Last year around this time I was posting about Oakenboard's Oliver!, for which I was rehearsing around the same time I was performing as Warbucks in Annie. Those of you who obsess over the minute details of my life will remember that there was some backlash from upset parents over Mitchellson Mitchellson's directorial modus operandi. One of the reasons I never wrote about that production afterwards was that it was cancelled.
Oh, but why?, I hear you cry.
Mitchellson Mitchellson gave a variety of reasons, but my favorite was what he told me: he was concerned that my Warbucks and my Fagin would be too much alike.
"Mitchellson, you know my work, and the characters are nothing alike; do you really think I'd let Fagin be Warbucks?"
"Oh, no, it's not that. I'm worried that your Warbucks will be perceived as Jewish because people know you're rehearsing Fagin. I don't want people to associate anti-Semitic rhetoric with this theatre company," he leaned forward, very sincere.
He was forgetting, perhaps, that the majority of his actors and audience are Christian Fundamentalists who believe that the Grand Canyon was put there by God to test our faith in the bible. Either way, that production of Oliver! was put on hold. Forever.
I just got a voicemail from Mitchellson Mitchellson; verbatim: "Edward! We're doing Annie and I'm adding an exclamation point. As in Oliver!, only Annie!, because they're basically the same show. You know what that means! Violence! I want you for my Warbucks, but it's Warbucks filtered through Bill Sykes! You will beat the shit out of that curly red moppet and Dick Cheney will blush with shame! Call me aysap, bye. [thump] Oh Christ, it's cellular [click, papers rustling, thump] *sigh* Did you see his Warbucks? Gayest thing since Liberace in patriotic sequins. [rustle, rustle, numeric keys pushed] ... It's not ringing. It's ... hello? Ian? I must have your voicemail. It's Mitchellson Mitchellson calling! We're doing Annie and I'm adding an exclamation point. You know what that means! Violence! I want you for my Warbucks, but it's Warbucks filtered through Bill Sykes! You will beat the shit out of that curly red moppet and we'll make Pol Pot stand up and cheer. Call me before Hightower does. Bye! [keypad pressed] How do you ... oh ... shit. [beep]."
I haven't done a show since Annie at SCT last year. Good to hear he liked it, since I know he didn't see it.
I've been offered other stuff, but none of it pays enough to cover gas or transit expenses. People get offended when I ask. So I'm unemployed and I've been unemployed now since June. Very depressing. So depressing that I'm actually considering doing a show at Oakenboard, in spite of, well, Oakenboard.
What do you think, readers? Is it worth my time, or would I be better off lurking about the grounds of stately Hightower Manor, trying to get my dog to wear womens' clothing? Can I do both? Is it too much? Do you like beans?
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Oakenboard Theatrefest Festival's 2012-2014 Season
Starting off with a bang, Oakenboard Theatrefest has decided to save a lot of money by letting go of the majority of its technical staff. This leaves two people in the shop: the Technical Director and the Assistant Technical Director. Not enough people to build the sets (as originally designed) for the season, which includes the following shows:
ANNIE
A FLEA IN HER EAR
THE MUSIC MAN
DEATH OF A SALESMAN
THE PRODUCERS
THE MOUSETRAP
OKLAHOMA
THE CIDER HOUSE RULES
Yes, there is actually a stage adaptation of The Cider House Rules, and it is superb. I would like very much to direct it. I spoke to The Powers That Be at OTF about directing it, and of course Mitchellson Mitchellson immediately called his friend Plato Silmarillion with a wonderful idea: Plato should direct The Cider House Rules and set it in a post-apocalyptic downtown Los Angeles. I say, "immediately," when I probably mean something more like, "He picked up the phone and started dialing before my words had finished echoing in the shop." We weren't in the shop, we were in his office; maintenance crews had been repairing a leak sometime in 2009 when they found dry rot and removed the ceiling from his office, which is in a loft in the shop. Owing to the peculiar accoustics of the building, every word uttered in Mitchellson Mitchellson's office has been completely audible everywhere in the shop ever since. For the record, maintenance has no record of the leak repair request, the dry rot or the ceiling; they did such an excellent job of removing it that now they question whether it was ever there to begin with.
Fortunately or un-, depending on the situation, Mitchellson Mitchellson frequently forgets that he has no ceiling and in closed-door meetings with colleagues or friends or both, he is in the habit of making grand pronouncements about this or that member of the company, the crew, the staff or the Administration. "Oh, that hag -- she looks like the Crypt Keeper was caught masturbating in hell," is the most recent mystifying cloud of bombast to come floating down from his aerie. I don't understand it any more than I understand his decision to give Cider House to Plato. But that's what Mitchellson Mitchellson does: he hires his friends. In the case of Plato, Mitchellson Mitchellson hires a friend who then hires his own friends and the show turns out to be not-very-good. But Mitchellson Mitchellson goes on hiring Plato and just can't seem to figure out why a) few people flock to Plato's auditions and, b) the shows don't make any money.
The simple fact is that in this day and age, nobody except recent SF State grads will go to a play set in post-apocalyptic Los Angeles. Walking Dead on TV may herald the beginning of the end of America's current obsession with road sagas (though frankly I love them and can't get enough), and why should anyone pay good money to sit through two boring hours of what they could see done better in the comfort of their own homes? Once family and friends have seen one performance, I predict near-empty houses except for matinees -- which will empty during intermission when Plato's gratuitous rape scene upsets the blue hairs.
Plato always puts a rape scene in his shows. He's notorious for a production of A Christmas Carol in which he insisted on playing Marley's ghost. He told everyone they must come see his show, that he was "ripping the pants off of" Charles Dickens (?) and that his interpretation of Jacob Marley was "a revelatory tour de force." Revelatory indeed: when Marley's ghost appeared, it was Plato leaping onstage from down left in a deerstalker cloak, wearing a rather accurate and expensive rotting-face mummy mask, shouting his lines into a wireless handheld microphone. Because the mummy wrappings covered his mouth, and because the sound designer had followed Plato's instructions to the letter, the audience was treated to something that sounded like this:
ANNIE
A FLEA IN HER EAR
THE MUSIC MAN
DEATH OF A SALESMAN
THE PRODUCERS
THE MOUSETRAP
OKLAHOMA
THE CIDER HOUSE RULES
Yes, there is actually a stage adaptation of The Cider House Rules, and it is superb. I would like very much to direct it. I spoke to The Powers That Be at OTF about directing it, and of course Mitchellson Mitchellson immediately called his friend Plato Silmarillion with a wonderful idea: Plato should direct The Cider House Rules and set it in a post-apocalyptic downtown Los Angeles. I say, "immediately," when I probably mean something more like, "He picked up the phone and started dialing before my words had finished echoing in the shop." We weren't in the shop, we were in his office; maintenance crews had been repairing a leak sometime in 2009 when they found dry rot and removed the ceiling from his office, which is in a loft in the shop. Owing to the peculiar accoustics of the building, every word uttered in Mitchellson Mitchellson's office has been completely audible everywhere in the shop ever since. For the record, maintenance has no record of the leak repair request, the dry rot or the ceiling; they did such an excellent job of removing it that now they question whether it was ever there to begin with.
Fortunately or un-, depending on the situation, Mitchellson Mitchellson frequently forgets that he has no ceiling and in closed-door meetings with colleagues or friends or both, he is in the habit of making grand pronouncements about this or that member of the company, the crew, the staff or the Administration. "Oh, that hag -- she looks like the Crypt Keeper was caught masturbating in hell," is the most recent mystifying cloud of bombast to come floating down from his aerie. I don't understand it any more than I understand his decision to give Cider House to Plato. But that's what Mitchellson Mitchellson does: he hires his friends. In the case of Plato, Mitchellson Mitchellson hires a friend who then hires his own friends and the show turns out to be not-very-good. But Mitchellson Mitchellson goes on hiring Plato and just can't seem to figure out why a) few people flock to Plato's auditions and, b) the shows don't make any money.
The simple fact is that in this day and age, nobody except recent SF State grads will go to a play set in post-apocalyptic Los Angeles. Walking Dead on TV may herald the beginning of the end of America's current obsession with road sagas (though frankly I love them and can't get enough), and why should anyone pay good money to sit through two boring hours of what they could see done better in the comfort of their own homes? Once family and friends have seen one performance, I predict near-empty houses except for matinees -- which will empty during intermission when Plato's gratuitous rape scene upsets the blue hairs.
Plato always puts a rape scene in his shows. He's notorious for a production of A Christmas Carol in which he insisted on playing Marley's ghost. He told everyone they must come see his show, that he was "ripping the pants off of" Charles Dickens (?) and that his interpretation of Jacob Marley was "a revelatory tour de force." Revelatory indeed: when Marley's ghost appeared, it was Plato leaping onstage from down left in a deerstalker cloak, wearing a rather accurate and expensive rotting-face mummy mask, shouting his lines into a wireless handheld microphone. Because the mummy wrappings covered his mouth, and because the sound designer had followed Plato's instructions to the letter, the audience was treated to something that sounded like this:
MARLEY
EEMMMMEEENEEEMMMOHHHH SSCHOOOOOOOOOOOOSHJ!
SCROOGE
... Marley, can that be you -- ?
MARLEY
MMMMOOOOOHHHH MOOOHHH FOOO MOOOOHHHH HOOOHHMMM FOOOHHM FWWOOOM FWOM MMMMMEEEEEEEE!!!!!
At which point, Plato as Marley's ghost "raped" Ebeneezer Scrooge. I have to use a lot of quotes around words when describing Plato's "work" because none of it ever seems to fulfill his unfortunate predictions. His oversize deerstalker cloak shielded anything he did to hapless old Scrooge, and the whole thing looked as though Jacob Marley had become, in the afterlife, a remarkably enthusiastic mummified Chiropractor.
Honestly, I wish you could have seen it (stoned), because I don't know if I could couldn't make it any clearer if I were to strap you down (drunk) to watch the bootleg Plato insisted I take -- all furtive and sly like I Spy -- because "they" were trying to "shut [him] down" because of his "dangerous vision." The only dangerous vision I had seen was the clear fact that he was wearing neither glasses nor contacts in the performance I attended, and he stumbled, legally blind, into the middle of young Ebeneezer's love duet with, what's her name, Elizabeth? Doesn't matter, I think Plato changed her name to Brittney. Anyway, he literally opened a door and walked onstage, peering about at the bright lights, confused, then tripped on a bench and tackled Brittney, who, I forgot to mention, spoke with an incredibly thick and inaccurate Cockney dialect. Plato has some inner ear issues, and as he was still wearing his ghoul makeup, several children in the audience began screaming when the zombie man got the nice princess lady. While Marley's accosting of Scrooge had just been weird and mildly discomfiting, this thing with Brittney was somewhat more disturbing. It appeared that Plato could not get up, and every time he tried to, he did so by latching onto Brittney's bodice and attempting to hoist himself to his feet. Brittney, I should have mentioned earlier, had been costumed in something left over from Oakenboard's Jeckyll and Hyde of 2001: a bodice two sizes too large that made her look ripe for disembowelment in Whitechapel. Pulling just a little too hard on said bodice, Plato dislodged the water-filled condoms Brittney was using to fill out what the bodice left wanting. The condoms began to slide out the the bottom of the bodice, in the front, looking for all the world as though this inappropriately Sherlockian zombie was in fact pulling out her innards. Until they burst, splattering Plato and the actors with water. And the bodice fell open. Regretful dads had to carry inconsolable kids to the car, ticket refunds were refused utterly and Plato made a very snarky apology to the audience at the end of the show.
He also redoubled his efforts as Marley's ghost and screamed so loud in the role that he won a Shelley for Best Supporting Actor that year. Plato is also on the Shelley Committee.
I'll share more as I hear it.
Until then, O Thousands of Worshipful Readers
At which point, Plato as Marley's ghost "raped" Ebeneezer Scrooge. I have to use a lot of quotes around words when describing Plato's "work" because none of it ever seems to fulfill his unfortunate predictions. His oversize deerstalker cloak shielded anything he did to hapless old Scrooge, and the whole thing looked as though Jacob Marley had become, in the afterlife, a remarkably enthusiastic mummified Chiropractor.
Honestly, I wish you could have seen it (stoned), because I don't know if I could couldn't make it any clearer if I were to strap you down (drunk) to watch the bootleg Plato insisted I take -- all furtive and sly like I Spy -- because "they" were trying to "shut [him] down" because of his "dangerous vision." The only dangerous vision I had seen was the clear fact that he was wearing neither glasses nor contacts in the performance I attended, and he stumbled, legally blind, into the middle of young Ebeneezer's love duet with, what's her name, Elizabeth? Doesn't matter, I think Plato changed her name to Brittney. Anyway, he literally opened a door and walked onstage, peering about at the bright lights, confused, then tripped on a bench and tackled Brittney, who, I forgot to mention, spoke with an incredibly thick and inaccurate Cockney dialect. Plato has some inner ear issues, and as he was still wearing his ghoul makeup, several children in the audience began screaming when the zombie man got the nice princess lady. While Marley's accosting of Scrooge had just been weird and mildly discomfiting, this thing with Brittney was somewhat more disturbing. It appeared that Plato could not get up, and every time he tried to, he did so by latching onto Brittney's bodice and attempting to hoist himself to his feet. Brittney, I should have mentioned earlier, had been costumed in something left over from Oakenboard's Jeckyll and Hyde of 2001: a bodice two sizes too large that made her look ripe for disembowelment in Whitechapel. Pulling just a little too hard on said bodice, Plato dislodged the water-filled condoms Brittney was using to fill out what the bodice left wanting. The condoms began to slide out the the bottom of the bodice, in the front, looking for all the world as though this inappropriately Sherlockian zombie was in fact pulling out her innards. Until they burst, splattering Plato and the actors with water. And the bodice fell open. Regretful dads had to carry inconsolable kids to the car, ticket refunds were refused utterly and Plato made a very snarky apology to the audience at the end of the show.
He also redoubled his efforts as Marley's ghost and screamed so loud in the role that he won a Shelley for Best Supporting Actor that year. Plato is also on the Shelley Committee.
I'll share more as I hear it.
Until then, O Thousands of Worshipful Readers
Friday, January 6, 2012
Things To Read
It's amazing how long-term un/underemployment can lead one to deep and abiding self-doubt. When things are going swimmingly and the world is your oyster, everything just falls into place. But when the only offers coming in are for free or deeply discounted work, one has to wonder what one is -- or has been -- doing wrong. People in charge say things like, "Oh, you're not doing anything wrong, your work is great. It's the economy, we just can't afford to pay you right now." But they're getting paid. Their staff is paid. The essential people are paid.
The key, then, would be to make oneself essential. But when the place you'd like to work functions (albeit imperfectly) whether you're there or not, what's the next step: janitorial? I'm certainly no stranger to janitorial work, my first jobs were janitorial/hospitality (I cleaned my dad's office for years and also worked as a Houseman at The Lake Merritt Hotel in its brief resurgence as a destination in the early '90s; a Houseman is one who collaborates with the young Orson Welles, and it is also a bellhop who cleans toilets). So maybe if I get a job cleaning toilets at the theatres for which I desire to do other work, I will eventually raise in the ranks until, by polishing the handle on the big front door, I become King of Patagonia. Excellent plan.
I've applied for some definitely non-theatrical jobs of late, for all of which I am assuredly over-qualified. I am still unemployed, so perhaps it would be best not to insist that I am in fact the King of Patagonia during the interview. Boy, that's not funny. This is not a funny blog. I steer it toward funny and it veers back to mediocre. Just like everything I did in 2011. Ejaculating uninvited on the desk of the manager of the Hawthorne Suites was a personal best. Definitely a high point. Sadly, the only local theatre company which would require that skill is the New Conservatory in SF, and at two years from 40 I am nowhere near young and cute enough to qualify.
Blogging on blogger is like shouting into the void. If I post this on Facebook, and you've followed the link here, consider commenting right here on my blog instead of on Facebook -- better yet, consider commenting on both sites. Hell, don't consider it: do it! Give me a reason to write more blogs. Christ. I'm going back to bed.
The key, then, would be to make oneself essential. But when the place you'd like to work functions (albeit imperfectly) whether you're there or not, what's the next step: janitorial? I'm certainly no stranger to janitorial work, my first jobs were janitorial/hospitality (I cleaned my dad's office for years and also worked as a Houseman at The Lake Merritt Hotel in its brief resurgence as a destination in the early '90s; a Houseman is one who collaborates with the young Orson Welles, and it is also a bellhop who cleans toilets). So maybe if I get a job cleaning toilets at the theatres for which I desire to do other work, I will eventually raise in the ranks until, by polishing the handle on the big front door, I become King of Patagonia. Excellent plan.
I've applied for some definitely non-theatrical jobs of late, for all of which I am assuredly over-qualified. I am still unemployed, so perhaps it would be best not to insist that I am in fact the King of Patagonia during the interview. Boy, that's not funny. This is not a funny blog. I steer it toward funny and it veers back to mediocre. Just like everything I did in 2011. Ejaculating uninvited on the desk of the manager of the Hawthorne Suites was a personal best. Definitely a high point. Sadly, the only local theatre company which would require that skill is the New Conservatory in SF, and at two years from 40 I am nowhere near young and cute enough to qualify.
Blogging on blogger is like shouting into the void. If I post this on Facebook, and you've followed the link here, consider commenting right here on my blog instead of on Facebook -- better yet, consider commenting on both sites. Hell, don't consider it: do it! Give me a reason to write more blogs. Christ. I'm going back to bed.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Looking Up
Things are looking up here in the land of un/underemployed Edwardia. Last night, I received a message from Judy Clement Wall, co-author of A Waltz and blogger of note, pointing me in the direction of ACX.com. What, I hear all six of you reply, is ACX.com? I'll tell you: it's the Audiobook Creation Exchange. To quote from their website: "ACX is a marketplace where professional authors, agents, publishers, and other Rights Holders can post fallow audiobook rights. At ACX, those unused audio rights will be matched with narrators, engineers, recording studios, and other Producers capable of producing a finished audiobook, as well as with audiobook publishers. The result: More audiobooks will be made."
Putting my evening on hold, I immediately recorded three snippets of what I hope to be viable audiobook narration and, creating a profile, posted it to the site. Doing this with a crackling fire three feet away, a four-year-old running around upstairs and a dog and a bunny making themselves repeatedly comfortable in the room with me was no small challenge. Check out my page and let me know what you think.
Then do me a favor: search ACX.com for books you love, books you'd like to hear me read, books at which you know I'd excel as narrator. Do this, and someday I'll have the money to be able to come see you in your show, attend your wedding, donate to your project or buy you a baby shower gift. See how it all comes back around? Delicious.
Putting my evening on hold, I immediately recorded three snippets of what I hope to be viable audiobook narration and, creating a profile, posted it to the site. Doing this with a crackling fire three feet away, a four-year-old running around upstairs and a dog and a bunny making themselves repeatedly comfortable in the room with me was no small challenge. Check out my page and let me know what you think.
Then do me a favor: search ACX.com for books you love, books you'd like to hear me read, books at which you know I'd excel as narrator. Do this, and someday I'll have the money to be able to come see you in your show, attend your wedding, donate to your project or buy you a baby shower gift. See how it all comes back around? Delicious.
Wowsers McGowswers
It has been a really long time since I've written anything. This is largely because I have been involved with several large projects, both theatrical and cinematic. They took a great deal of my time, certainly. But the reason I wasn't writing was because I was so frustrated with the projects that I hesitated to write anything at all, out of not wanting the producers of the various projects to know what I thought of what was going on. Not that I think anyone reads this blog, but one never knows. Six subscribers, yes, but perhaps a malevolent person lurking and searching for more reasons to accuse me of things.
Look at that: even now, I am so hesitant to say anything about what was going on that I start with a direct statement and then alter it at least three times until the final product is so confusing that wonderful people associated with either project could find themselves wondering if they were the cause of my deep and abiding stress-angst in 2011.
Here we are in 2012, and my year ended with the most horrific event I have ever personally experienced -- and it did not even happen physically to me. And now, a new event: just this morning, I learned that my nephew, Jackson, was attacked and beaten last night at Rockridge BART. He is generally okay, there seems to have been a concussion of some sort, and though I haven't seen him yet, I have spoken to my brother who tells me that Jack is much improved from last night.
So, when I look back at all the shitfuck assness of what I had to endure artistically in 2011, it is nothing next to the fact that Veronica is alive and well, Jackson is recovering, and we still have a roof over our heads. I know I will need to find a way to express the rage that still smolders in me from 2011, but for now I am just happy that my family is intact. If you've met them, you know what I'm talking about. Individually and as a group, my family is wonderful. We all have our foibles, but they're what make us who we are; in my family, we accept everyone's foibles and love them in spite -- and often because of -- those things which in other groups would make them intolerable.
I am a fine example of this. The things I say at family dinners get howls of laughter; I tried one of the same lines at a subscriber event for Solano College and quickly learned that the best way to make subscribers leave you alone is offer to show them the scabs on your taint. Chris Guptill, take note.
Look at that: even now, I am so hesitant to say anything about what was going on that I start with a direct statement and then alter it at least three times until the final product is so confusing that wonderful people associated with either project could find themselves wondering if they were the cause of my deep and abiding stress-angst in 2011.
Here we are in 2012, and my year ended with the most horrific event I have ever personally experienced -- and it did not even happen physically to me. And now, a new event: just this morning, I learned that my nephew, Jackson, was attacked and beaten last night at Rockridge BART. He is generally okay, there seems to have been a concussion of some sort, and though I haven't seen him yet, I have spoken to my brother who tells me that Jack is much improved from last night.
So, when I look back at all the shitfuck assness of what I had to endure artistically in 2011, it is nothing next to the fact that Veronica is alive and well, Jackson is recovering, and we still have a roof over our heads. I know I will need to find a way to express the rage that still smolders in me from 2011, but for now I am just happy that my family is intact. If you've met them, you know what I'm talking about. Individually and as a group, my family is wonderful. We all have our foibles, but they're what make us who we are; in my family, we accept everyone's foibles and love them in spite -- and often because of -- those things which in other groups would make them intolerable.
I am a fine example of this. The things I say at family dinners get howls of laughter; I tried one of the same lines at a subscriber event for Solano College and quickly learned that the best way to make subscribers leave you alone is offer to show them the scabs on your taint. Chris Guptill, take note.
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