Theatre: The Original Social Media

Teenagers are not dumb.

The movie adaptation of

Interview with the Vampire

came out in theaters in late 1994, plopping it right into my senior year of high school, and bringing

Friend Davey

and I to Springfield Mall one fine day to see it. Malls, at the time, were one of the few social milieu available to us in our particular environment -- not that we ever talked to anyone there, but that was more us than the environment, I think. At any rate, Springfield was well-waned in popularity at the time, making room for the cleaner, generally fancier Fairfax Mall, so it was strange that as we were leaving the movie I thought I saw someone I knew. Thought, that is, only for a moment. Where at one moment I thought I had seen a familiar pair of eyes and a flash of radiant hair, there was nothing when I checked back. Well, that wasn't so odd. I had just spent a couple of hours in the company of some rather charismatic vampires, after all.

These kids today, with their so-called vampires, glimmering and psychic and whatnot . . .

I have zero insight into what social conditions exist for the teenagers of today. They have ten thousand methods of communicating, but who knows how well that works, unless you're one of those who is newly double-digited in age? What I do know is that it's in our teenage years that it grows imperative that we become social creatures, and that a lot of our energy is spent solely on figuring that out. Not all that long ago, a teenager wouldn't be allowed out to a movie without a guardian or chaperon of some kind, terrified as we were of the assignations that might occur. Apart from serving as a rather absolute method of birth control, I can't see that there'd be much point to such restrictions anymore -- they'll only go and render 3D avatars of themselves on 2nd Life and get on with getting to know one another as well as any teenagers could ever hope to.

"Social networking media" has changed a lot of things about our methods of communicating, though it remains to be seen if the content and intention of that communication has changed dramatically. Truth be told, it is in many ways returning us to older forms. Facebook, for example, seems like a kind of oddly tiered public forum until one considers that for years upon years the borders of social circles were similarly enforced, only by money and class instead of who you know (as though the concepts were so extricable). MySpace felt like a sort of coliseum of kill-or-be-killed customization and lecherous advertising by comparison, and Twitter is . . . uh . . . man, I

still

don't know what Twitter is supposed to be. It feels a bit to me like the one-liner exchanges detectives on a stake-out have, or hunters gathered around a fire, except

every single person everywhere is there

.

They are all public forums, and there's a mistake in supposing this is something new. An easy mistake, really, because for a long time we've all been pretty focused on privacy. There's nothing wrong with that, obviously. I like my privacy too, but all things in moderation. Time was, being entertained was a social occasion. (I'm about to blow your mind.) A theatre was the place that one would do all this stuff we're now excited to do through computers. Performers and audience alike would have all kinds of dialogue, assignations and accidental encounters. They'd chat, they'd collaborate; I'm sure some of them even occasionally tweeted. That was part of the point -- not to hollow out our private space and be polite to those around us and avoid physical contact, but to engage. We all want to engage. That's what theatre is for.

Now, I'm not going to turn this car around if you all don't start using theatre for what it's for (but give your brother back his shoe, or I will). However, I like the world much more when we're all more engaged. Going to the movies to be alone is ridiculous, in other words, and one cannot live by Netflix alone. By God, yes, please: 'blog & tweet & Xbox & make that avatar dance. It's great stuff. But also, every so often, do something to see and be seen in the flesh, because when we just seek to entertain ourselves in isolation we are little more than soulless bloodsuckers, feeding from our own veins.

I should end it there, and the girl I glimpsed outside of the movie way back in 1994 might remain a figment of our collective imaginations.

On Sunday night that girl and I did some very out-of-character things. First among these was that we were out on a Sunday night; second was that we were seeing a movie; and third was that we were seeing a hopelessly, shamelessly (and I do emphasize here the

utter

lack of shame) popular movie on its opening weekend. These things are bad enough anywhere, but particularly redolent with practical difficulty in New York City, so I bought tickets in advance and cased the joint to find out where the inevitable line might form, and we spared just enough time to get a little oxygen out of our bloodstreams before joining said line well in advance of the opening of the doors. It was kind of nice, actually. Everyone knew why they were there, and some of us seemed more embarrassed by it than others, but no one could judge; not really. As happens with this sort of meme, this zeitgeist, casual conversations formed amongst strangers. Is this the line for tickets, or a seat? Did they say when the doors would open? I got here just in time, I guess. Look: No one's under 25 here, and there are guys! Lots of guys!

Oh, they try hard to give us plenty of material with which to accuse, but it's true: Teenagers, they are not dumb.

The Horror, The Horror...

Do you think anyone has yet mashed up Brando's famous delivery in

Apocalypse Now

with shots of men in traditional Jewish garb dancing traditional Jewish dances? If they haven't, the Internet is a failed experiment.

Sunday last I participated in a staged reading of

Friend Nat

's latest playscript:

Pierce, or, A Ghost of the Union

. The story

is

a ghost one, surrounding the presidency of Franklin Pierce. Nat excels at creating these unlikely mash-ups of supernatural tropes and (supposedly) more lofty and academic material; he's a smart guy who loves Japanese horror films and the work of Stephen King, and his previous plays have included

Any Day Now

(kitchen-sink drama and zombies) and

The Reckoning of Kit & Little Boots

(classical tragedy and time-bending magical [sur]reality). So as unlikely as the combination may seem, it really rather works in the hands of someone who can encompass all the contributing factors, such as Nat.

It reminds me of Friend Geoff, who is lightly obsessed with the hope that a stage play can be genuinely terrifying, and not just existentially, but immediately as well. I've seen two shows that scared me rather well: one was

The Pillowman

, the other a smaller-scale production but awfully well done from Friend Avi's group, Creative Mechanics:

Fall of the House of Usher

.

Pillowman

served up a series of shocks, in effect, that cumulatively broke my sense of trust in the narrative, whereas

Usher

was all-around creepy, seeping into me throughout by way of some incredibly weird and committed performances.

Pierce

is fascinating to me because it seems to adhere so directly to the rhythm of a horror movie, the way such movies often function like roller-coasters, undulating and setting you up over and over again for bigger and bigger drops. This is a far more delicate feat in the theatre than on the screen, though. It takes pitch-perfect balance. It's almost like comedy in its daring: Nowhere to hide or obfuscate your intentions -- you are there, and everyone knows this, to make people laugh. Or in this case, shudder with fear.

Theatre used to do this, you know. Theatre used to do it all, even with equivalents to the glorious orangey fireballs and computer-rendered creatures. It did it all, because it had to. It was all we had, and then just as now we liked being scared, made sad, laughing, and all the good junk in between. Somewhere up the line there started to come these other vicarious, verisimilitudinous experiences, and somewhere not too far beyond that theatre started to place a priority on distinguishing itself. By and large, I think this was good for theatre; I love exploration and a pursuit of specificity, and one of my favorite admonishments I received in college was to, damn it, find what theatre can do that no other medium can. That has served me well, and I'm still making discoveries in that vein. However, it irks me somewhat when specificity leans its way into limitation, and anyway movies do not have exclusive domain over anything having to do with entertainment, with the possible exception of having made and spent astronomical figures on it.

So: Fear. It makes for some pretty powerful catharsis. That's what all the scary movies are about, after all -- inciting some kind of visceral, emotional response from us that we somehow find comfort in (or at least afterward). As with any play or movie, the catharsis needs a good story on which to hang its hat, even if it's a very simple one (such as, mildly troubled family stays in hotel, gets stranded and violently disintegrates) and

Pierce

achieves that with a variety of contextual details such as slavery and impending secession, government and politics, and the strange evolution of the idea of "the media." Perhaps most satisfying, absolutely every character is changed by the events that unfold. In that sense, horror could be called a curious combination of comedy and tragedy (perhaps the eleven-fingered love child). It progresses with a comic rhythm of set-ups and deliveries, yet results in a tragic change, a horrible finality.

Then again, my favorite horror movies have that coda in which it is implied that the horror, the undeniable lack of control, is inescapable and cyclical and bound to repeat itself. Human behavior, at its most horrible. Now who wouldn't cast politicians in such a story?

The ACTion COLLECTIVE: ACT II - A Tale of Two Screens

On Monday Andrew Elliott and I hosted the second ACTion Collective event and, despite some initial concerns about the responses we received to the invitations, it turned out to be even more rewarding and fun than the first event. It looks like we can learn after all!

We had about a dozen in attendance, which means we would have had more than for our first, had not a few unfortunate last-minute cancellations come our way (wash your hands and sneeze into your elbows, kids). Of that group, nearly half were new attendees, either folks we'd invited before who couldn't make ACT I, or "second generation" ACTors, who were invited by folks who were in attendance for ACT I. (We like the word "ACT.") This time around, the scenes were much shorter, and pulled from draft film and television scripts. We changed the names and such to help camouflage the sources somewhat, gave everyone about twenty minutes to rehearse, then presented them. We also had a gimmick for deciding who went next, granting whomever could guess a given movie quote the power to choose the next group to perform. This worked remarkably well in a number of ways, but perhaps the best result was that we had time to do two rounds' worth -- and fortunately, Andrew and I had prepared enough scripts for this.

ACT II really acquired the feeling of a party as the evening progressed; the good kind, the kind where you not only know almost everyone, but you're also really glad to have a chance to reconnect with them. We served drinks and small food again, and there were groups of two or three who knew one another to begin with, but the atmosphere didn't really develop until everyone had watched and done a little work. Then there developed a sense of gamesmanship, and play, and the simple enthusiasm for exploration that comes of exploring together. It was great. By the end we were gently ribbing one another over our respective abilities (or lack thereof) for celebrity imitation, and laughing aloud at impromptu pratfalls. Oh yeah: And I got to see some seriously cool acting.

It really was a tremendous time and, in addition to that stand-alone reason to feel encouraged to continue, it resulted in a lot of specific clarifications in what The ACTion Collective's ever-evolving mission statement and function should be. There was definitely a spirit created by the room that I found myself wanting more of, a sense of play that encouraged more work and more risk-taking. This is a very important aspect of creating good work, yet it is an oft neglected one as well when it comes to the rehearsal process. It's definitely a component of our ambition with this project, to provide fellow actors with more of what they need. It may seem odd to non-actors that we sometimes need to be reminded of how much fun what we do can be, but I think this is true of almost any work. And acting, in addition to being play, is most definitely work.

Now Andrew and I are feverishly collaborating to come up with a best-of-both-worlds event for December, and I am excited by the prospects. It's a somewhat dodgy time, what with being between holidays and during prime party season, so attendance may be a problem. No work is ever wasted, however. Especially when you're having a good time doing it.

Noir-Xploitation

On Friday last I spent the morning in a suit-n-tie, spitting out rapid-fire dialogue and looking out at the world with bright eyes through squinted lids. Externally, I was a rock -- a firm, callous, image of a man enduring through a quandary, and doing it on very little sleep. Internally, I was a mess, roiling with the myriad, varied possibilities of failure and conscience. Oddly enough -- perhaps even fortunately -- my personal situation reflected that of my character.

Last Friday I played the immortal character of Sam Spade in the final scene from

The Maltese Falcon

as a part of

Michael Bow's final project

for one of his film classes. Now there I was, not a week ago posting about the importance of managing a little leisure time into an otherwise busy schedule (see

6/16/09

), and I'm afraid it rather made Michael's life more difficult that morning. You see, Dear Reader, I must admit that I was not entirely solid on my lines. Oh I tried hard to be, losing sleep on both ends the night before and recording them for myself to play back at every possible moment, but I'm afraid I must confess defeat. It may have been a different matter if the material had been other than it was, but

good ol' Bogey

set the standard for Spade, and there's just no other way to pull off that dialogue but rapid-fire. We'll see how it turned out. In fact, I'm probably more screwed by any errors than Michael, since the only value for me of this work is potential material for a talent reel. But I don't envy him the editing job he's got ahead of him.

I won't rescind my earlier statement about the importance of prioritizing leisure (or living) time. I stick by it. Effective time management is equally important, however, and sometimes one only gets one chance to get it right. Particularly, it seems, when it comes to film.

It's such a strange medium to me, film. On the one hand, you've got multiple takes, hence multiple times to rise to the occasion (less so when your entire shooting time is under two hours). On the other, the actor is almost solely responsible for any rehearsal work that goes into that concentrated period of "getting it right." It seems, in this way, a largely lonely and artificial medium. Yet theatre is also artificial, just in different ways. It's all artifice, and the "art" of it lies in a commonality between the two: Making it live. I'm decent at breathing life into theatre. On film, well, I could use more practice. And in the meantime, good editing.

All that aside, it was an enjoyable experience. Even my sense of panic over the lines was a welcome change of pace from a sense of panic over office supplies, or powers of attorney. I was paired up with

Allison Goldberg

as the femme fatale, and we have been arbitrarily paired up in the past in productions her aunt,

Janice Goldberg

, has directed. (There are invariably jokes about nepotism whenever Allison is in one of Janice's reading events -- I think I could be counted an adopted relative at this point.) I don't know Allison particularly well, which served the scene, but we were familiar enough with one another that trust was there and joking with each other wouldn't be a problem. Fortunately for me, she's also funny, and a good actor. More than once, as I terrifyingly blanked on a line, I found Allison there, as present as ever, and it allowed me to actually let it go and help keep the scene afloat.

Working in film and television is one of those goals of mine that I haven't pursued as avidly as I'd have liked. I've been so focused on a specific theatre career that I consider myself to be rather behind on those credits and experiences. Then again, it may have been a good choice for me. The kind of theatre I most love to do -- the

physically interesting

kind, let's say -- is best attempted and trained in while young, and film work can (theoretically, at least) be sought in spite of just about any gross limitations. In my efforts to explore this area of acting more, I'll have to be patient with my own lack of experience (NOT a strength of mine), as well as vigilant about avoiding an underestimation of the work to be involved. Stepping into the shoes and world of a character I idolize is good motivation. As well as a humbling experience.

Adventure

I've always maintained that just about any event, effort or circumstance can be perceived as an adventure. Some adventures are more entertaining than others, but in any circumstance, calling it an adventure is bound to make everything a bit more entertaining. I immediately second-guess myself in this statement, trying to imagine some of my worst days or least-favorite activities as "adventures," but that is pure cynicism. Besides, I'm unconvinced that it disproves the theory. The fact is, adventures come in all shapes and sizes, and the better adventures have a proper dose of loss and pathos.

I occasionally lament that "adventure movies" fell out of fashion. Then they make another one, and I think,

Oh right...mostly they're crap...good call, Hollywood!

Back in the days of

Erol's

, it was my beeline section, and many a

pseudo-oil-painting-covered

movie found its over-sized box going home with us to play on our VCR. The blending of action/adventure at the movie rental locations was, in my opinion, a fatal move. They are distinct genres. Although adventure invariably contains action, it functions under a rather different formula. Which is to say, the action is more narrative, and generally less dependent on direct conflict. In fact, part of what appeals to me about adventure as a genre is that it has less to do with problem-destroying, and more to do with problem-solving, as fantastical as that solving may sometimes be. I suffer a similar lamentation for the degradation of the genuine spy movie into

Die Hard with Sunglasses

.

Let me give you an example from life.

In my younger years, I would spend whole summers on acting jobs. Such jobs are commonly referred to as "summer stock," in that a company hires a bunch of actors for the whole summer, and uses them in various capacities for a multi-show, two-to-three month season. The company usually provides housing and pay, assuming one is not an intern. This is quite an adventure for some; some being, in this particular case, a rather naive and directionless recent college graduate. The excitement of having to open a checking account and figuring out little practicalities like telephone capabilities (you know, with a cord and everything) for the sake of a few months' time wears off after a few more years of experience, but at the time it was all adventure. So perhaps it was natural for me, especially given my economic position, so see it all as a grand test in which I was the likable protagonist. I had my angst; do not doubt my penchant for angst, good sir. Yet it was all part of a movie-poster adventure.

One morning (midday perhaps; depends if it was a day off) my friend and I discovered that we were in need of matches. Matches are one of those things for which any need is a fairly absolute one. Can we make do with a stick of chewing gum, or perhaps a single, abandoned shoe? No. These things will not help us. We needed fire, and neither of us smoked. My friend's first impulse was to go into the nearby grocery and buy a pack, which would have probably been one of those plastic-wrapped cubes of a year's supply of wooden matches. Nay, said I. Pay for matches? What absurdity! We, instead, shall have an adventure. And we did. Only nominally dressing in street clothes (apply footware and jacket, e voila!) we set out into the strange wilderness of strip malls, parkways and median greens. The grocery store didn't sell cigarettes. The Pizza Hut didn't carry matches. All passing strangers who did smoke only carried lighters. Where was a 7-11? Where had we stranded ourselves that there was no gas station within walking distance? Suddenly, like a beacon on a distant hilltop: A Fancy Restaurant. But alas! Would such a mecca of not only matches, but Really Very Nice High Quality Matches be open at such an hour, on such a day? Surely not . . .

Success can be spelled in a mere six letters: BRUNCH.

As I recall, they were only too happy to give us a number of their matchbooks, thereby prompting our departure; probably because we looked more than a little like recently released psych-ward patients, in our sneakers and pajama pants. Flush with the glory of accomplishment, we returned to the dorm-like apartment with our bounty of RVNHQMs and proceeded to light the stovetop, or fulfill whatever desire the nascent fire represented at the time. I can't remember exactly. It was too long ago, and too trivial in comparison to the journey it inspired.

It's much more difficult for me to adopt this mindset now-a-days, and especially difficult in times of . . . well, difficulty, though I'm aware that's exactly when I need it most. Indeed, it sometimes seems to me that adulthood is all about averting or, when that fails, mitigating disaster. Experience teaches us to be prepared for disaster in all things, to perceive danger in details, and somehow that leads me to associate caution with wisdom. Yet that's only a small part of real wisdom. Life is not that simple, and staying safe can be a very direct route to losing joy. Just as small joys can get us through a day, little risks can result in a lot of joy. It's that possibility of failure, and the refusal to surrender to it, that makes life more spontaneous and rewarding. I think my favorite aspect of real adventure movies, after all, is how much potential there is for unpredictability. Sure, the "good guys" will triumph (unless perhaps it is the second in a trilogy) but what risks will they undergo next to achieve it?

In

Raiders of the Lost Ark

, when Indiana Jones just about gets to his

MacGuffin

(or so we imagine) he is confronted with his worst fear, and gets his soundbite: "Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?" Why, Henry Jones (Jr.)? Because you're on an adventure.