New Hampshire Log: Day Two—This Man’s Army

It’s fascinating to be reading Simon Callow’s

Being an Actor

during this process, and hear his (young) voice in frustration over the direction

Joint Stock

is taking.

I often feel this way about our work in

UnCommon Cause

(formerly

Joint Stock Theatre Alliance

, a not-too-subtle nod to the original company), but I’m aware that these feelings have varying degrees of validity.

(Which is good, because my expression of these feelings in this here ‘blog got me in a brief period of hot water with Laurie at the start of the summer.)

Most of the time, any frustration I feel has to do with this:

“Oh holy Hefeweizen!

Can’t we just work on scenes and have directorial decisions applied to us and

get the hell on with it?

" Ah-ha-ha.

No, Jeff.

That sort of defeats the two years of patient, sensitive work we’ve already invested, don’t it?

The whole point of this manner of work is that it challenges everyone involved to be truly involved, and that creates beautiful, nuanced effects you just can’t get from a three-week rehearsal period with an unalterable story and script.

It’s a little bit like Mr. Miagi’s training in The Karate Kid; you spend months painting and washing and seemingly suddenly you can deflect the blows of a superior opponent.

Or perhaps it’s a bit like boot camp.Monday was dominated by training in military ways and means, one of our new strengths being the presence of a former Marine in our current cast, in the form of actor Mike (Yes, yes—I will get his last name already!).In the morning Mike took me through my military paces, in part under the supervision of Tracey.It was reminiscent of many things I’ve experienced in my life: years of Boy Scouts (I had already made this connection in the character, and try to wear my Boy Scout belt to every rehearsal), marching band, martial arts and Suzuki training.The appreciation of discipline is a real help to me in this particular research.I have also always wanted to be a warrior in some sense (as much as violence goes against my personal philosophy) and can appreciate how American military training prepares one for this.We worked on the proper forms of standing at attention, at ease, basic marching and how a drill instructor or sergeant might put a soldier through his or her paces—that being the most fun for me, a chance to briefly test my efforts at conditioning thus far.I didn’t do so bad.

At the same time, it’s something I will never fully appreciate.Months of being ridden as hard as you can take, and harder, and the sense of accomplishment and belonging that arises from it.Mike spoke of a drill they would do in which someone would throw something to the ground and shout “grenade!”The training for this is to hit the deck with one’s feet pointing toward the grenade, presumably to reduce the potential damage to vital organs (though I can think of one vital organ I’d feel rather in danger from that angle).In every drill of this, if some guy were a foot or two away from the “grenade,” he’d actually fall on it.This soldier would be promptly punished with PT by the drill instructor, but the behavior wouldn’t change, and the reason is the platoon itself.As we have a line in the play saying: There is not one man in the armed forces I would not willingly die for.Imagine that commitment, that feeling.

Thereafter, Mike, Abby Royle and I drove out to Hanover for lunch and errands.My particular errand was to get the dreaded buzz cut.To my surprise, it bothered me from the first moments of rehearsal to have hair so contradictory to the character, and besides, it was becoming clear that the more filming of the multimedia aspect we could get done ahead of time, the better.The barber shop I found was the old-fashioned kind, and I was the only one there who didn’t know the barbers (barberettes?) themselves.When I got into the chair, however, it was the best experience I could have hoped for.I showed the woman a picture of Matt Maupin (in spite of our apparent complete difference of appearance) and she worked on my cut in painstaking detail.That may not have been necessary, of course—in boot camp it would just be 3–4 quick swipes of an electric razor.Nevertheless, it looks terribly authentic, and the reception I received from my peers upon returning was very encouraging.Whoops and flirtation as I approached the barn—made me feel all of twenty five again.

The latter part of rehearsal, our first evening one, was spent orchestrating more group movement scenes.

Between that and military training, there’s little else I’ll have to do to remain in shape.

To

build

a greater shape, however, I’m working between actual working moments to eat protein and hit the deck.

I have my moments of checking in to make sure that the military mind-set isn’t overwhelming the character himself, but so far it isn’t a problem.

That’s one definitive benefit of working on a show for as long as this one; the character is there already, and all else is layering.

Self-Inflicted

I have, at present, one of those marks on my body that begs to be explained as a violent wound. There is a large purple welt on the inside of my left bicep, and it could easily be believed to be the result of one or more of the following:

• This guy grabbed me with his right hand so hard, I had to punch him in the nose to get him to let go.

• I'm studying Filipino stick fighting.

• Paintball, dude. Paintball.

Sadly, none are the case. No, my manly disfigurement arose from carrying an air conditioner home from the store. In other words, from my obstinacy. I could have taken a cab and been home in a jiffy, bruiseless, but I hate cabs and had assured myself that the air conditioner, to quote my own thoughts, "isn't that heavy and hey--useful plastic straps on the outside. I'll be fine." Of course, what probably exacerbated the hematoma (SOMEbody's suffering from SAT score envy) was the prompt application of push-ups after the air conditioner was actually installed.

I'm not trying to seem like a tough guy here. Wait. Well, actually, that's entirely the point. I am trying to seem like a tough guy. In August, unCommon Cause will at long last mount a finalized (somewhat) production of As Far As We Know as a part of the NYC Fringe Festival, and in said production I will be playing a captured soldier. The gentleman my role is based off of is a large, fit guy, and though I'm making no claims to be imitating him, one could definitely get a better impression of me as a soldier if I actually had pectoral muscles. So over the next few weeks I will be eating big breakfasts and making my arms very, very sore.

An actor's relationship to his or her body is an interesting one. We're probably second to models in our interest in keeping our physique attractive (with possibly a greater emphasis on functionality--definitely, when it comes to our voices) and are eligible for all the same benefits and foibles of behavior that can arise from that interest. There are some things that just can't be helped (apart from significant surgery), such as height, body type and facial features. The better among us learn to use such features to their advantages. Most dedicated actors, however, also feel a certain sense of responsibility (or just plain ol' fun) in modifying their appearance in ways appropriate to a given role. There are some very extreme examples of this from film (such as Christian Bale betwixtThe Machinist and Batman Begins), but it applies to the stage as well. The difference is that the stage at once hides more details (such as wrinkles) and demands more drastic effects to succeed in modifying appearance (such as Antony Sher's ordeals in transforming himself into Richard III).

(A) An (hopefully) interesting observation:

Not much has changed over the years (and years [and years]) of theatre history. Actors with a reputation for altering their appearances for roles are commonly known as "character actors," unless they've achieved celebrity status, in which case they're often known as "bold," or "crazy." (

Gary Oldman

is a fascinating hybrid in that he's internationally known, and rarely looks at all the same between roles.) Lead actors, particularly in film, actually have a vested interest in maintaining similar looks between movies. It makes them more recognizable and type-able, and very often is rooted in their best, or most attractive, look. Apart from the tastes of the general public (or rather, because of those tastes), this consideration arises out of lead roles almost invariably being involved in some romantic plot or other. Take this back to the commedia dell'arte tradition, and one finds it awfully familiar. In classic commedia dell'arte, the

innamorati

, or lovers, never wore

masks

, whereas almost all of the other characters did. The exceptions to this rule were some of the female "servant" characters, presumably because they were meant to also be seen as attractive, though perhaps in a less romantic sense.

Anyway, I'm not in terrible shape. My doctor (when I actually have the insurance to be able to afford her) tells me that I'm keeping myself in good exercise, at least internally speaking, and simply as a matter of course I tend to get in a little stretching and exercise every day. That habit suffered the most it has in years over this last winter-into-spring, what with my injury and the uncertainty surrounding it, but I now feel well-returned to the habit of regular exercise. (Of particular help in this was teaching "physical acting" to high schoolers last week.) Of course, I would be in better shape if I still had my weekly Kirkos session to look forward to, but in many ways the circus skills I've been learning the past few years are what got me in good shape to begin with, and I return to them on my own. It's just easier to push oneself when one isn't . . . er . . . just one. So: I'm a reasonably healthy thirty-year-old man with several extracurricular skills to apply to the pursuit of the desired effect.

That effect being

HUGENESS

.

It ain't gonna happen. At least not in time for this incarnation of

As Far As We Know

. It's just too basic a change to affect in such a short time and, unless the show goes far, it's not a body state I'm enthusiastic to be in. When I was a kid, I would have eaten it up. My body ideals were formed by superheroes, and in large part that means no chest can be too huge, no abdomen too rippled. Now, however, having worked on circus skills and developed a better-informed interest in things like martial arts and

le parkour

, dexterity and speed are more important to me. Perhaps, too, age is a factor. The past year has taught me a lot about what it means to age in the physical sense, and as I grow older, I want to be more agile, not necessarily stronger. Nevertheless, I'm curious to see how effectively I can emulate an all-American soldier in just a month.

I had to come to a certain peace about my body image a while ago. As a kid, I was overweight until I was about 16, whereupon I grew no taller, but over a period of about two-to-three months I lost 40 pounds. No lie. I went from weighing 160 pounds (at 5'8'', very little of it muscle) to 120 (still rather lacking in muscle), which also directly led to my getting some for the very first time ever. And by "some," I of course mean "anything, at all." That detail may seem tangential, but I'll come back to it. I never really understood why the change happened then, or so suddenly. Looking back, it's easy to file it under teenage hormones. It was hard to say at the time, though, because I had wished for it for so long, silently, and it happened so suddenly I wasn't even aware of it until people started commenting on it. Still, I hesitated to do anything with my transformation, not really getting around to it until college, when I was quite unexpectedly cast as d'Artagnon in

my school

's production of

The Three Musketeers

. I had never known what it was like to really work on something so intensely physical until I had to train for the fencing in that show, and I ended up

loving

it. I love having to sweat for my craft.

Some few years ago, I had a little sit-down with myself. "Self," said I, "Let's me and I get together on this body-image thing." It was prompted by an observation from a friend, who wondered aloud if what drove me to be so disciplined about pushing myself in exercise (said friend caught me on a good stretch) was the subconscious worry that someday I would mysteriously revert and regain that extra 40 pounds of baggage. Fear is a powerful motivator in drama, but I try to avoid it in the rest of my life . . . whenever possible. I realized that I was associating being loved, even being worthy of love, with something impermanent and mysterious to me. So I made an agreement with myself that I would try to judge my body more by what it could do than what it looked like. Friend Kate and others were pivotal in helping me come to this conclusion by introducing me to circus--something concrete I enjoyed and could aim for--and since then I have made every go of it.

Of course, one can't always avoid an exterior analysis, particularly in a profession as image-conscious as my own. The important thing for me is to keep that interior (though now, shared with all seven of my 'blog subscribers) priority, even in the face of others' stunning physiques, or casting directors who look at me like I'm a Hot Pocket that didn't get enough time in the microwave. In those instances--as when I'm working to create HUGE pectoral protrusions--I just keep thinking, "I can hold a handstand 0.7 seconds longer than I could last year, and climb things like a spider-monkey." This makes my willingness to literally cause myself pain, inside and out, in order to create some unkown version of myself a bit weaker. But it also makes my journey to whatever I'll achieve far more rewarding, and spontaneous.

Now I have to go do some push-ups. And post an ad on Craigslist to pimp myself out as an air conditioner mover.

Live Free or Die Hard or Make Something People Will Love

Yeah, okay. I caved yesterday and saw it. Sometimes the lowest common denominator appeals to me, I confess. At present I'm reading about the creation of

A Streetcar Named Desire

, from the debut production through the

Kazan

film, and I'm blown away by how viscerally

Brando

lived during his twenties. I feel as though I've positively wasted the last decade of my life (though perhaps retained a bit more cleanliness in general), and last night I wasted two more hours of it. If Brando had had action movies, would they have helped slake some of his youthful lust and mischief? Probably not. And, while on the subject, would I have felt more fulfilled by two hours of casual sex, a la Marlon? Probably not.

Then again, an acting class might not have been a complete waste of my time.

It's a strange stew I prepare for you today, seasoned with

Desire

,

Die Hard

and day-job interruptions. (Best part about being back: Time for 'bloggage. [Ability to pay for groceries also ranks high on the list.]) I was greeted when I sat to email today by an unaccustomed missive (stop it, jerk) by an unusual email from

Friend Anna

. She writes:

"I'm writing my paper on creativity, and was fielding thoughts with some people on the matter. ... What is creativity? What does it mean to be creative? (Are there certain characteristics you think of?) [And, is it a matter of inborn characteristics or influenced by upbringing and social environment? Is it innate talent or something that can be learned? Some scholars propose it is simply a matter of skills learned through hard work, a matter of motivation and discipline, not that anyone is innately more creative (genius) than anyone else. That is, it's conscious effort, they don't believe in it coming from unconscious.]"

I know so many people in school right now. It really does make them smarter. Is that an effect of age? Because, God knows, school didn't seem to make anyone smarter the last time I was in it. The most reasonable thing to do before responding to such questions would be to define my terms, terms such as "creativity," "genius" and "it." But as

John McClane

teaches us, it isn't reason that makes America so great; it's a willingness to do viciously risky and self-aggrandizing stunts involving the maximum amount of property damage. In that spirit, I dive right in.

First of all, let's release the concept of "artistry" from this discussion. Great artistry is its own creature, a thing born from arduous study, disciplined work and having a craft or technique. It's great, I love it, and maybe no great work can be great without it. Fine. But in our interests today we're exploring the nature of creativity, not artistry.

I would separate "creativity" from "genius." To my mind, creativity is a quality all possess. In a spiritual context, I believe it is our awareness of having been created (and not necessarily by an omnipotent deity--an awareness that we begin and end suffices) that compels us to emulate the process with our own actions, be this via child birth, entreprenurism or performance art. In a pragmatic context, I see a sense of creativity as one of the later stages of the evolution of intelligence. After one learns to perceive tools out of the objects around them, one may eventually come to refine such tools and create their own. In short, creativity to me is simply abstract thought, which some people take to greater extremes than others.

One interesting feature of abstract thought is the ability to conceive of concepts. (Is that redundant? John McClane wouldn't care. I don't care.) The real brain-twister is contemplating whether concepts are of themselves spontaneous creations on our part, similar to ancient peoples creating gods to explain the bits of the world they couldn't better understand, or master. In other words, have we created the concept of, say, love, in order to explain (or at least name) what seemingly illogical and irrational forces make us act like absolute idiots. Me, I tend to discount the notion of spontaneous creation. I am a fan of the law of

conservation of energy

, and believe that kind of balance applies to a great deal of reality. Similarly, for example, I agree that there are a finite number of stories in the world, and we just seem to create new ones by recombining, deconstructing and re-conceiving these few. To put it still another way, we are all inspired in our "creations" by everything that already

is

, around and within us. To this end, I don't really believe in genius, per se. There is no great, mysterious inborn gift that is only bestowed upon a few.

Then again, when I was faced with Michaelangelo's

David

(and listen: photographs will never express this work), not a force in the world could have convinced me it wasn't the result of genius.

Not even John McClane killing a helicopter with a car.

So my overall opinion is this: The magic of the original

Die Hard

had a lot to do with where the star was at that point in his career (spunky with something to prove, because he was an acknowledged television star but not by any means celebrated) and where the director was coming from (

John McTeirnan

tells us on the commentary that he wanted to find the joy in this otherwise harrowing tale). There's a synergy to it that came from taking risks and improvising, something that could never hope to be duplicated in a sequel. When

A Streetcar Named Desire

was brought to film, it brought together the Stanley from the Broadway cast and the Blanche from the London cast, and it should have exploded. Brash, method Brando set off against Lady Olivier (

Vivien Leigh

) seems a formula for an insane working environment. Yet it worked beautifully, and it never would have happened if the rules had been followed or sense had prevailed.

Whether it really exists or not, the creative person needs to believe in genius. Maybe, in looking back on a creation, we can readily name its sources and the whole thing seems like a masterminded manipulation of common elements. Yet the feeling of creating something good, of being in a creative spirit, isn't like that. It's a chartless territory, a blank page or a silent room. People often ask authors where they get their ideas from, and it's easy to say, "Oh, I was a closeted homosexual who grew up in the south, so . . . you know . . . ." I believe that it's belief that ideas come from. Creativity springs from a confrontation of nothingness with faith in that intangible genius that we can never prove, but that always intervenes.

. . . Eventually. Yippie-kiy-yay . . .

Hand Out some Beat Downs

There was a campaign not too long ago comprised of various people in major cities spending a day outside offering free hugs. They came with signs, they shouted it from the rooftops, they made

videos

of their days and posted them to YouTube and Google Video. It was interesting, the responses they got to their efforts. Sometimes I watched and thought, "What is wrong with America, that we should be so resistant to no-strings physical intimacy?" Other times I thought, "What is wrong with these people? Why must they trumpet their offer and be so missionary about it? What are they trying to prove?" I was reminded, too, of the few times I've been enlisted to help out at a

kissing booth

. I always avoid it, and I don't know which is a worse hypothetical scenario in my mind: having to kiss

someone I find unattractive

, or finding

someone who doesn't want their dollar to go toward getting to kiss yours truly

.

Actors are a touchy-feely (touchie-feelie?) bunch, mostly. Those who aren't are usually pointedly so, and one gets the sense it's a bit reactionary to the whole phenomenon. I think I fall somewhere toward the middle, but it's hard to say (people always think they're moderate, just like they all think they have good taste). I avoid spontaneous backrubs, but I like to hug hello and goodbye. When I'm required to do a stage kiss, I usually approach it tentatively in the first rehearsals to make sure nobody's getting swept away or grossed out, and when we do a "trust exercise" I'm all about being there totally and allowing myself to be dropped if that's how it's going to play out. So you can judge for yourself where I fall on the scale of touchafeelarockability for yourself.

What's a real sign of physical intimacy, though, is the relationship within which you can feel comfortable resorting to physical violence.

I'm sorry. I seem to be writing about violence

quite a lot lately

. The reasons, it seems to me, are multitudinous. I miss my circus activities (amongst other physical distractions), which are just not possible now, bringing me to explanation deuce: I am at present constantly moving, never getting anywhere. That is what it is to apartment hunt and work nearly full time at an office job. This too shall pass, I know, but in the meantime I would really enjoy some stage combat gone awry, or even a very little

Fight Club

action. Kick my ass. Somebody. Please?

All right, all right. Put your damn hands down,

all of you

.

Oddly enough, Friend Davey (who really should have a 'blog of his own for me to link to at this point [Constantine...I'm looking in your direction...so to speak...]) addressed a similar desire via email to our little Burke gaming cabal today. And I quote:

"Someone knocks you down or splashes you with liquid at a party, or a myriad of other things, what are we to do? If you get all huffy you are typically seen as irrational and possibly immature. If you stand and take it you are less of a man. If we fight we are arrested for fighting. There is no more 'satisfaction' to be demanded. Now I'm not trying to sound like a 'things were better when...' guy, b/c I hate that party almost as much as the 'things will be better if...' folks on the other side of the isle; but seriously: some part, if a little or a lot, of the decades-old trend of public shootings, violent abusive children, arrogant talking-head political-wonk crap has got to be laid at the feet of the fact that we can not hit somebody if they are being a jerk. Rush Limbaugh and too many others to name would be much better people if someone had just popped him one years ago so that he knew where the line was. Students would not abuse their teachers in school if they were put in their place with a spanking at a young age."

Davey goes on to confess he's a bit off-kilter at the time of writing, but today I'm with him.

Friend Patrick

expressed a

similar sentiment

not long ago, and Davey's tirade was in part inspired by his reading Friend Nat's

latest entry

. Ergo, it is not an isolated phenomenon, this lust for physical "satisfaction" amongst we men. (At least, not isolated to just me. Perhaps I befriend the violent type.)

I half-jokingly propose this: in addition to "trust exercises," we incorporate, as a regular part of the rehearsal process, "pwn3d xrc1z3s" (that's "powned [read: abused or humiliated in a head-to-head challenge] exercises" to the uninitiated). These exercises would never involve falling backwards into someone's arms, or closing your eyes, ever. They would function more along the lines of paintball, or bloodsport. The point would be a different kind of trust. The saying, "There are no atheists in the trenches"? That. That would be our point.

Insane, I know. Just wait until we're teaching it in the corporate training workshops.

Serious Injury: Serious Option

There is a loverly BritCom benamed

Black Books

that covers the antics of a triptych of wacky friends and their exploits. The introductory episode presents us with the main character, Bernard Black, owner and operator of a small bookstore in London, faced for the first time with having to do his own taxes (as his accountant, it seems, is rather suddenly on the lam from

MI5

). About midway through the episode, Bernard discovers a helpful clause in the instructions for completing his "accounts," which states, in sum and substance, that if the filler-outer gets seriously ill or injured, he is exempt from filing his taxes. Upon reading this, of course, Bernard sets about on a series of failed attempts to irreparably maim himself. A ridiculous notion, and obviously a formula for comedy.

But I daresay this falls into the "it's funny because it's true" category.

Somebody make me unresponsible for finding my new apartment, for the underpinnings of an entire law practice, for putting my personal life in order (Is a personal life ever really "in order"?), for healing my body and for scheduling my theatrical commitments. Somebody hit me with a brick (

Patrick

?), kick me in the face (

Nat

?) or rerupture the frail hydrostatic pressure preventing my urine from invading my ballular region (

Myself

?). Actually, skip that last one; there's simply

got

to be a better way. But the first two I'll take! I actually thought to myself last night, looking for the subway in BedSty, "This neighborhood = not so great. Maybe I'll get mugged and I can retreat into a passive-aggressive hole for two weeks until this whole apartment hunting thing blows over." Alas, 'twas not meant to be. I still have the same finsky in my wallet, and my psyche remains arrogantly intact.

That last might fall into the "it's funny because it's blatantly false" category, actually.

I can feel the edges of my psyche curling up in retreat from all the B.S. of the hunt. (Trivia tidbit: My psyche is actually a

potato bug

.) Yesterday I saw two places, both of a goodly size for my modest needs. The first was in crap condition, however, and they wanted $650 there and then, non-refundable and unrelated to rent or an additional broker's fee, to secure it. Lots of promises for new windows (I lived for two years with windows with holes in them in Richmond) and a working intercom, the which I could always comfort myself with as I wrote out my $1,000 check every month for at least a year. The second was a really nice place, and could have been mine for a check there and then for a month's rent, which was lower than advertised: merely $875. But I felt pressured, and so didn't take it there and then. Which was good, because come to find out the reason all the new security had been installed was because the building's only (ginormous) neighbor across the street was a mandatory acceptance homeless men's shelter. Social conscience aside, not the sort of foot traffic I wish to submit me and mine to.

Tonight bodes more of the same. Leaping from inaccessible place to inaccessible place, calling to apologize for lateness and trying to suck up without falling into a myriad of traps and pressure situations. Tonight I am aiming for three places, which I tried but failed to do last night. Hopefully they will not all be wastes of time. Hopefully, all my problems will be solved by 9:00 PM tonight. But I'm not counting on it. There's nothing I'm counting on, at this point.

Except perhaps a friend with a hobbling post.