Misanthropic

Last night, with Friends Kate and Patrick, I went to see, of all things, a production of Moliere's

The Misanthrope

. ("Of all things," because of

my recent entry

on eschewing email.) I say "Moliere's," but that not quite where all credit is due when it comes to this production. The play was reinterpreted--as is often

New York Theatre Workshop

's wont--through Messrs. Tony Harrison (translating playwright) and Ivo van Hove (director). I knew this going in, and feared the worst. "Deconstruction" is one of my least favorite words, and I feel a similar hostility toward the process in most cases. I was pleasantly surprised, however, to discover that the interpretation didn't fudge with the language in any grotesque ways. We still had rhyming couplets. We still had scene partners, and all that good (albeit old-fashioned) stuff.

I loved the show overall. The only moments it really lost me were a couple of scenes in which some of the actors playing supporting characters (Moliere is so great about every character getting a good bit in) seemed to make a choice to alternate suddenly between two volume levels: conversational and very VERY LOUD. These moments, though distinct and perplexing, were few, and for the most part the show was exceedingly interesting and accessible at the same time, which is no mean feat. The set design and choreography were striking, and may have overshadowed the acting, had the leads not been so bold within them. The space was like a minimalist/brutalist architect's waiting room, with fluorescent lighting and grey walls, encased on three sides in smoked glass. Up center were three flat-screen monitors rigged side-by-side and set in the back wall to function as a unit. Throughout the action of the play, the set was gradually (though occasionally also suddenly) besmoot with food stuff and garbage, which was just marvelous. There's nothing like the unconventional use of food products on stage.

There's a bit of an informal axiom bandied about by theatre types regarding Chekhov's full-length plays, particularly

The Cherry Orchard

. It has to do with everyone loving to inform and remind one another that good ol' Chekhov called it a COMEDY, and that the play is usually taken too seriously. Well, I'm no authority on Chekhov, God knows. God also knows I'm not acredited as a Moliere expert. However. I would like to posit that, in the converse of the Chekhov axiom, Moliere rarely gets taken seriously enough. It seems to me that he wrote with incredible humor and lightness (not to mention rhythm), but that he was writing about very serious things and, in some cases, unanswerable questions of the human condition. So I like my Moliere with plenty of physical humor, yes, and as many dirty jokes as possible, but I also like at least the occasional bitter-sweet moment of truth. Think Charlie Chaplin. Give your clown a moment or two to cry.

This production of

The Misanthrope

struck what I thought was a wonderful balance between elements of madness and melancholy. If anything, it leaned a little more in the direction of serious theatre than I would have, but I think this is an important part of why it will leave a lasting impression on me. When I saw it last, in college, this play made me feel as though the misanthropic character, Alceste, was completely irrational. In this, though he acts more irrationally, I was convinced of his argument against hypocrisy. The party scene, which Alceste interrupts, was so familiar to me with its group seated around a meal of take-out food, cell phones and laptops flipping in and out, and talk of people not in the room. When he brings it to a halt, laying himself across the table, I thought, "Thank God." And somehow, when his tirade against them erupted into an incredible mess of food, mostly smeared all over himself, I was still with him.

One of the ideas that this interpretation in particular seemed to bring across was that there is no cure for hypocrisy. It's a part of human nature, be it a legitimate survival tool, or absurd self-defense, and a tool for ingratiation. Like hatred or greed, however, it needs to be brought to bear under more virtuous impulses, like love or charity. Or sincerity.

And don't buy an iPhone.

You Never Bring Me Flowers Anymore . . .

No, nor sing you love songs, though that may be to your benefit given my lack of vocal training. Furthermore, I never write. Have not I feelings? Care not I about the individual attentions demanded by the sheer accessibility of all my friends and relations? Should not I, as an actor, be interested in being in constant, continual contact with every person I've ever worked/played with who returns the effort? Doesn't the sheer ease of text messages and email obligate me to at least try myself?

Probably: Yes. Nevertheless, I rebel.

Understand, please, that I'm not making a stand on some moral principle. It would be easy as all hell for me to spin it so. I could claim that the ease of communication creates an environment of a whole lot of words to very little effect, or that the millions of emails and

MySpace

comments that fly about every day have no social impact on anyone, anywhere. I could even plane that edge a bit, make it less proclamatory and just claim to be nostalgic for the days of yore, when letters were written to be saved, and people had to meet in person to catch up. I shan't, because I'd be fooling myself even more than you. No, the reason I'm rebelling lately is because (in my humble self-assessment) I am just sick of it.

I am. I'm grateful for being able to network with friends from the comfort of my day job. I thrill at the ability to communicate with business associates via text messaging when I otherwise wouldn't be able. I do sincerely dig checking out my peeps on their respective 'blogs, dipping a finger in the batter of their creativity. And, I am sick, sick, sick of writing people.

One of the wonderful, wondrous things about a stage play is that it captures, very simply, the beauty of someone entering a room. We have these hundreds of entrances and exits throughout each day of our lives, and they spin by, for the most part unnoticed. Of particular interest, as entrances go, are the moments when one person joins another in a space. You don't even need to know the first thing about the history of these imaginary two to appreciate the moment they join one another in a given area, do you? In that instant, a story is told. In that moment, a space comes alive, has meaning, and words haven't even entered into it yet. I wish I had a name for that. (The French probably do.)

I'm not saying it's irreplaceable (though I will go so far as to say that it is unique). I can't even properly express all that such a moment means to me. Except, perhaps, to say that I miss it. Sans nostalgia. The longing I have for it is very immediate, in fact. It's strange to feel a longing for something so abstract. It's not for one particular person, but people, but not in a group, and it's also for something more. For time to be still, just for half a moment. That suspension of everything. I'm not saying it needs to be dramatic, romantic, or anything specific. Think of knocking on your parents' door. Time stands still for just a tiny bit. There's no "ping," or "be-deep," or "You've got mail!" Your favorite song doesn't start playing, and nothing vibrates, and a magic window doesn't pop up in front of you, demanding attention, and I find that very, very appealing.

It's entirely hypocritical, this entry. The very medium that allows me to express this thought is what's responsible for all this chiming, thrumming, second-by-second communication I seem to deplore. And God knows, ignoring my email doesn't counteract the syndrome in any way at all. It's a little like fighting fire with fire, in fact. Email is an irrational form of personal communication, and I combat this by behaving irrationally myself? Madness. It certainly hasn't resulted in more visits with friends, or even more instances of substantial phone calls. All it does is further separate me from my homies, in particular those what expect a response to a non-business email sooner than a month later.

It could be a phase. Or, it could be an addiction. But me, I prefer an addiction that keeps me out of my seat, rather than one that ties me to it. So I hope you all understand that I love getting emails from you, keeping abreast (maybe even a thigh or a wing) on all you care to write about. My silence is not rejection, and when I bring you flowers, you'll be able to smell them.

And probably me, from all the entrances and exits I'm trying to make good on.

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).

Notions (Part 1 of ?)

  • A Punch & Judy themed show with Friend Heather, incorporating elements from the entire history of the characters, but ultimately modern and strange and funny.
  • A monodrama about my relationship with comicbooks and superheroes(TM). I started this a few years ago, creating thirty-odd pages of single-spaced, freestyle text, and ended up with a last couple of pages that were pretty effective. Also, Friend Patrick and I took some moments in a room to work on physical bits for it (though I probably never mentioned that was what I was doing, Patrick).
  • A clown version of Romeo and Juliet, in Italian and English. Zuppa's been bouncing this around since our last trip to Italy (see most of June '07) as a possible collaborative project between ourselves and our Italian counterpart(s), though now it seems a little too ambitious for a first project, not to mention whilst trying to tour Silent Lives at the same time. Still, it grabs my imagination. What I imagine is a largely silent production, with all in clown noses which are gradually stripped away as the lives of the characters become more perilous.
  • A werewolf novel that I haven't made real progress on in years ("Been working on that, what, three years now?"), but continually think about and occasionally daydream into.
  • A clown film I keep taking notes on, wherein a working stiff in New York gets magicked into a clown accidentally, which renders him completely amnesiac about how to get through a day in the city, but also grants him acrobatic ability. It would be filmed entirely on location, with strangers and actor friends playing various urban creatures, and ultimately be a sort of love poem to the city, along the lines of J. Alfred Prufrock. "If I thought my answer were to one who could return to the world, I would not reply, but as none ever did return alive from this depth, without fear of infamy I answer thee." Translation by G.B. Harrison et al., eds. Major British Writers.
  • To use Friend Patrick's Sukeu mask in performance.
  • To construct a stilt costume incorporating arm extensions with working hands or claws, possibly along the theme of a praying mantis.
  • To engineer and construct homemade stilts with jumping capability.
  • To pick up the trombone again, much to the chagrin of my neighbors.