I'm willing to bet that the following are not limited to the Bay Area, but it's where I live right now so there you go.
1) Precast, but don't tell anyone; then, keep actors who want that role until very late at night, only seeing them for roles that are not their type. (Make sure you've precast your friends, you'll need them around you when those other actors realize what you've done.)
2) Make a verbal offer of $250.00 per week; this will seem like a lot of money to the actor, who probably doesn't do it for a living (this being the Bay Area and all). Later, after the actor has signed a probably unread contract, you will only pay $250.00 total; because actors are generally stupid and financially ignorant, they probably won't catch this clever switcheroo. If they do, and if they have the gumption to say anything, you can just deny it. After all, who is going to believe the lowly actor stupid enough to agree to a mere $250.00 per week?
3) Be really excited about offering experienced professional actors tiny roles for tiny pay in doomed productions. Be surprised when they resist your casting advances. Express doubt about their professionality at a later date. Over time, pretend to forget that the role you offered was totally wrong for the individual in question, and add some snarky detail about their personal hygiene or sex life. This will make everyone trust your judgment and want to work at your theatre.
4) Assume that if an actor has a lot of musicals on their resume, they cannot act. After all, musicals are the easiest thing in the world, and all the "actors" have to do is sing, dance and act at the same time. Anyone can do that. If the actor is female and has nice tits, put her in a small supporting role because this will be seen as proactive and liberal. If the actor is male, he is probably gay. Gay men cannot do Shakespeare unless they are Ian McKellen, and since this guy is not Ian McKellen, he is just a gay Musical Theatre person scrambling for legitimacy by wasting your time in his desperate attempt to hit it big in your revelatory East Bay production. I don't care how butch he is, musicals = gay.
5) Don't tell anyone about your musicals = gay equation. Nobody else holds this opinion. It's your secret weapon. Come up with clever euphemisms like, "a little too Jerry Herman for this legit Shakespeare Factory," or, "if I'd wanted my cock sucked in the audition, I would have let some Musical Theatre Non-Actor in out of charity." Statements like these will subtly hint at your opinions without ever giving anything away. When directly questioned, pretend ignorance and change the subject. If publicly confronted, throw a tantrum. You deserve it, you slaved over your presentation at the Jr. College and your mom used to be Mayor.
6) Tell an actor you'll set up an audition time. Never call them. Do not respond to their e-mails or phone calls. When you see them in public, introduce yourself as though it's the first time you've met.
7) Never call an actor to tell them if they've got the part or not. If they don't show up for rehearsal, blacklist them. When you see them in public, introduce yourself as though it's the first time you've met, but sanitize immediately after shaking hands. If they ask why you never called, smile and shake your head sadly and say things like, "Let's be honest, okay?", followed by some esoteric observations you can remember from the time the LA Casting Agent humiliated you in the Adler workshop.
8) Blame actors for changes in performance schedules at other companies for which they work. Be sure to hold a grudge. Refuse to cast these actors ten, twenty years later. You are a professional, and by god you will rub their nose in that scheduling problem every chance you get -- even if it means vetoing a new director's casting at your company. It's important to establish your power.
9) Fire actors and directors who've worked together before; casting one's friends is unprofessional. Also, fire actors under 30. Only hire your friends to come in as a last resort, and be sure to mention in your nightly curtain speech that this is not something you would usually do. Practice your beleaguered expressions in the mirror. Ignore the rumors that your husband is sleeping with other men.
© 2009, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
JMT, The Producers, Skinny
So I completed the JMT at 3:30 pm on August 3, 2009. I have many things to write about it, and I will eventually post those writings herein. At the moment, though, I have other concerns. Specifically: I am now 25 lbs lighter than I was in July, I am currently rehearsing the role of Max Bialystock in The Producers, Max is supposed to be fat and the director is not terribly concerned about padding me.
I understand if it's a matter of money. Money is expensive these days. But my approach to acting is to play the ink; meaning that I play what's written. If it's in the dialogue that my character is supposed to be fat, then I think it's worth doing. And it's in the dialogue. About three times. So we're supposed to somehow pretend that I'm fat and slobbish, when I look dashing and possibly even sexy in my costumes. It's a rather large contradiction. If it weren't in the dialogue, I wouldn't care.
Clarity: I love the costumers at SCT, I love the costumes they've put together for me in every role I've ever done there, and I love what they've got for me on this project. I just happen to feel that Max should be a much bulkier fellow. And I know for a fact that the brilliant ladies of the costume department could make it work. So my concern is not their work. My concern is the dichotomy between what the script says about how Max looks, and how I look.
Maybe we can do something with my hair. Shave it into a massive balding pattern and create a ridiculous comb-over, add more silver to my temples (already silvering nicely on their own, but needing more to read from the audience), deepen the circles under my eyes ... but I think I'll just look old and balding and tired. Not fat.
My main childhood idol was Lon Chaney. His work is -- in my opinion -- some of the finest film acting of the early 20th Century. His ability to transform himself for every role remains unsurpassed and is the standard I set for myself, both on stage and on film. I know that I can transform myself from fit, dashing Edward to fat, slovenly Max. I will happily build my own latex appliances if I have to. I might even show up at the theatre in full "fats" and mysteriously mystify the powers that be. Of course, I am in no danger of revealing my plan in advance: as far as I can tell, there are only two readers of this blog.
I find it very hard to play a role when I do not look the way I feel the character should look. I feel that I have to work a lot harder to play the part, because my costume or hair or beard or overall physique isn't right for the role. It is very frustrating. I like the idea of 'banners and flags': we should know from the moment we see this character what and who they are; it saves time, cuts down exposition and makes my work a hell of a lot easier. Details should also be accurate. I played a military officer once in a show where the costume department either didn't know or care about accurate military insignia. Not only was I wearing the wrong uniform, I was of no discernible rank and was not even a member of the military of the country in which the play took place. These may seem to be tiny little details, but for anyone in the audience who knows anything about military uniforms (and I have to assume that there was at least one), I was clearly an impostor. Granted, the costume was beautiful and I looked great in it. But this was not a faerie tale, it took place in an actual country that still exists.
So how could I justify this wrongness of uniform? I couldn't. My only option, then, was to play the part as though I was not what I said I was, which meant my character had to try much harder to be that which he pretended to be. None of this was apparent to the audience, but it added a layer of barriers and friction to my work that could have been avoided with attention to detail. It was extremely stressful and exhausting, and led to some severe medical issues that took months to resolve.
Now I feel I am teetering on the brink of something similar, and I don't know what to do. I will talk to the director.
Update 11/30/2009
We never did pad the costume, and audience members did ask me about the line, "Fat, fat, fatty!" However, I aged and splotched my face enough that Brian (Leo Bloom) told me his wife Jocelyn (a superb costumer herself) was worried about how badly I was aging. When he told her it was makeup, she said, "Oh! Good." Or something to that effect. I was not there.
So, there you go: a schism between the spoken line and its relation to what the audience can see is definitely going to draw questions. No amount of justification among the actors or creative staff is going to hide the discrepancies from the audience, and pretending that it will is just silly. We should have changed the line. It could very easily have been, "Drunk, drunk, drunky!"
Lesson learned. Maybe. It's difficult to get people to listen while being polite.
© 2009, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
I understand if it's a matter of money. Money is expensive these days. But my approach to acting is to play the ink; meaning that I play what's written. If it's in the dialogue that my character is supposed to be fat, then I think it's worth doing. And it's in the dialogue. About three times. So we're supposed to somehow pretend that I'm fat and slobbish, when I look dashing and possibly even sexy in my costumes. It's a rather large contradiction. If it weren't in the dialogue, I wouldn't care.
Clarity: I love the costumers at SCT, I love the costumes they've put together for me in every role I've ever done there, and I love what they've got for me on this project. I just happen to feel that Max should be a much bulkier fellow. And I know for a fact that the brilliant ladies of the costume department could make it work. So my concern is not their work. My concern is the dichotomy between what the script says about how Max looks, and how I look.
Maybe we can do something with my hair. Shave it into a massive balding pattern and create a ridiculous comb-over, add more silver to my temples (already silvering nicely on their own, but needing more to read from the audience), deepen the circles under my eyes ... but I think I'll just look old and balding and tired. Not fat.
My main childhood idol was Lon Chaney. His work is -- in my opinion -- some of the finest film acting of the early 20th Century. His ability to transform himself for every role remains unsurpassed and is the standard I set for myself, both on stage and on film. I know that I can transform myself from fit, dashing Edward to fat, slovenly Max. I will happily build my own latex appliances if I have to. I might even show up at the theatre in full "fats" and mysteriously mystify the powers that be. Of course, I am in no danger of revealing my plan in advance: as far as I can tell, there are only two readers of this blog.
I find it very hard to play a role when I do not look the way I feel the character should look. I feel that I have to work a lot harder to play the part, because my costume or hair or beard or overall physique isn't right for the role. It is very frustrating. I like the idea of 'banners and flags': we should know from the moment we see this character what and who they are; it saves time, cuts down exposition and makes my work a hell of a lot easier. Details should also be accurate. I played a military officer once in a show where the costume department either didn't know or care about accurate military insignia. Not only was I wearing the wrong uniform, I was of no discernible rank and was not even a member of the military of the country in which the play took place. These may seem to be tiny little details, but for anyone in the audience who knows anything about military uniforms (and I have to assume that there was at least one), I was clearly an impostor. Granted, the costume was beautiful and I looked great in it. But this was not a faerie tale, it took place in an actual country that still exists.
So how could I justify this wrongness of uniform? I couldn't. My only option, then, was to play the part as though I was not what I said I was, which meant my character had to try much harder to be that which he pretended to be. None of this was apparent to the audience, but it added a layer of barriers and friction to my work that could have been avoided with attention to detail. It was extremely stressful and exhausting, and led to some severe medical issues that took months to resolve.
Now I feel I am teetering on the brink of something similar, and I don't know what to do. I will talk to the director.
Update 11/30/2009
We never did pad the costume, and audience members did ask me about the line, "Fat, fat, fatty!" However, I aged and splotched my face enough that Brian (Leo Bloom) told me his wife Jocelyn (a superb costumer herself) was worried about how badly I was aging. When he told her it was makeup, she said, "Oh! Good." Or something to that effect. I was not there.
So, there you go: a schism between the spoken line and its relation to what the audience can see is definitely going to draw questions. No amount of justification among the actors or creative staff is going to hide the discrepancies from the audience, and pretending that it will is just silly. We should have changed the line. It could very easily have been, "Drunk, drunk, drunky!"
Lesson learned. Maybe. It's difficult to get people to listen while being polite.
© 2009, Edward Hightower. All Rights Reserved.
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