"Words . . . Words. Words."
"Hasn't it ever happened to you that all of a sudden and for no reason at all you haven't the faintest idea how to spell the word 'which'? Or 'house'? Because when you write it down you just can't remember ever having seen those letters in that order before?"
Don't fret. I'm not about to go on another
Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead
. I've just got words on the brain, and when I wrote the title to this post (I almost always start with a title, oddly enough, and rarely change it after writing the post -- even the automatic cursor placement of Blogger assumes you want to write the entry first) I had the experience of looking at the word "word" and thinking,
That can't possibly be how "word" is spelled
. This post title comes from an audition I had for Hamlet, years and years ago (read: 1999). Polonius asks Hamlet what he reads, and Hamlet famously replies in a three: words words words. A lot has been made of his response. A lot has been made of every damn thing Hamlet says. I, being a bit of the clown Hamlet warns the players to avoid, made a gag out of it, pointing to one page (words), to the facing page (words) and then turning up to Polonius to deliver my assessment: Words. I probably unconsciously lifted this from Gibson's delivery, but ol' Mad Max milks it WAY too much and kills the rhythm. So sayeth
this
guy. [Lifteths hands up, pointseth thumbs inward.]
I'll be having an increasing emphasis on Shakespearean topics as time progresses toward
The Very Nearly Perfect Comedy of Romeo & Juliet
. Next week, in fact, I'm teaching a Shakespeare class with Friend Heather of
fame out in the autumnal splendor of the Poconos. (It really is a
tough
job sometimes...) It'll be a new class for us to lead, and we're planning on modeling it after what Zuppa does naturally, taking the week to teach the students how to approach Shakespeare's text using character archetypes and a specific, creative physicalization. We figure they get plenty of emphasis on the text as it is in regular class, and our work will give them new tools to apply. Still and all, words are rarely as important as they are in interpreting teh Bard. (That felt wicked, using LOLspeak with Shakespeare. WthTFth, Jeffeth?) I love Shakespeare. You might not know it, to look at my resume, but I do. In preparing to teach, I went out to ye olde storage space and unearthed my Bardic textbooks. In my
book I found folded a journal of mine from college and, reading it, I was reminded of exactly how much I love that language, those words.
As I performed in
last night, I got to thinking about words, and how expressive they can be in so many more ways than literal meaning. My character in the reading was given a lot of open-ended ellipses, which can be difficult to interpret with specificity, particularly with only a few hours' rehearsal. The playwright suggested that I play the character with more emphasis on his neuroses than I had in rehearsal, so as I performed I explored the ellipses as spaces dictated by interrupting thoughts and emotions, rather than cognitive stops. It worked rather well for me, and got me listening to the "music" to be found in the follow-through of lines. There's this general rule for Shakespeare, that its effective and, in most cases, desirable, to carry one's energy directly through an entire line; indeed, right on through a page's worth of "line." Why does this work so well with verse? Think of it as a song. A mediocre song with a good hook that lasts three minutes or so works fine. But a six-minute tune that engages you the entire time, leading your emotions to all different places, there's nothing quite like that.
Another notable Shakespearean repetition is in King Lear: "
" It's a cry of anguish from Lear, turned nearly animal from his misadventures and, ultimately, his daughter's death. It is in its way an aria. The only thing a performer has to guide him (or her, why not) is a nod to the cadence suggested by the rest of the verse and their emotional state at the time. "Howl" isn't even a word, per se, but an onomatopoeia. Language is a beautiful medium in which to work, and the real grace notes are in nothing so much as the spoken delivery. I'm looking forward to returning to a study of that.
Reading Room
I've got to learn not to resent . . . well: anything; basically. Resentment is not a helpful emotion in general and, if you are allowed a little perspective, you often have the double-pleasure of experiencing both the pleasantness of resentment and--later on--the pleasantness of realizing, "Oh God; I was such an ass to resent what I was
resenting."
Yesterday I worked. I worked two smallish jobs, actually:
&
. (It's a good day when an actor can be excused from his or her day job for paying acting work, but it's a great day when said actor be similarly gainfully employed and make more money than he or she would at his or her day job.) I had, in brief, a very lovely day indeed. It was only today, after sitting down to consider it, that I had a brief pang of realization that yesterday seems as though it were structured to point up my aforementioned fault. Well, regret is probably an even less useful emotion than resentment, so I shan't linger on it, lest I propagate it. I will, however, stop getting all Charlotte Brontë on my syntax and specify my observation in the hopes that it keeps me from getting stupider (i.e., more [ah regret!] resentful) in the future.
The first gig was a film gig, of sorts: an industrial for a company known as
. This was, in a sense, a cushy gig. All I had to do was be familiar enough with the script to be able to perform it convincingly off a teleprompter. It was my first experience using a teleprompter, in fact. (Those of you familiar with
Anchorman
-- it's absolutely true; if it had been on there, I would have read it aloud.) It was essentially an interview, my scene, and a bona fide lawyer was off-screen asking his side of the interview off a paper, while I read my responses off the teleprompter, trying as hard as I could to make it look like I was looking a guy in the face. The screen had a couple of stationary arrows on each side, the which are supposed to be where I was reading at a given moment, though an operator was pacing the scroll specifically according to my the rate of my performance. He did a pretty good job, too, save a couple of times when I thoughtfully paused and had to tamp down terror as I noticed the scroll, in fact, didn't. The hardest part for me was avoiding left-to-right eye movement; I tried to look between the arrows and enforce peripheral perception, a little like looking at one of those hidden-picture stereographs. ("
Over there?! That's just a guy in a suit!
")
What struck me about the gig was that, in spite of having no lines to learn -- or perhaps, as a direct result of it -- this job ought to have been rather difficult. I mean, acting itself often requires us to accept a huge amount of ridiculous non-reality and to play for truth right along with it, but here was a complete and utter refutation of the actor's need for believable circumstances, environment, or even a scene partner with whom to make eye contact. I was sitting at a table, mic'd up, against a giant green screen, reading from a projection with a backdrop of cameras, lights, technicians and the various tools of the trade to be found in any film or photography studio. My imagination was the only recourse I had, and it served me well, but on top of all that, I was being asked to read and make it alive. Why wasn't this more difficult? Where had I been doing this, getting such good practice that I barely registered the challenges it presented?
My latter gig that day was a return to NYU for the Steinberg Lab, which is a program in which undergraduate playwrights get to workshop their writing, in part by way of casting actors to perform readings for them and a few of their closest colleagues. Most of the work I get through NYU involves some sort of staged reading, live or for film, and as I proceeded to wing it with an especially abstract script on Monday, I realized that this plethora of readings I've been doing of late is exactly what allowed me to be perfectly relaxed in the surreal environment of the teleprompter. In fact, teleprompters are easier than scripts in many respects. The key to a good staged reading is stealing as many moments away from the page as possible to make eye contact, all without losing your place (or, at least, being able to effectively fill moments spent rediscovering your place). Though you're deprived of eye contact with a teleprompter, you're also saved the logistical struggle and potential whiplash of a script-in-hand read. Either way, the unique skill of reading something as though it's just coming to you, motivated by the moments before, is like how one gets to Carnegie Hall.
I do not mean taking the N/R/Q to 57th Street.
So thank you, one and all, you workshopping playwrights, you producers looking for backing, you theatre-philes and patient givers of feedback. Thank you university teachers, new-works encouragers and experimentally inclined venue managers. Thanks everyone, for all the reading work. I knew not what a valuable skill reading could be!
"3: We are now held within un-, sub- or supernatural forces. Discuss."
The comment thread on my last post (see
) has me seriously jonesing for a good
Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead
quote match. For those of you unfamiliar with the
and/or
, it's essentially an absurdist retelling of Hamlet from the vantage point of the two minor characters made titular ("of a title," you perverts). It's a fave. It's often
the
fave, depending on mood, time of day, strength of coffee and relative distance of Saturn from Venus. So, some favorite quotes, checked against
, from which even more can be found...
Rosencrantz
"Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure."
"Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect."
"We'll be all right. I suppose we just go on."
Guildenstern
(
clearly the part I want
)
"I mean, you wouldn't bet on it. I mean, I would, but you wouldn't."
"It must be indicative of something besides the redistribution of wealth."
"What could we possibly have in common except our situation?"
"All your life you live so close to truth it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye. And when something nudges it into outline, it's like being ambushed by a grotesque."
"A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense not to himself."
"Don't you discriminate at all?!"
"If we had a destiny, then so had he, and if this is ours, then that was his, and if there are no explanations for us, then let there be none for him."
"...now you see him, now you don't, that's the only thing that's real..."
"Pragmatism. Is that all you have to offer?"
"No, no, no…death is
not
. Death
isn't
. Take my meaning? Death is the ultimate negative. Not-being. You can't not be on a boat."
The Player
"The bad end unhappily, the good unluckily. That is what tragedy means."
"We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else."
"We are tied down to a language which makes up in obscurity what it lacks in style."
"Hamlet…in love…with the old man's daughter…the old man…thinks."
Cobbled dialogue
"So there you are...stark, raving sane..."
"I don't believe in it anyway ... What? ... England. ... Just a conspiracy of cartographers, you mean?"