I went with the gentle diversion. He got in his car and left, I walked to the subway, and the next day we all had lunch with Charles, the Artistic Director of the company. The purpose of this lunch was to discuss the project -- this was something Charles did with every one-act in the festival: dine with the cast and creative team in order to casually bounce some ideas around. I'm betting it was also a way to gauge the overall tension, positivity vs. negativity, or whatever else might be going on with any one project. Thing is, the cast and creative team -- with one notable exception among the actors -- pretty much got along. The only major issue was that the playwright refused to rewright.
So we all went out to lunch. And some ideas were bounced around, most of them useless because they didn't take into account the biggest problem in the piece -- which I will address soon. I was actually somewhat embarrassed for a couple of the actors, because their main ideas stemmed solely from the notion that the size of their roles, and thus their stage time, should be increased. This is not a quality in the heart of every actor, but it is definitely present in some. They count their lines, some even count the words, they actually seek ways to upstage everyone else in the play; these are the actors who will hide your props, move your costume, possibly even poison your makeup -- though that seems relatively rare. I haven't often encountered them, but the funny thing is that every one I've ever worked with has always shown her or his hand pretty early on in the process. The first sign is always greed for more lines, more stage time. Which is not to say that every actor who wants more stage time is a theatrical sociopath -- just as every person who likes weaponry is not a mass-murderer -- but the angling, wheedling, grasping desperation for more lines that some actors display is a clear and bright red flag. That moment in Rivendell comes to mind, in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings, when Bilbo sees the ring on its chain around Frodo's neck and for a moment transforms into a scary grasping greedful creeper: that's what this kind of actor can't keep hidden away, and when she or he sees whatever represents her or his personal One Ring, greed and desperation take over and the actor will engage in behavior that ranges from the ridiculous to the deplorable.
We all met at the theater and walked down to a diner on the corner past Playwrights Horizons (was I the only one who looked with longing at those doors? Victor saw me and nodded as if to say, "You are right to be looking at those doors. It's only a matter of time." Alas, it would seem that the gift of prophecy does not rest among Victor's other talents.) Victor stood outside checking his voicemail as we got a large booth. He'd quietly insisted to me that he and I sit next to one another opposite Charles and the playwright, so I quietly arranged it thus; when Victor came in, it was with the news that our playwright would not be joining us for this mandatory lunch because of unforeseen personal obligations. To which Charles responded, "Translation: I'm a fucking pussy and I'm afraidseys to rewritseys my widdow babbow scwiptseys."
This was a refreshing revelation, because it meant several things: first, that Charles was aware of the playwright's unwillingness to fulfill his side of the deal. Second, it appeared that Charles was thus laying the groundwork for open and honest discussion of the project. Those were the most important things, but an added detail was that it seemed that Charles had met this kind of resistance before and was impatient with unprofessionality. I asked him about it:
Edward: Charles, this can't be the first time you've worked with a stubborn playwright.
Charles: Oh my God, no. It's the entire reason we have that contract with all of our playwrights now: the first two festivals we did, we got people who thought collaboration meant refusing to allow us to do their play if we didn't cast it to their satisfaction, things like that.
At this point Charles opened the discussion to the table, and, while the main issue the actors had with the play was one of repetition and pointless lines, these important notes began to get bogged down as the more covetous actors began to work their dark charms. Victor and Charles were having none of that, and wanted more to focus on the clogged dialogue. Eventually, Victor even went so far as to say something to the effect of, "Hey, listen, we all want more to do. But until we get the issue of clarity across to our playwright, asking him to add more confusion will only make our work harder." This prompted the greedies to scrabble backwards, protesting that it wasn't about more lines. But it totally was.
The leads were thus able to get their concerns across to Charles, who noted everything carefully in preparation for an e-mail and then meeting with the playwright. Finally, Victor asked the question I had been waiting to hear: "Does anyone have any thoughts about the overall structure or plotline?"
Silence.
I looked around, then raised my hand. Victor said, "Yes, Edward, O King of Structure?" Here is what I said:
Edward: Okay, here's the thing: this guy, our main character, he's a bestselling novelist, right?
Group: Uh-huh.
Edward: And the conflict in the play is rooted in his wife's fear that he's in danger of losing his job as a Biology professor -- and not getting tenure -- because he's focusing so much on his writing. Correct?
Group: Yeppers.
Edward: Then here's my question: if he's a bestselling novelist, what the fuck does he need to worry about a teaching job for? He has already made more money as, to quote page one of the play, " ... a New York Times #1 Bestseller," than he ever will teaching Biology.
Group: [silence]
Edward: This premise, that a bestselling novelist would be so scared of losing a job that is only a miserable distraction from what he loves, is essentially flawed. And because it's the main support beam upon which the play stands, we are essentially presenting something that no half-intelligent audience member is going to buy.
Professor: Well, Edward, we don't know how successful he is ...
Edward: [pointing to script] Page One: "Honey, I am a New York Times #1 Bestseller, you'd think I could spend a Sunday afternoon working on my novel." I think it's pretty clear.
Wife: I always thought he was joking with that line.
Edward: Why?
Wife: Because otherwise, why am I so worried about his job?
Edward: You're proving my point.
Wife: Huh ... yeah, I guess I am.
Charles: You know, I hadn't even caught that. I think it's an excellent point, and I'll make that the thrust of my discussion with the playwright.
Professor's Fat Sister: I don't know ...
Victor: What don't you know?
Professor's Fat Sister: We're sitting here talking about rewriting his entire play ...
Victor: You were just arguing to bulk up your lines by half, Fat Sister.
Professor's Fat Sister: I just ... it feels wrong. All I'm saying.
Wife: Well, I can keep assuming he's joking if that's what needs to happen, but it's shit acting on my part and I know it. I can't invite an agent when I know I'm doing poor work.
Victor: What about you, Ballerina?
Ballerina: If the central conflict were no longer about not getting tenure at the university because of his relationship with his muse, what would it be about?
Edward: It would be about his relationship with his muse. His wife already as much as accuses him of cheating on her; the tenure thing is a pointless diversion -- this is a play about a love triangle between a writer, his wife and his muse. Getting rid of the tenure bullshit clarifies all of that, gives you all stronger wants and -- hopefully -- less confusing dialogue.
Victor: Thus Spake Edwardthustra.
Charles: Edward, do you want a job as a reader?
Edward: Yes, indeed.
Charles: We'll talk. As for the rest of you, this has been very fruitful and informative. I will run all of this by the playwright and, fingers crossed, I will succeed in --
Professor's Fat Sister: I still don't know ...
Charles: What is it, Fat Sister?
Professor's Fat Sister: It feels so underhanded, meeting like this. If I were the writer, I wouldn't want everyone rewriting my script without me being there. I don't know if I can be a part of it.
Charles: Are you backing out of the show? Because I have another actress ...
Professor's Fat Sister: Oh, no! No! Just ... y'know, concerned.
Victor: Fat Sister, this is a mandatory meeting of which the playwright has been aware for months. He knew this was the lunch in which his script was likely to change. We are doing our jobs, according to our contracts. He is not doing his.
Professor's Fat Sister: But Professor didn't even bring any of this up, the -- who are you, Edward, the "assistant director"? The "assistant director" brought this up. You're not -- he's not even a real member of the team, he's a gopher. Since when do gophers have opinions? I'm just sayin', is all. He's not an actor. He's an assistant.
[Long silence. Waiter passes, ignoring us; probably not the first time he's heard an exchange like this. Not gonna lie: everything she said hit home.]
Charles: Thank you for making your feelings so clear, Fat Sister. Edward, I apologize.
Edward: Yeah, no. Fine.
Charles got up to pay the bill and we all headed outside. I had plastered a pleasant smile on my face and, by some miracle, maintained it all the way back to the theatre. I think I let it slip once Victor and I parted at 8th Avenue, and I may have found a very tight corner to face on a very packed train back to Corona. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to the numb soullessness guaranteed by a day of work at Restoration Hardware.
Victor called me the next day to tell me he'd had a long phone meeting with the playwright, who felt like we were "cutting his balls off." This affected Victor deeply. He began to back off. So, by the next week when Victor made a nice speech and handed the cast over to me, the wrighter had basically been given carte blanche and was using it to not rewrite anything in his play. My job had become very simple: shepherd the show through this last week of rehearsals and two days of tech, making regular reports to Victor, then attend all performances. I inquired later with Charles and Victor about pushing some rewrites, and the consensus was that it might be better for the company to avoid pushing a playwright into a nervous breakdown over a 30 minute play. I agreed, and everything ahead appeared to be clear skies and smooth sailing. None of us had reckoned, however, with the vengeance of the Professor's Fat Sister.
Showing posts with label actor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label actor. Show all posts
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Stomping
The actor stomps away from the shoot, handsome and ridiculous in his full-length white fox fur coat and glam-rock eyeshadow. They are shooting a dream sequence, and he's being asked to do something by the second-unit director that the director promised him he would never have to do. Apparently, nobody gave the second-unit director the memo. And where the hell is the director, why is Archie shooting this scene?
The crew take on a studied nonchalance, all turning to look somewhere else as their attention stays riveted upon the actor. The old hands have a way of looking in the opposite direction and knowing more about where the actor or director has gone for their tantrum than were they watching with binoculars.
Stomp, stomp, stomp goes the actor. What an arrogant prick, thinks a minor supporting actor watching the lead. Arrogant prick in a white fur coat. Of course he throws a tantrum in a white fur coat. Everyone's afraid the coat will be damaged, so they'll definitely pay attention.
The actor is veering perilously close to some equipment too costly to replace. The 1st AD has gone off in search of the director and the 2nd AD is fluttering mothlike in an arbitrary circle between the camera and the general vicinity of the lead actor. She is 20. She graduated early from a prestigious east-coast conservatory and knows all about Sondheim. She took a job with her uncle, the producer of this Sci-Fi Film Noir Indie Epic, for the summer. She told all her friends, "New York is not so great, I want to get some real experience under my belt, some hard work." So she took the very first flight she could get from Boston to Oakland, even switching to a flight to San Jose when she saw it was boarding as she waited for the connecting flight to Oakland, so that she would be back in comfortable, temperate Northern California ASAP, pronounced ay-sap, like yay-sap or gay-sap which was a joke some of her friends from the conservatory would make that she never understood. "I just want to get to work ASAP," she confided in her best friend Marjorie Frida-Kahlo Lockwood Lamont, knowing full well that Marjorie Frida-Kahlo Lockwood Lamont would tell everyone how passionate she was about gritty work, and never realizing that all of her friends saw through her purported desire for work to the very real fear of New York and possible failure that was too too daunting for this very young overachiever with decided fundamentalist Christian leanings.
The 1st AD knows precisely where the director is. The director is over behind some bushes -- azaleas? lobelia? oleander? -- sobbing uncontrollably as he tries to tell his mother about a dream he had last night. The director is plagued by dreams about the house his brother lives in with wife and two lovely children. There is something under that house, the director dreams every night, something dark coming for the children. He has tried to keep the dreams at bay with a variety of soporifics, but none have helped. His sleeeeeep has deeeeeeeepened, he is going off the deep end and will soon need depends because he's practically shitting himself. Not literally, but emotionally, and he just can't keep it together long enough to get through one phone call. The 1st AD knows all of this because it's the 1st AD's job to know all of this. He is an exceptional 1st AD. He knows where the director is, and that is why he is going to look for him. In the opposite direction.
The costumer is very worried about that coat. Well, actually, that coat can suck a bag of veinies as far as she is concerned -- she is more concerned about the vintage mink she traded as collateral for the white fox in case of damage. The mink is worth twenty times what the white fox is worth, a fact she is desperate to keep from the manager of the costume shop at A.F. College where she rented/traded/borrowed most of these costumes. Next thing she knows, someone figures out who the mink used to belong to and it's on E-Bay and she's screwed out of a hell of a lot of retirement. Or whatever. God knows, the way things are going, she'll be lucky if she doesn't have to go back to work at a library after Christmas. She's watching the actor and the 2nd AD as the 1st AD goes in the opposite direction, good boy, he knows where the director is, too, and he's letting him get it out, whatever it is. But the costumer watches the actor and she looks around for something to throw to distract him, should he begin to tear at more than his hair. That coat. Christ, what a waste of time. They could have used fake fur. Nobody ever sees below his neck, they could have used a stole. No, that would suck, it has to be the coat. Fucking ridiculous dream sequence. All we need know is a mime with a red balloon chasing a circus dog in a swastika-speckled party hat.
The cinematographer is very upset. The shot was perfect. The light is changing. This is not something we can fix in post. The 2nd AD is hot but useless, too bad her uncle is the producer, or the cinematographer would have to ask what the fuck she was doing dithering like this. The shot was fucking perfect. Where the fuck is the director? The second-unit guy is totally freaking the lead out.
The caterer is not the second-unit director. The 2nd AD thinks he is, because she was told that the second-unit director is Spanish, which to her means Mexican. So she found the first Mexican she could find on set and brought him over because Brick Fetterly had some questions. She walked past several actual Mexicans, including the director unseen behind the oleanders, who looks Irish but is Mexican and can explain why, but this guy with the long hair in a ponytail with a clipboard and dark skin and an accent looks like a Spanxican to her. He's actually from Panama, but he doesn't bother to explain this. He asked the actor what the actor wanted for lunch and the actor kind of fumed with only his nostrils and then turned and stomped away.
The makeup girl and the actor used to fuck. This was a while back, but she totally knows what he's into. It's kinky. She liked it. He stopped calling when he got some out-of-town projects and they haven't really had a chance to talk on set. If he wants sex, she's going to pretend to be seeing someone. She needs to be professional, now. She asks in advance if it's porn these days and has finally learned to turn work and other experiences down. For the most part.
The producer is about two blocks away, in a treehouse. He is watching all of this and whispering it into a mic attached to his iPod. He is writing a book. I am the producer. My niece is totally hot and we are not related by blood. She likes the jacuzzi. She is an overachiever. I am glad my wife and daughter are out of town for two weeks. My niece is an overachiever. I rented this treehouse from the preplexed family standing below on their lovely, idyllic suburban back lawn. This is the perfect vantage point from which I can watch all proceedings and record these notes for my memoirs. I call people via mobile if I need to. I will call my niece with some ridiculous task in a few moments, I will make sure she bends down to pick something up at the right angle. That makeup girl looks familiar.
The third actor in the shot, a supporting lead, watches all from a chair in the shade. He's here for two days. The producer tried to bar him from the production based on some jokes he'd made about hyenas. The director, writer and another producer totally overrode the producer's nay-saying. It turns out that this was good, that actor is good, and there he is, not freaking out. Where did he learn that? Where did he come from? Where will he go?
Whoa! The director is at the lead's side and they are conferring. The lead looks relaxed, like putty, like melting, like happy safe time. The director has this effect on people. He looks sane and normal, not like a man who dreams of ghosts trying to poison his brother's marriage. The 1st AD is miraculously returned and makes a slight gesture with his eyes which is picked up and transmitted to the crew so that now boom mics are readied and things are done and this and that happen and now we're shooting and the caterer is heading back to his truck with everyone's lunch order.
Everything is fine until the neighbors call the police and it's Napa and Napa cops are clearly working for the Third Reich. They ask the director if they can search his car, he tells them he doesn't own a car here, which is true, his car is in Chicago, the producer drives him everywhere, they don't believe him and they demand to see proof that he is a US Citizen.
The producer, in his haste to get out of the treehouse, breaks his ankle. He regains consciousness as the decorative gnomes begin to surround him. They are singing a song, and it's the same song the director heard in his dream last night; it makes the producer cry, because he knows that if the director could remember this song, he would be okay. It goes like this:
Would you have been so lonely
That you had to get in a boat
And sail away to the moonbeam ocean,
Far up in the sky?
The crew take on a studied nonchalance, all turning to look somewhere else as their attention stays riveted upon the actor. The old hands have a way of looking in the opposite direction and knowing more about where the actor or director has gone for their tantrum than were they watching with binoculars.
Stomp, stomp, stomp goes the actor. What an arrogant prick, thinks a minor supporting actor watching the lead. Arrogant prick in a white fur coat. Of course he throws a tantrum in a white fur coat. Everyone's afraid the coat will be damaged, so they'll definitely pay attention.
The actor is veering perilously close to some equipment too costly to replace. The 1st AD has gone off in search of the director and the 2nd AD is fluttering mothlike in an arbitrary circle between the camera and the general vicinity of the lead actor. She is 20. She graduated early from a prestigious east-coast conservatory and knows all about Sondheim. She took a job with her uncle, the producer of this Sci-Fi Film Noir Indie Epic, for the summer. She told all her friends, "New York is not so great, I want to get some real experience under my belt, some hard work." So she took the very first flight she could get from Boston to Oakland, even switching to a flight to San Jose when she saw it was boarding as she waited for the connecting flight to Oakland, so that she would be back in comfortable, temperate Northern California ASAP, pronounced ay-sap, like yay-sap or gay-sap which was a joke some of her friends from the conservatory would make that she never understood. "I just want to get to work ASAP," she confided in her best friend Marjorie Frida-Kahlo Lockwood Lamont, knowing full well that Marjorie Frida-Kahlo Lockwood Lamont would tell everyone how passionate she was about gritty work, and never realizing that all of her friends saw through her purported desire for work to the very real fear of New York and possible failure that was too too daunting for this very young overachiever with decided fundamentalist Christian leanings.
The 1st AD knows precisely where the director is. The director is over behind some bushes -- azaleas? lobelia? oleander? -- sobbing uncontrollably as he tries to tell his mother about a dream he had last night. The director is plagued by dreams about the house his brother lives in with wife and two lovely children. There is something under that house, the director dreams every night, something dark coming for the children. He has tried to keep the dreams at bay with a variety of soporifics, but none have helped. His sleeeeeep has deeeeeeeepened, he is going off the deep end and will soon need depends because he's practically shitting himself. Not literally, but emotionally, and he just can't keep it together long enough to get through one phone call. The 1st AD knows all of this because it's the 1st AD's job to know all of this. He is an exceptional 1st AD. He knows where the director is, and that is why he is going to look for him. In the opposite direction.
The costumer is very worried about that coat. Well, actually, that coat can suck a bag of veinies as far as she is concerned -- she is more concerned about the vintage mink she traded as collateral for the white fox in case of damage. The mink is worth twenty times what the white fox is worth, a fact she is desperate to keep from the manager of the costume shop at A.F. College where she rented/traded/borrowed most of these costumes. Next thing she knows, someone figures out who the mink used to belong to and it's on E-Bay and she's screwed out of a hell of a lot of retirement. Or whatever. God knows, the way things are going, she'll be lucky if she doesn't have to go back to work at a library after Christmas. She's watching the actor and the 2nd AD as the 1st AD goes in the opposite direction, good boy, he knows where the director is, too, and he's letting him get it out, whatever it is. But the costumer watches the actor and she looks around for something to throw to distract him, should he begin to tear at more than his hair. That coat. Christ, what a waste of time. They could have used fake fur. Nobody ever sees below his neck, they could have used a stole. No, that would suck, it has to be the coat. Fucking ridiculous dream sequence. All we need know is a mime with a red balloon chasing a circus dog in a swastika-speckled party hat.
The cinematographer is very upset. The shot was perfect. The light is changing. This is not something we can fix in post. The 2nd AD is hot but useless, too bad her uncle is the producer, or the cinematographer would have to ask what the fuck she was doing dithering like this. The shot was fucking perfect. Where the fuck is the director? The second-unit guy is totally freaking the lead out.
The caterer is not the second-unit director. The 2nd AD thinks he is, because she was told that the second-unit director is Spanish, which to her means Mexican. So she found the first Mexican she could find on set and brought him over because Brick Fetterly had some questions. She walked past several actual Mexicans, including the director unseen behind the oleanders, who looks Irish but is Mexican and can explain why, but this guy with the long hair in a ponytail with a clipboard and dark skin and an accent looks like a Spanxican to her. He's actually from Panama, but he doesn't bother to explain this. He asked the actor what the actor wanted for lunch and the actor kind of fumed with only his nostrils and then turned and stomped away.
The makeup girl and the actor used to fuck. This was a while back, but she totally knows what he's into. It's kinky. She liked it. He stopped calling when he got some out-of-town projects and they haven't really had a chance to talk on set. If he wants sex, she's going to pretend to be seeing someone. She needs to be professional, now. She asks in advance if it's porn these days and has finally learned to turn work and other experiences down. For the most part.
The producer is about two blocks away, in a treehouse. He is watching all of this and whispering it into a mic attached to his iPod. He is writing a book. I am the producer. My niece is totally hot and we are not related by blood. She likes the jacuzzi. She is an overachiever. I am glad my wife and daughter are out of town for two weeks. My niece is an overachiever. I rented this treehouse from the preplexed family standing below on their lovely, idyllic suburban back lawn. This is the perfect vantage point from which I can watch all proceedings and record these notes for my memoirs. I call people via mobile if I need to. I will call my niece with some ridiculous task in a few moments, I will make sure she bends down to pick something up at the right angle. That makeup girl looks familiar.
The third actor in the shot, a supporting lead, watches all from a chair in the shade. He's here for two days. The producer tried to bar him from the production based on some jokes he'd made about hyenas. The director, writer and another producer totally overrode the producer's nay-saying. It turns out that this was good, that actor is good, and there he is, not freaking out. Where did he learn that? Where did he come from? Where will he go?
Whoa! The director is at the lead's side and they are conferring. The lead looks relaxed, like putty, like melting, like happy safe time. The director has this effect on people. He looks sane and normal, not like a man who dreams of ghosts trying to poison his brother's marriage. The 1st AD is miraculously returned and makes a slight gesture with his eyes which is picked up and transmitted to the crew so that now boom mics are readied and things are done and this and that happen and now we're shooting and the caterer is heading back to his truck with everyone's lunch order.
Everything is fine until the neighbors call the police and it's Napa and Napa cops are clearly working for the Third Reich. They ask the director if they can search his car, he tells them he doesn't own a car here, which is true, his car is in Chicago, the producer drives him everywhere, they don't believe him and they demand to see proof that he is a US Citizen.
The producer, in his haste to get out of the treehouse, breaks his ankle. He regains consciousness as the decorative gnomes begin to surround him. They are singing a song, and it's the same song the director heard in his dream last night; it makes the producer cry, because he knows that if the director could remember this song, he would be okay. It goes like this:
Would you have been so lonely
That you had to get in a boat
And sail away to the moonbeam ocean,
Far up in the sky?
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