome his cowardice. Every time he entered, he was a little more intoxicated, until finally he makes his last entrance to confess his failing. In so doing, he comes to realize that nothing was quite as bad or threatening to his person as he had made it out to be in his imagination.

Finally, my tertiary (and a half) character was an anonymous hobo. Anonymous, that is, until the end, wherein it is revealed that he is in fact John J. John, long-lost husband of Rosie O'Grady, the supper club's owner. That revelation ends a series of revelations in which it is revealed that Joe and Bud are also their long-lost sons. (The men of the family all fell overboard off the Titanic, feared to be lost for all time.) But before all that, the hobo is just a hunched, obscured, mumbling and shuffle-footed vagrant who wanders in off the street. No one can understand a word he says, but he's on a mission to find John J. John (having no idea that he is him) in the hopes that he can return the man's bond certificates to him and acquire from him some information as to his own identity. For twenty-one years, J.J.J. has had amnesia and scoured England and the east coast of America for hints as to his true identity, but he makes no real headway until he drinks the scant remains of Rosie's bathtub gin (brewed from a batch of perfume called "Total Recall") the which instantly returns his memory of himself as a sophisticated, articulate and successful businessman.

Above all, the hobo was my favorite role to play. There's something about a (virtually) silent character that I find very appealing. I think, to me, it's a bit like classical music, the way it invites the audience to have their own experience, rather than spend effort trying to interpret a lot of verbal specifics. Plus, it's just beautiful. People gathered in a room, in silence. It was a welcome contrast to much of the rest of the show. My second favorite character, Joe, also ended up in an unspoken scene with a character we included who represents a young (and uncharacteristically slender) Orson Welles. The thing that was great about Joe was that he was literally all talk. Threaten as much as he liked, he could never actually touch anyone; until, that is, he let go of the need to get his own way. Bad was fun at times, those times mostly having to do with when I was working against his cowardice. J.J.J.-realized had a mere cameo, but he did allow me to say, in my own take on

David Niven

, "Where the devil am I?!"

What does it all mean? Well, I think I'll leave it largely up to interpretation. Them what know me probably read along and thought, "Yeah, that sounds a lot like Jeff." I find it interesting that I ended up creating and playing characters who all--one way or another--didn't know who they were. I also find it interesting that I played twin brothers, one sensitive and cowardly and the other a menacing blowhard, and never the twain shall meet. Beyond that, I think my creations and interpretations were largely very similar to my efforts in recent years to move past the doe-eyed, milquetoast type in comedies. Last Zuppa show it was a lazy drunkard git cum tarnished opera diva, and now Heather and I are aiming to make a show based on the Punch & Judy tradition. I may never leave behind the Harold Lloyd/Pedrolino type. I guess I wouldn't want to, not wholly. It's just good to try to explore all the angles of one's self, especially in a medium so conducive to that exploration.

Prohibition is over, the noble experiment concluded. Who needs a drink?

I Did It My Way . . . With a Little Help From My Friends

Lately I have been wondering where I am headed with this whole

Zuppa del Giorno

thing. That seems a fairly natural consideration at this point. I mean, I just turned thirty years of age. For the past five years I have given a significant portion of my career time to working in this milieu, and in that time we have achieved many of the seemingly impossible goals we set for ourselves, such as simply maintaining an improvisatory theatre troupe for so long, going to Italy to teach, learn and perform, and developing work that honors and (I believe) advances a tradition of theatre oft neglected this side of the Atlantic. Add to that the homecoming nature of

Prohibitive Standards

(with David as director again and returning to completely improvised dialogue) and there's very little reason to worry over a need for personal reflection.

Yet I worry. In spite of investing so much and believing even more in embracing the unknown, it is disturbing to feel a lack of drive in this work. Perhaps it's very simple: We still don't know what next year's mainstage show will be, thus I have nothing specific to keep ruminating on at odd moments during the year. I think, however, it has as much to do with that uncertainty as it does with a certain frustration on my part. This frustration may best be characterized by a metaphor concerning the actual action of performing improvisation.

To wit: In long-form improvisation, one needs a certain familiarity at least with one's stage partners. In commedia dell'arte, this is enhanced by established bits of business carried from show to show, called lazzi. It's necessary to have some things understood. However, it is equally necessary to have a sufficient balance of completely spontaneous, unrehearsed moments--to have them, recognize them and take advantage of them. That's what gives the form its life, its truth and the lion's share of its joy.

And here am I (in the larger picture [the one in a five-year frame]) feeling as though it's all planned out. The scenario has solidified to the point whereat it is almost calcified. And more significantly, I feel as though I don't have quite the same things to contribute to breaking it up as I used to. When I started this work, I was twenty-five years old, with most of my background in stylized comedy sampled from sitcoms and farces. I leaped in headfirst, heedless of danger, and accepted everything I was told. My energy was boundless and I was determined to do wild things with unrelenting abandon. So it seems to me now, at any rate. Over half a decade, I have changed, and the work has been through many changes itself. It's difficult to distinguish between the two, speaking quite frankly. What changed in a given circumstance? It or me?

I suppose that's just one of the mysteries of life. And these changes in direction can't always be controlled, even when they're perceived to be happening. The challenge is to change with them, and carry the momentum forward. Accept and build. "Yes, and...."

What fun is it, knowing exactly what to do next, anyway?