Oct 9, 2006
As of 6:15 on Monday, 2 October, I haven't had any responses to my e-mails, not even a note of, "Gosh, Edward, so sorry we didn't get back to you." (In fact, since rehearsal has begun nobody has mentioned those e-mails at all.) More perplexing is that rehearsal is ostensibly beginning in 45 minutes and I have no idea where we're rehearsing.
I'd spent the day exploring Idaho Falls a little more, looking in at the local Chamber of Commerce and learning that there's an entire mountain full of Opals here in Idaho. The lady behind the counter was taken aback when I asked if she know of any good coffeehouses. She stumblepaused and said, " ... Coffeehouses? Well, yes, I'm sure ... here, let's see ..." Producing a local eateries pamphlet, she showed me the list of potential coffee places and reads the the names, pointing syllable by syllable. "Vil-la Cof-fee-house ... Jack Mor-mon's Steam-y Brews-N'-Smokes ... Hot Wa-ter Strained Through Gran-ny Pan-ties ..." I took the pamphlet and went in search of Villa Coffeehouse.
After a day spent drinking coffee and studying my lines I was ready to jump in to rehearsals. I like to arrive at least a half hour early, if not more. And by 6:17 I had accepted the fact that they were not going to contact me with any information about rehearsal. I was the pretty-pretty-princess, expecting special treatment and such. So I called the SM and said, "Hi there, Ginger, this is Edward Hightower."
"Oh. Are you in town?"
"Yes."
"... Great! So what can I help you with?"
"Well, I'd love to come to rehearsal tonight."
"Do you need a ride? Because I'm still at work and I have to go to the store before I go to rehearsal, but I could have someone come pick you up maybe. Actually, I'm just leaving work now. Do you need a ride?"
"No, I'd just like to know where rehearsal is."
"Oh! Do you have a driver, are you taking a taxi?"
"No, I have a car."
"You drove here?"
"Yes."
"Wow."
"I like the desert."
"I'll bet."
"So rehearsal is ..."
"Oh! It's at Jefferson Montessori in Ammon."
This was the moment when I thought my senses or cell service had departed me. "I'm sorry, where?"
"Jefferson Montessori. Where are you?"
"I'm in the parking lot of the Red Lion Hotel."
"Where is that?"
The Red Lion Hotel, at about six storeys, is the tallest secular building in Idaho Falls. It's right next to the river. Pretty visible. I wanted to ask if she lived around here, but things were strange enough. "It's near the river, downtown, off Broadway."
"Okay ... um ... I'm not good with directions. You're going to take Broadway to Yellowstone ... do you know where that is?"
"Yes."
"Okay, you're going to take Yellowstone North, so you'll be turning left. I think. Left, right, yeah, it's left. So you're going to pass Les Schwab and a barbecue place on the left and then you're going under an overpass and you take the first right and that's First Street. No, I'm sorry, the second right is First Street. And you're going to take First all the way down, couple miles, you're gonna cross a little bridge but right before that you'll know you're going the right direction when you pass an Arctic Circle on your left and a gas station on your right. The school's across from a Baptist church, it's on the right and there's another school next to it that has a billboard."
"I'll pass an Arctic Circle?"
"Yes."
"Aren't those all melting?"
" ... What?"
"Nothing. What's the name of the school again?"
"Jefferson Montessori."
"Jefferson?"
"Yes."
"Okay, well, I'll see you there."
"Okay, well, I have to go to the store and get some stuff, so I'll be there soon. And just call me if you get lost and I'll rope you in."
"Too late, Ginger."
"What? Why?"
"Nothing, I'll see you there."
So I follow her directions and there's no Jefferson Montessori. Everything else is exactly as she reported. But the name of the school is Snake River Montessori. I pull into the lot and I'm sitting there and it's raining. I call her just as a PT Cruiser is pulling into the lot. I think, 'I'll bet that's her.'
"Hey Ginger, it's Edward. Just wanted to check the name of the school ..."
"Jefferson Montessori. Where are you?"
"I'm at Snake River Montessori."
"Oh is that you in the little white car?"
I wave, she waves.
"Yes it is."
"Hi! Come on in! I'll just get the door open."
I pull the car around and park closer to the building, as it's now pouring rain. Ginger gets out of her car and heads toward the building. No umbrella. I'm putting my stuff into my backpack and another car pulls up. A jolly lady with white hair gets out. She sees my car and waves, walks over. I open the door.
"Hi! Are you Edward? I'm Valeen!"
"Hi there. Yes I am. Pleased to meet you."
"Welcome to Idaho Falls!" She gestures at the leaden skies and the torrential downpour. No umbrella for Valeen. "Come on inside and we'll have a chat."
"I'll just get my stuff."
"Okay! See you in there!"
Once I'm inside, Valeen invites me to have a seat. She says, "Just so you know what's going on, here: there's been some uproar because we're changing the way we do things. Part of that is having you here. Also, our Bill and Nancy aren't from Idaho Falls, but you're our big-ticket item for the production. A lot of people aren't happy about this but not so much the Fagin role because not so many people here thought they could play that part. But that's what's going on here: a lot of change and some anxiety over it, but we're going forward and we'll make the best of it."
I murmur something about change and resistance and change and art and she smilingly agrees. Then she says, "One other thing: our Oliver. He's got the look, he's got the voice -- when he chooses to sing -- but he's just not an actor."
I'm beginning to think that's a tradition with this show. The kid who played Oliver at PCPA had this goofy, complacent smile the whole time. Aside from the time he cried during a music rehearsal when Jonathan Swoboda raised his voice, I never saw that Oliver change his expression. Until I talked to him during Tech and suggested he think about what he would do if a scary man broke into his house, tied a rope to him and dragged him across the rooftops, threatening murder and worse. After that, he did some things. And he began to do more when he saw his understudy (a girl) astound us with her performance during the understudy rehearsal.
I relate this story briefly to Valeen. She says, "Oh good. You go ahead and do anything you can to get our Oliver to act. That would be wonderful."
I consider prodding him with a javelin and wonder if there's a used sporting goods store in town.
Rehearsal starts at 7:00. By 7:05 there are maybe four people in the room. Valeen introduces me to everyone. By 7:20 the room is full of screaming kids and talking adults. We have yet to begin rehearsing. I am still being introduced. By 7:45 I begin to want to die or cry or drink or all three.
Then we start to rehearse.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Week One: OLIVER! in Idaho, Rinky-Dink Research
Oct 8, 2006
I am surrounded by Mormons. I am playing Fagin in a production of Oliver! in Idaho Falls, Idaho, for a theatre company who are paying me more than they are paying the director. We are rehearsing in the multi-purpose room of a Montessori School. The Stage Manager chats with people during rehearsals, the director has to shout to get the orphans/pickpockets to be quiet, other adults in the room are allowed to converse during rehearsal -- at full voice -- and the dialects are truly startling.
I have wandered knowingly into Guffmania. It's research, and I'm getting paid for it, and I'm writing about it here every week, but it's like taking a spiritual and artistic cheese grater to my soul. Particularly after the delights of PCPA. True, working at PCPA left me just able to cover my rent in Livermore and, by the time I returned home after A Little Night Music, financially destitute. Also true: every company has its inherent foibles. But PCPA is a great place to work. It's organized. And Chrissy Collins, Goddess of Stage Management ... I weep for lack of Chrissy.
While I say I've wandered knowingly into Guffmania, I should specify that I did not realize precisely how bad it was going to be until I heard the word, 'Montessori'. I thought my cell phone was playing tricks. But no, it was the right word. I wondered for a moment if I could afford to just drive back to Livermore there and then. But I'd already met two board members and they are very nice people. Still, I had yet to see a contract or a check. Maybe I could talk Veronica into a little return gas money and I could just drive the 15 hours straight, hopped up on coffee and the fight/flight response.
How did I get this job? Jonathan Visser, who played Mr. Erlanson in A Little Night Music, was originally going to play this part. He got a better offer in Oregon and asked me if I was interested. I didn't really have any other offers and had been more concerned about my housing situation in Santa Maria than I had future employment. That's another story. I did hear that the Great American Melodrama was interested in me, but I didn't hear any more after their artistic director came to see ALNM, and I learned later that he had stayed after to chat with people during the photo call. So maybe my work sucks. Maybe I was supposed to court him. I don't know. But the housing here in Idaho Falls is definitely better (I'm in a hotel!), and the pay is better than PCPA, and I'd never driven to Idaho before. So that all added up to something new and different. And here I am rehearsing Monday through Wednesday evenings, with four hours Saturday morning (starting at 8:00am! WHAT THE FUCK?!) and the rest of the time I have nothing to do.
So I left on Saturday, 9/30. Spent the night in Wells, NV. Arrived in Idaho Falls at around 6:12pm on Sunday, October 1. Friday, 9/29, I sent a message to the Producer (Visser's very nice Aunt Marcia), asking where I should go when I got to town. Maybe I sent it on Thursday, I'll check that later. Point is, no response. So I worry about it and call on Saturday as I'm driving East on 580 to catch 5 North in Tracy, thence to 80 in Sacramento. Someone -- I think perhaps her son -- answers the phone. I ask for Marcia. He says, "She's busy." I tell him my name and that I'm one of the Guest Artists in Oliver!, and that I would love it if she could call me back. He says okay, so I continue merrily on my way up into the Sierras and then down into the desert and thank God the sun set so I didn't have to see Winnemucca by daylight. I figure I'll get a phone call sometime that night or the next day.
Complete silence. I even dawdle a bit in Wells, taking a long breakfast in case they've decided to hire a local Idahoan and save some money. But no message is forthcoming so I get on the road in good faith; at some point between Wells, NV and Twin Falls, ID, the battery on my phone dies. I forgot to charge it the night before.
When I arrive in Idaho Falls, I am struck by two things: 1) this is a nice little town/city, with a cool old Downtown area, and 2) I have absolutely no idea where to go. Desperately needing a bathroom, I stop at the Red Lion Hotel. I ask the clerk if he knows of a coffee shop that might be open. I'm figuring coffee shop, free internet, communication, good stuff. He says there's a Starbucks at Fred Meyer on Yellowstone.
I head to Fred Meyer, which is like Albertson's meets Target and the Wolfman.
It's a Starbucks kiosk. Not even a spot to plug my phone in. So I stand near a pay phone and fake a conversation while my phone charges at the outlet beneath the phone. It charges a little. I sip my coffee. I'm impatient. I take my phone and walk outside. Pumpkins in big cardboard boxes, a vast parking lot, a truly lovely sunset.
I head back to the Red Lion. I ask the guy if he knows of anywhere I can get free internet access. I anticipate an e-mail with all sorts of good chunky info. He points behind me: there's a 1992 Hewlett Packard on a little stand in the lobby.
"It's dialup," he says. "Slow."
"Better than nothing," I say, and sit down to a very familiar computer: this is precisely the same model I bought back when I was 19. I cost around $1,492.00! Can you believe that? This one is maybe a little faster than mine was, lacking MYST and Sim Towers.
Nothing. Neither the director nor SM have responded to my e-mails. So I write another one to the effect of, "I'm here, where should I go?" I plug my phone into the powerstrip and sit on a nearby couch to wait. An hour later, no response but my phone has enough of a charge to be useful.
I call Veronica. She says, "Honey, who the fuck are you working for that they bring you to Idaho and don't have anyplace for you to go?"
I say, "I think they're new to this."
I call Visser's Aunt Marcia. She sounds delighted and a little alarmed to hear from me. (Admittedly, in one of my e-mails of the previous week, I had asked if I should arrive Sunday or Monday. Getting no response, I stuck to our original arrangement: Sunday.) Marcia tells me she's had company all day and will call me right back with a place for me to stay. I call Veronica. Veronica offers to pay for a hotel for the night. I counsel her against this on the logic that it's better to save money.
The next time my phone rings, it's not Marcia, but a very nice woman named Annette, who does props for the shows. She gives me directions to her house. I drive out there. I meet her family.
They're Mormons. There's a lovely print on the wall of Jesus surrounded by a multi-culti gaggle of kids, with angelic presences whose names I could only guess at presiding over it all behind a misty scrim. If that's not a Mormonesque picture, I'm not an unrepentant Pagan lothario (reformed).
I'm wearing my festive Turkish hat and I have a big gold earring in my left ear. I talk a little too loudly and too much, making too many jokes. I'm nervous. They're very nice, they seem a little shellshocked. They didn't know I'd be staying there. The first they'd heard was a phone call ten minutes before I arrived. We're all smiling big friendly smiles. I concentrate very hard on not swearing. I begin to sweat.
Annette shows me the room I'll be staying in. It's their oldest son's. "He's in Brazil," she says. Is that a euphamism or is he on his mission? Maybe both. Maybe his mission is to wait in a secret room and kill earring-clad pagans in their sleep.
The room is spotless. There is absolutely no mess, anywhere. Not even in the closet. He's an award-winning musician, sportsman and a decorated Webelo, Cub and Boy Scout. There are posters on the wall, LDS ads about being nice to people and hugging grandma. He collects these the way Hillary collects Absolut ads.
It hits me as I'm changing into my pajamas: this boy is precisely the kind of boy Veronica liked to seduce when she was in High School. For the first time on this trip, I'm glad Veronica's still in Livermore. My girlfriend seducing local Mormon missionaries is the last thing I need.
I am surrounded by Mormons. I am playing Fagin in a production of Oliver! in Idaho Falls, Idaho, for a theatre company who are paying me more than they are paying the director. We are rehearsing in the multi-purpose room of a Montessori School. The Stage Manager chats with people during rehearsals, the director has to shout to get the orphans/pickpockets to be quiet, other adults in the room are allowed to converse during rehearsal -- at full voice -- and the dialects are truly startling.
I have wandered knowingly into Guffmania. It's research, and I'm getting paid for it, and I'm writing about it here every week, but it's like taking a spiritual and artistic cheese grater to my soul. Particularly after the delights of PCPA. True, working at PCPA left me just able to cover my rent in Livermore and, by the time I returned home after A Little Night Music, financially destitute. Also true: every company has its inherent foibles. But PCPA is a great place to work. It's organized. And Chrissy Collins, Goddess of Stage Management ... I weep for lack of Chrissy.
While I say I've wandered knowingly into Guffmania, I should specify that I did not realize precisely how bad it was going to be until I heard the word, 'Montessori'. I thought my cell phone was playing tricks. But no, it was the right word. I wondered for a moment if I could afford to just drive back to Livermore there and then. But I'd already met two board members and they are very nice people. Still, I had yet to see a contract or a check. Maybe I could talk Veronica into a little return gas money and I could just drive the 15 hours straight, hopped up on coffee and the fight/flight response.
How did I get this job? Jonathan Visser, who played Mr. Erlanson in A Little Night Music, was originally going to play this part. He got a better offer in Oregon and asked me if I was interested. I didn't really have any other offers and had been more concerned about my housing situation in Santa Maria than I had future employment. That's another story. I did hear that the Great American Melodrama was interested in me, but I didn't hear any more after their artistic director came to see ALNM, and I learned later that he had stayed after to chat with people during the photo call. So maybe my work sucks. Maybe I was supposed to court him. I don't know. But the housing here in Idaho Falls is definitely better (I'm in a hotel!), and the pay is better than PCPA, and I'd never driven to Idaho before. So that all added up to something new and different. And here I am rehearsing Monday through Wednesday evenings, with four hours Saturday morning (starting at 8:00am! WHAT THE FUCK?!) and the rest of the time I have nothing to do.
So I left on Saturday, 9/30. Spent the night in Wells, NV. Arrived in Idaho Falls at around 6:12pm on Sunday, October 1. Friday, 9/29, I sent a message to the Producer (Visser's very nice Aunt Marcia), asking where I should go when I got to town. Maybe I sent it on Thursday, I'll check that later. Point is, no response. So I worry about it and call on Saturday as I'm driving East on 580 to catch 5 North in Tracy, thence to 80 in Sacramento. Someone -- I think perhaps her son -- answers the phone. I ask for Marcia. He says, "She's busy." I tell him my name and that I'm one of the Guest Artists in Oliver!, and that I would love it if she could call me back. He says okay, so I continue merrily on my way up into the Sierras and then down into the desert and thank God the sun set so I didn't have to see Winnemucca by daylight. I figure I'll get a phone call sometime that night or the next day.
Complete silence. I even dawdle a bit in Wells, taking a long breakfast in case they've decided to hire a local Idahoan and save some money. But no message is forthcoming so I get on the road in good faith; at some point between Wells, NV and Twin Falls, ID, the battery on my phone dies. I forgot to charge it the night before.
When I arrive in Idaho Falls, I am struck by two things: 1) this is a nice little town/city, with a cool old Downtown area, and 2) I have absolutely no idea where to go. Desperately needing a bathroom, I stop at the Red Lion Hotel. I ask the clerk if he knows of a coffee shop that might be open. I'm figuring coffee shop, free internet, communication, good stuff. He says there's a Starbucks at Fred Meyer on Yellowstone.
I head to Fred Meyer, which is like Albertson's meets Target and the Wolfman.
It's a Starbucks kiosk. Not even a spot to plug my phone in. So I stand near a pay phone and fake a conversation while my phone charges at the outlet beneath the phone. It charges a little. I sip my coffee. I'm impatient. I take my phone and walk outside. Pumpkins in big cardboard boxes, a vast parking lot, a truly lovely sunset.
I head back to the Red Lion. I ask the guy if he knows of anywhere I can get free internet access. I anticipate an e-mail with all sorts of good chunky info. He points behind me: there's a 1992 Hewlett Packard on a little stand in the lobby.
"It's dialup," he says. "Slow."
"Better than nothing," I say, and sit down to a very familiar computer: this is precisely the same model I bought back when I was 19. I cost around $1,492.00! Can you believe that? This one is maybe a little faster than mine was, lacking MYST and Sim Towers.
Nothing. Neither the director nor SM have responded to my e-mails. So I write another one to the effect of, "I'm here, where should I go?" I plug my phone into the powerstrip and sit on a nearby couch to wait. An hour later, no response but my phone has enough of a charge to be useful.
I call Veronica. She says, "Honey, who the fuck are you working for that they bring you to Idaho and don't have anyplace for you to go?"
I say, "I think they're new to this."
I call Visser's Aunt Marcia. She sounds delighted and a little alarmed to hear from me. (Admittedly, in one of my e-mails of the previous week, I had asked if I should arrive Sunday or Monday. Getting no response, I stuck to our original arrangement: Sunday.) Marcia tells me she's had company all day and will call me right back with a place for me to stay. I call Veronica. Veronica offers to pay for a hotel for the night. I counsel her against this on the logic that it's better to save money.
The next time my phone rings, it's not Marcia, but a very nice woman named Annette, who does props for the shows. She gives me directions to her house. I drive out there. I meet her family.
They're Mormons. There's a lovely print on the wall of Jesus surrounded by a multi-culti gaggle of kids, with angelic presences whose names I could only guess at presiding over it all behind a misty scrim. If that's not a Mormonesque picture, I'm not an unrepentant Pagan lothario (reformed).
I'm wearing my festive Turkish hat and I have a big gold earring in my left ear. I talk a little too loudly and too much, making too many jokes. I'm nervous. They're very nice, they seem a little shellshocked. They didn't know I'd be staying there. The first they'd heard was a phone call ten minutes before I arrived. We're all smiling big friendly smiles. I concentrate very hard on not swearing. I begin to sweat.
Annette shows me the room I'll be staying in. It's their oldest son's. "He's in Brazil," she says. Is that a euphamism or is he on his mission? Maybe both. Maybe his mission is to wait in a secret room and kill earring-clad pagans in their sleep.
The room is spotless. There is absolutely no mess, anywhere. Not even in the closet. He's an award-winning musician, sportsman and a decorated Webelo, Cub and Boy Scout. There are posters on the wall, LDS ads about being nice to people and hugging grandma. He collects these the way Hillary collects Absolut ads.
It hits me as I'm changing into my pajamas: this boy is precisely the kind of boy Veronica liked to seduce when she was in High School. For the first time on this trip, I'm glad Veronica's still in Livermore. My girlfriend seducing local Mormon missionaries is the last thing I need.
My Chat Room Hook-up
Aug 17, 2007
Brandee: nite Jay
Jay: feel free to add...
Edward: Anyone here 925?
Jay: nite brandee
********** at 10:32 PM kelly left the room
jeremy: later jay
********** at 10:33 PM Marqui†a de Sade left the room
Live yours,not MINE!: como estan esta noche?
Edward: Wanto to join a cult?
Jay: later jer
********** at 10:33 PM Jay left the room
Jeff: hey everyone
********** at 10:33 PM oscar left the room
Edward: Hey everyone.
********** at 10:33 PM Live yours,not MINE! left the room
jeremy: waz up jeff
Brandee: nada
~Jill~: O.K. all.......Gotta run.....Gotta get that beauty sleep.....G'Nite Brandee....stay
gorgeous!!
********** at 10:33 PM jimmy left the room
Edward: donde estas el pollo sucio?
jeremy: waz up edward
jeremy: gnite jill
Ian: Goodnight Jill
Brandee: isn't pollo chicken
Edward: Waz up, Mrs. Santa Claus?
Mark: yes brandee
Brandee: nite Jill
Mark: pollo is chix
Jeff: how is everybody
~Jill~: G'Nite Jeremy...G'Nite Ian and good luck with everything!!
Brandee: I'm going to bed too
Edward: muy caliente, muchacho!
Ian: thanks
********** at 10:34 PM ~Jill~ left the room
Brandee: nite all
newshapenetwork.com: hey, i think i am going to bow out gracefully now.........my
forehead is doing the typing for me here...........
jeremy: gnite brandee
Brandee:
newshapenetwork.com: nite!
Edward: yes we're all getting old.
********** at 10:34 PM Ian left the room
Brandee: well
Brandee: nite
Edward: old and flabby
Mark: might brandee....you too
********** at 10:34 PM MISSMATTY2007 joined the room
Brandee: niyr nred
********** at 10:35 PM MISSMATTY2007 left the room
Edward: tired easily
jeremy: not me
Mark: night*
********** at 10:35 PM *****Elliott joined the room
********** at 10:35 PM jimmy joined the room
Brandee: nite news that is
Edward: angrily flatulent in Target on a sunday mornin'
jeremy: i'm not getting flabbyedward
********** at 10:35 PM Brandee left the room
********** at 10:35 PM Jeff left the room
Edward: I'm not getting flabbyedward either!
jimmy: hey room
Edward: he's gross
Edward: and flabby
newshapenetwork.com: nite brandee! nice talking to you
Edward: not like limberkimmy
********** at 10:35 PM finny left the room
Edward: she's the most fun
********** at 10:36 PM Mark left the room
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry joined the room
jeremy: yea i forgot to space it there edward
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry left the room
Edward: good night, everyone!
jeremy: is everyone leaving
********** at 10:37 PM newshapenetwork.com left the room
Edward: I'm like a pixie with stubble
********** at 10:37 PM Jenn joined the room
Brandee: nite Jay
Jay: feel free to add...
Edward: Anyone here 925?
Jay: nite brandee
********** at 10:32 PM kelly left the room
jeremy: later jay
********** at 10:33 PM Marqui†a de Sade left the room
Live yours,not MINE!: como estan esta noche?
Edward: Wanto to join a cult?
Jay: later jer
********** at 10:33 PM Jay left the room
Jeff: hey everyone
********** at 10:33 PM oscar left the room
Edward: Hey everyone.
********** at 10:33 PM Live yours,not MINE! left the room
jeremy: waz up jeff
Brandee: nada
~Jill~: O.K. all.......Gotta run.....Gotta get that beauty sleep.....G'Nite Brandee....stay
gorgeous!!
********** at 10:33 PM jimmy left the room
Edward: donde estas el pollo sucio?
jeremy: waz up edward
jeremy: gnite jill
Ian: Goodnight Jill
Brandee: isn't pollo chicken
Edward: Waz up, Mrs. Santa Claus?
Mark: yes brandee
Brandee: nite Jill
Mark: pollo is chix
Jeff: how is everybody
~Jill~: G'Nite Jeremy...G'Nite Ian and good luck with everything!!
Brandee: I'm going to bed too
Edward: muy caliente, muchacho!
Ian: thanks
********** at 10:34 PM ~Jill~ left the room
Brandee: nite all
newshapenetwork.com: hey, i think i am going to bow out gracefully now.........my
forehead is doing the typing for me here...........
jeremy: gnite brandee
Brandee:
newshapenetwork.com: nite!
Edward: yes we're all getting old.
********** at 10:34 PM Ian left the room
Brandee: well
Brandee: nite
Edward: old and flabby
Mark: might brandee....you too
********** at 10:34 PM MISSMATTY2007 joined the room
Brandee: niyr nred
********** at 10:35 PM MISSMATTY2007 left the room
Edward: tired easily
jeremy: not me
Mark: night*
********** at 10:35 PM *****Elliott joined the room
********** at 10:35 PM jimmy joined the room
Brandee: nite news that is
Edward: angrily flatulent in Target on a sunday mornin'
jeremy: i'm not getting flabbyedward
********** at 10:35 PM Brandee left the room
********** at 10:35 PM Jeff left the room
Edward: I'm not getting flabbyedward either!
jimmy: hey room
Edward: he's gross
Edward: and flabby
newshapenetwork.com: nite brandee! nice talking to you
Edward: not like limberkimmy
********** at 10:35 PM finny left the room
Edward: she's the most fun
********** at 10:36 PM Mark left the room
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry joined the room
jeremy: yea i forgot to space it there edward
********** at 10:36 PM Jerry left the room
Edward: good night, everyone!
jeremy: is everyone leaving
********** at 10:37 PM newshapenetwork.com left the room
Edward: I'm like a pixie with stubble
********** at 10:37 PM Jenn joined the room
Friday, November 12, 2010
Adventures in Hair
I'm generally an affable, easy-going sort of fellow. But my recent stories about shaving my head have brought to mind some experiences I've had in theatre that are worth telling here. I'm not sure how many of these stories I'll tell today. I may restrict it to one, as I suspect that my overlong blogs turn off those of you with a third-grade attention span.
I drive through Walnut Creek every day en route to Solano College, where I am currently faculty in the Actor Training Program. I teach Musical Theatre Audition Technique. Like anything, you get out of it what you put into it. Like Walnut Creek, it has its nice parts and its not-so-nice parts. CTA/Crossroads was in a set of buildings in a not-so-nice part of Walnut Creek that aspired to the status of strip mall on Olympic Way, across from a 7/11. I heard recently that it had shut down. I don't know if that's true or not.
These buildings, nestled up against 680 Northbound, housed mostly automotive, florist, art supply businesses. And a theatre academy. With a theatre attached to it. The theatre itself had been a pet shop. This posed some problems, as apparently the stage manager -- someone's Dad, as I remember -- didn't think it was necessary to sweep or mop anywhere before, during or after it had been converted into a theatre space. Even when actors were sneezing and having asthma attacks, action was deemed unnecessary.
This tiny little theatre had chosen as its inaugural production the sophisticated Sondheim musical, A Little Night Music. This is a show about infidelity, familial love triangles, courtesans and suicide -- among other things. The theatre was run by Mormons. Many of you might see a disconnect there; the management did not. However, they had lost their director and the fellow playing Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm the day before they were to start rehearsing. Or perhaps when I arrived they'd been rehearsing for a week. I know they were freaking out, looking for someone to play Carl-Magnus. I got a call, so I figured I would go audition for them. I had never heard of the company, but then, I had been living and doing theatre on the East Coast since 1995. This was 2001.
Lesson Number One: Always Do Your Research
A theatre in a third-world strip mall, next to a freeway, in a former pet store, run by Mormons. I would never have gone anywhere near the place, had I known. (I think my then girlfriend knew some things, but she hesitated to tell me, as there were reflective surfaces in the vicinity.) I want to be clear: the only reason I took the job was out of boredom and because I hadn't actually done any theatre since 1998. Long story, I'll safe it for another post.
Lesson Number Two: $tick To Your Gun$
When you ask for $1,500.00. stick to it. If they refuse, thank them politely and leave. They will either capitulate or they will not. If they pay you what you ask, that's great. Invite whom you will. But if you give in to their offer of a third of that amount, do not invite anyone. You have sealed your own doom.
Lesson Number Three: Hold Them To The Dates They Give You
Write down performance dates the moment you get them. Do not trust the management to stick to those dates. They will probably extend the show without telling you, and when your performances conflict with rehearsals for your next project, you might find yourself in conflict with the Artistic Director of a far better company. Note: if you are ever in a situation where Crappy Group's show conflicts with Superb Group's show, choose Superb Group. Crappy group will probably fold due to financial mismanagement within five years.
So I was playing opposite a woman who was a little bit older than me. The management were concerned that I looked too young next to her, and in an effort to remedy this they brought a professional hairdresser in to "frost" my hair. I told them I could easily do it with makeup and they said, no, no, it's our pleasure. She's the real deal. She'll frost it and it will look natural and everything will be fine.
Next thing I know, there's this borderline morbidly obese woman in a tube top crowding into a handicap restroom with me, mixing some sort of paste in a plastic cup. It starts to smell, the fumes burn my eyes, and she's telling me, "We're going to just brush this on and see how it looks."
I'm assuming that this is step one of frosting. The paste begins to burn my skin. I can smell burning hair. I mention this, she doesn't seem concerned, I rinse my hair out and I have orange patches at each temple and an orange patch in the center of the hair above my forehead. I look like a Smoky Calico.
"What's step two?"
"Step two of what?"
"Of the frosting process."
"The what process?"
"Aren't we frosting my hair?"
"Maybe we can add some more ..."
So she daubs more caustic paste onto my hair. By the time it rinses out, it's made very large light yellow patches in my hair. I look like an idiot who has mated with a clown. A large clown. In a tube top.
One of the management people sees what has happened to my hair and does not immediately take steps to intervene. After rinsing my hair again, and again, and again, I ask what the next step is.
"That's it. There is no next step."
"What?"
"You're done. Don't you like it?"
"Well, it's not terribly natural-looking, is it?"
"Edward, trust me: our audiences don't care."
When I walk into the theatre to rehearse that evening, it goes quiet. The actress playing Anne gets oh-my-God eyes and starts studying her script very closely. I still don't understand where the hairdresser lady has gone and why she didn't finish the job. I ask someone if she'll be back, but rehearsal gets started and I forget about my hair until I get back to my parents' house and my sister Hillary says, "Tad, what THE FUCK did you do to your hair?"
The woman playing my wife wears enough makeup in the role that our age difference is hardly noticeable. But now I have to darken my hair with brown makeup and try to silver over that to cover the orange patches. On stage, my grey looks a deep, chlorinated green. In certain lights, because not all of the lighting is for theatre and some pieces are outdoor flood lamps, my hair seems to glow dully, like irradiated old copper. I look dead, possessed or cancerous by turns.
The production is generally terrible, but it does lead to further employment for me: because of a connection I make in that cast, I eventually direct The Cocktail Hour at Pleasanton Playhouse. But that's down the road. And, frankly, everything else is eclipsed by the savory tidbit they saved for opening night.
"Edward, we'd like to ask you not to say a couple of words in your performance."
"I'm sorry?"
"Our audience is very conservative and there are a couple of words we'd like you not to say."
"What words are these?" I'm polite, but now my hackles are really starting to rise. Do they point to the words or say them? I don't remember. I choose say:
"God-damn, please don't say God-damn."
"But it's in the script."
"We'd just like to ask you to consider not saying it, please. You can say anything else you want, just not those words."
"Have you asked Sondheim's permission?"
Silence.
This polite pressure continues. I agree to replace the word. Ordinarily, I would sing,
"The papers ... he mentioned papers,
Some legal papers which I didn't see there.
Where were they, the goddamn papers she had to sign?"
That night, and ever after, I sing something like this:
"The frongly-brongly papers ... he mentioned papers,
Some legal papers which I didn't see there.
Where were they, the krinkly-frankle papers she had to sign?"
Other variations include the golly-gee-whillikers papers, the baby-eating papers, the dog-fart papers, the invisible papers, the fly papers, the oofly-doodler papers, the penis papers. Anything is fine, as long as I don't say God-damn. And they never bat an eye. Neither the audience nor the management seems to notice.
The best and simplest substitution comes to me on closing night. It comes to me right before the line. One word, to perfectly describe my experience with that production:
Toilet.
The audience doesn't even twitch. I'd say my hair had them in its cobra-like gaze, but by this time Hillary had dyed it for me and the silver looked normal. No more Boris Karloff toupee for me, alas. So I must assume that this conservative audience simply had no idea what they were watching. They were there to be polite. They neither cared nor understood. Just stupid Americans, sitting in an old pet store, trying not to sneeze as the Liebeslieders shriek off-pitch at them and the ingenue runs around with band-aids up her shin from the giant hole backstage next to the stairs that the Stage Manager (someone's Dad) couldn't be troubled to patch.
I drive through Walnut Creek every day en route to Solano College, where I am currently faculty in the Actor Training Program. I teach Musical Theatre Audition Technique. Like anything, you get out of it what you put into it. Like Walnut Creek, it has its nice parts and its not-so-nice parts. CTA/Crossroads was in a set of buildings in a not-so-nice part of Walnut Creek that aspired to the status of strip mall on Olympic Way, across from a 7/11. I heard recently that it had shut down. I don't know if that's true or not.
These buildings, nestled up against 680 Northbound, housed mostly automotive, florist, art supply businesses. And a theatre academy. With a theatre attached to it. The theatre itself had been a pet shop. This posed some problems, as apparently the stage manager -- someone's Dad, as I remember -- didn't think it was necessary to sweep or mop anywhere before, during or after it had been converted into a theatre space. Even when actors were sneezing and having asthma attacks, action was deemed unnecessary.
This tiny little theatre had chosen as its inaugural production the sophisticated Sondheim musical, A Little Night Music. This is a show about infidelity, familial love triangles, courtesans and suicide -- among other things. The theatre was run by Mormons. Many of you might see a disconnect there; the management did not. However, they had lost their director and the fellow playing Count Carl-Magnus Malcolm the day before they were to start rehearsing. Or perhaps when I arrived they'd been rehearsing for a week. I know they were freaking out, looking for someone to play Carl-Magnus. I got a call, so I figured I would go audition for them. I had never heard of the company, but then, I had been living and doing theatre on the East Coast since 1995. This was 2001.
Lesson Number One: Always Do Your Research
A theatre in a third-world strip mall, next to a freeway, in a former pet store, run by Mormons. I would never have gone anywhere near the place, had I known. (I think my then girlfriend knew some things, but she hesitated to tell me, as there were reflective surfaces in the vicinity.) I want to be clear: the only reason I took the job was out of boredom and because I hadn't actually done any theatre since 1998. Long story, I'll safe it for another post.
Lesson Number Two: $tick To Your Gun$
When you ask for $1,500.00. stick to it. If they refuse, thank them politely and leave. They will either capitulate or they will not. If they pay you what you ask, that's great. Invite whom you will. But if you give in to their offer of a third of that amount, do not invite anyone. You have sealed your own doom.
Lesson Number Three: Hold Them To The Dates They Give You
Write down performance dates the moment you get them. Do not trust the management to stick to those dates. They will probably extend the show without telling you, and when your performances conflict with rehearsals for your next project, you might find yourself in conflict with the Artistic Director of a far better company. Note: if you are ever in a situation where Crappy Group's show conflicts with Superb Group's show, choose Superb Group. Crappy group will probably fold due to financial mismanagement within five years.
So I was playing opposite a woman who was a little bit older than me. The management were concerned that I looked too young next to her, and in an effort to remedy this they brought a professional hairdresser in to "frost" my hair. I told them I could easily do it with makeup and they said, no, no, it's our pleasure. She's the real deal. She'll frost it and it will look natural and everything will be fine.
Next thing I know, there's this borderline morbidly obese woman in a tube top crowding into a handicap restroom with me, mixing some sort of paste in a plastic cup. It starts to smell, the fumes burn my eyes, and she's telling me, "We're going to just brush this on and see how it looks."
I'm assuming that this is step one of frosting. The paste begins to burn my skin. I can smell burning hair. I mention this, she doesn't seem concerned, I rinse my hair out and I have orange patches at each temple and an orange patch in the center of the hair above my forehead. I look like a Smoky Calico.
"What's step two?"
"Step two of what?"
"Of the frosting process."
"The what process?"
"Aren't we frosting my hair?"
"Maybe we can add some more ..."
So she daubs more caustic paste onto my hair. By the time it rinses out, it's made very large light yellow patches in my hair. I look like an idiot who has mated with a clown. A large clown. In a tube top.
One of the management people sees what has happened to my hair and does not immediately take steps to intervene. After rinsing my hair again, and again, and again, I ask what the next step is.
"That's it. There is no next step."
"What?"
"You're done. Don't you like it?"
"Well, it's not terribly natural-looking, is it?"
"Edward, trust me: our audiences don't care."
When I walk into the theatre to rehearse that evening, it goes quiet. The actress playing Anne gets oh-my-God eyes and starts studying her script very closely. I still don't understand where the hairdresser lady has gone and why she didn't finish the job. I ask someone if she'll be back, but rehearsal gets started and I forget about my hair until I get back to my parents' house and my sister Hillary says, "Tad, what THE FUCK did you do to your hair?"
The woman playing my wife wears enough makeup in the role that our age difference is hardly noticeable. But now I have to darken my hair with brown makeup and try to silver over that to cover the orange patches. On stage, my grey looks a deep, chlorinated green. In certain lights, because not all of the lighting is for theatre and some pieces are outdoor flood lamps, my hair seems to glow dully, like irradiated old copper. I look dead, possessed or cancerous by turns.
The production is generally terrible, but it does lead to further employment for me: because of a connection I make in that cast, I eventually direct The Cocktail Hour at Pleasanton Playhouse. But that's down the road. And, frankly, everything else is eclipsed by the savory tidbit they saved for opening night.
"Edward, we'd like to ask you not to say a couple of words in your performance."
"I'm sorry?"
"Our audience is very conservative and there are a couple of words we'd like you not to say."
"What words are these?" I'm polite, but now my hackles are really starting to rise. Do they point to the words or say them? I don't remember. I choose say:
"God-damn, please don't say God-damn."
"But it's in the script."
"We'd just like to ask you to consider not saying it, please. You can say anything else you want, just not those words."
"Have you asked Sondheim's permission?"
Silence.
This polite pressure continues. I agree to replace the word. Ordinarily, I would sing,
"The papers ... he mentioned papers,
Some legal papers which I didn't see there.
Where were they, the goddamn papers she had to sign?"
That night, and ever after, I sing something like this:
"The frongly-brongly papers ... he mentioned papers,
Some legal papers which I didn't see there.
Where were they, the krinkly-frankle papers she had to sign?"
Other variations include the golly-gee-whillikers papers, the baby-eating papers, the dog-fart papers, the invisible papers, the fly papers, the oofly-doodler papers, the penis papers. Anything is fine, as long as I don't say God-damn. And they never bat an eye. Neither the audience nor the management seems to notice.
The best and simplest substitution comes to me on closing night. It comes to me right before the line. One word, to perfectly describe my experience with that production:
Toilet.
The audience doesn't even twitch. I'd say my hair had them in its cobra-like gaze, but by this time Hillary had dyed it for me and the silver looked normal. No more Boris Karloff toupee for me, alas. So I must assume that this conservative audience simply had no idea what they were watching. They were there to be polite. They neither cared nor understood. Just stupid Americans, sitting in an old pet store, trying not to sneeze as the Liebeslieders shriek off-pitch at them and the ingenue runs around with band-aids up her shin from the giant hole backstage next to the stairs that the Stage Manager (someone's Dad) couldn't be troubled to patch.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Shaving Daddy W.
The first time I shaved my head was because I didn't have the money for a haircut in the summer of 1997. This was in Boston, Massachusetts. I was staying at a friend's apartment before a bunch of us moved in to a huge old place in the South End, and it was just easier at the time than going to a barber and paying for a trim: I had short hair for the entire Summer, a definite plus. I think I used a beard trimming clipper to trim it short, then shaved it clean with a Gillette razor. If you shave your head, I strongly suggest that you avoid the temptation to splash afterhsave or cologne on your freshly-shorn scalp afterwards: I suspect that it can burn the follicles. If you know better, please feel free to comment.
The next time I shaved my head was for the role of Autolycus in The Winter's Tale, later in 1997/98 at The Boston Conservatory. Fancy name, excellent training, so-so facilities. I hear the facilities are improving, so that's good news. At the time, I was totally willing to shave my head, so the facilities weren't really a factor in my decision; I mention them here in case any prospective students read this and think from the name that they'd be working in incredible facilities. The training is incredible, and in many ways it makes up for the facilities: correctly used, the training allows any actor or director to surpass the limitations of space. Ironically, Emerson College, also in Boston, has lovely facilities and generally shitty training. Perhaps this was not always the case, but as of 1999 they were churning out crappy actors.
Anyway, I shaved my head for the role. It was easy to do, since I'd done it the previous Summer, and now that I had more knowledge of what was required, I went and bought a pair of Oster barber clippers and what had taken me well over an hour the first time was done in about 20 minutes. Looking back, the clippers cost more than a haircut, but I was very DIY at the time. That's when my love of learning to do things I didn't previously know really blossomed. As an example, by the summer of 1999, when everyone from the South End apartment had scattered to the winds and I was subletting a two-room place near Fenway Park (we would watch one corner of the field from the roof), I had purchased a straight razor and was teaching myself to shave while smoking a cigar, rolling the cigar from one side of my mouth to the other without taking it out ... until I had finished or until my eyes were watering so hard from the smoke that I couldn't see. I used hot coffee as the hot water for my shaving soap, and yes, I had a mug and a shaving brush; I wore a wifebeater at the time, so I think I had reached some sort of personal early-20th-Century apex of the Manly Arts. To clarify: I was not shaving my head with a straight razor while smoking a cigar; that seems like dangerous idiocy to me. Nor did I beat anyone while wearing the wifebeater. I do not see beating a woman as any part of the Manly Arts. Men who hit their wives or girlfriends are weak and like to have sex with their dads. Their own dad, not their girlfriend's dad. Having sex with their girlfriend's dad strikes me as making the man less likely to hit the girlfriend; leave her for her father? Possibly. But hit her? Less likely than if a male who considers himself straight is actively enjoying sex with his own father. That's a recipe for wifebeating if ever I saw one.
"Honey, why are you home late, and why do you smell of your father's cologne and of tears?" she asks from the doorway.
He stands in the half-light from the windows, glowering. "I've told you never to ask me about my father's cologne. Or his tears ... of pleasure!"
The couple above don't know it, but more Church is not going to help.
I haven't shaved my head since my days in Boston for a couple of reasons. The first is that I haven't had a role that required it. The second is that certain members of my family love to harp on the subject of my hairline. They think it's funny to point out thinning spots. This is never funny to an actor, and I don't think it's really funny to anyone whose hair is thinning, even marginally. So take my advice: if you have family or friends whose hair is thinning and you think it might be funny to point it out and laugh about it at every gathering, shut the fuck up. It makes us not want to be around you. Seriously. And if you're getting old and you want your family close by, pointing out their hairline every time they come for dinner is going to earn you a lonely, Edward-free death. So enjoy that, or shut the fuck up. Those are your options.
Oddly, when the role of Daddy Warbucks at Solano College Theatre came up in discussion, I was not remotely concerned about the prospect of shaving my head. This is because I have a very attractively-shaped head. Lex Luthor and Oliver Warbucks are roles for which I was made. Actually, they are like flip sides of the same coin, when one thinks about it. Perhaps it was Oliver Warbucks' having been born in poverty and orphaned at a young age that properly aligned his moral compass. I'll look into this and get back to you. The truth is, I've been secretly anticipating the moment of shaving ever since I was cast in the role.
Imagine my delight when I was told in early October that I would need to shave my head earlier than we'd thought, because of the photo shoot on October 25. Frankly, I would have shaved it the next day, but I was in the process of planning a film shoot in which I was a key player. A full head of hair was needed. So it had to wait until after that shoot, which was about a week before October 25. The only question now was, how to do it? I still own the Oster clippers, so that was an option. But first, a word about the film project:
I'm producing an indie short, in which I star. We are shooting on location this Winter. We've got our project at Kickstarter.com, and I would love it if you would take a look at it. If you like the video -- and if the movie seems like one that you would actually want to watch -- then please, share it all over Facebook and with everyone you know. The film is called A Waltz, and I'd love it if you would comment on the project.
So, the day we shot the final sequence in the promo video, literally within an hour of finishing the shoot, I went to Vaughn's Barbershop, here in Livermore. I prefer Barbershops to salons. I like the atmosphere, the craft of their work, the heated shaving cream and the straight razor they use to edge the base of the neck. I also like having a conversation with the person cutting my hair. The number of times I've had a bad haircut from an ESL Asian woman who spends most of the haircut squacking to her fellow hairdressers and doesn't understand or ignores the specificity of my haircutting needs ... so frustrating. To be clear, it's the language barrier that's the problem. I'm sure there would be the same issue if the hairdresser was German ... though in my experience Germans speak better English than Americans. So, assuming that I found a German hairdresser who could not speak any English, I'm guessing it would be the same. I suspect that a German Barber, on the other hand, would perhaps command multiple languages. Such is the esteem in which I hold the mighty Barber.
I decided on the Barbershop for several reasons. Chief among them: time. I had to get it done and then drive to Vallejo, where I'm directing a youth cast of Annie. Standing over my sink with clippers, making a mess that Veronica would be angry about, possibly cutting myself in my rush to get it done ... none of this appealed to me. Vaughn's was the best choice.
After making it clear that I wanted it shaved clean, the Barber buzzed me down to almost nothing. Then he lathered me up with heated foam and got out the straight razor. He told me something then that I did not know: Barbers are not allowed to use the traditional straight razor anymore. It's considered unsafe. They have to use a "safety" version of the straight razor, same shape, same folding into the handle, but from what I could see, maybe less likely to be used in a murderous revenge-and-meat-pie plot.
The feeling of having someone else shave one's head is really quite pleasant. I would go get it done every week, were I made of money and were I not gauging the rate at which my hair will grow back for the film shoot in February. I like how I look with a goatee and moustache and shaved head, but Warbucks has to be clean-shaven. So I'm fine with that. Lots of salads.
Usually, when I'm facially clean-shaven, Veronica can't look at me. I think she thinks I'm ugly without a beard. It's a pleasant surprise that having no hair on my head except my eyebrows did not repulse her. So, should the thinning that certain family members so lovingly rhapsodize at Thanksgiving take the course they hungrily predict, I know that Veronica will still find me attractive. And I can play the gentleman heavy on cop shows.
Until then, I shall continue sacrificing goats to the Gods of lustrous hair.
The next time I shaved my head was for the role of Autolycus in The Winter's Tale, later in 1997/98 at The Boston Conservatory. Fancy name, excellent training, so-so facilities. I hear the facilities are improving, so that's good news. At the time, I was totally willing to shave my head, so the facilities weren't really a factor in my decision; I mention them here in case any prospective students read this and think from the name that they'd be working in incredible facilities. The training is incredible, and in many ways it makes up for the facilities: correctly used, the training allows any actor or director to surpass the limitations of space. Ironically, Emerson College, also in Boston, has lovely facilities and generally shitty training. Perhaps this was not always the case, but as of 1999 they were churning out crappy actors.
Anyway, I shaved my head for the role. It was easy to do, since I'd done it the previous Summer, and now that I had more knowledge of what was required, I went and bought a pair of Oster barber clippers and what had taken me well over an hour the first time was done in about 20 minutes. Looking back, the clippers cost more than a haircut, but I was very DIY at the time. That's when my love of learning to do things I didn't previously know really blossomed. As an example, by the summer of 1999, when everyone from the South End apartment had scattered to the winds and I was subletting a two-room place near Fenway Park (we would watch one corner of the field from the roof), I had purchased a straight razor and was teaching myself to shave while smoking a cigar, rolling the cigar from one side of my mouth to the other without taking it out ... until I had finished or until my eyes were watering so hard from the smoke that I couldn't see. I used hot coffee as the hot water for my shaving soap, and yes, I had a mug and a shaving brush; I wore a wifebeater at the time, so I think I had reached some sort of personal early-20th-Century apex of the Manly Arts. To clarify: I was not shaving my head with a straight razor while smoking a cigar; that seems like dangerous idiocy to me. Nor did I beat anyone while wearing the wifebeater. I do not see beating a woman as any part of the Manly Arts. Men who hit their wives or girlfriends are weak and like to have sex with their dads. Their own dad, not their girlfriend's dad. Having sex with their girlfriend's dad strikes me as making the man less likely to hit the girlfriend; leave her for her father? Possibly. But hit her? Less likely than if a male who considers himself straight is actively enjoying sex with his own father. That's a recipe for wifebeating if ever I saw one.
"Honey, why are you home late, and why do you smell of your father's cologne and of tears?" she asks from the doorway.
He stands in the half-light from the windows, glowering. "I've told you never to ask me about my father's cologne. Or his tears ... of pleasure!"
The couple above don't know it, but more Church is not going to help.
I haven't shaved my head since my days in Boston for a couple of reasons. The first is that I haven't had a role that required it. The second is that certain members of my family love to harp on the subject of my hairline. They think it's funny to point out thinning spots. This is never funny to an actor, and I don't think it's really funny to anyone whose hair is thinning, even marginally. So take my advice: if you have family or friends whose hair is thinning and you think it might be funny to point it out and laugh about it at every gathering, shut the fuck up. It makes us not want to be around you. Seriously. And if you're getting old and you want your family close by, pointing out their hairline every time they come for dinner is going to earn you a lonely, Edward-free death. So enjoy that, or shut the fuck up. Those are your options.
Oddly, when the role of Daddy Warbucks at Solano College Theatre came up in discussion, I was not remotely concerned about the prospect of shaving my head. This is because I have a very attractively-shaped head. Lex Luthor and Oliver Warbucks are roles for which I was made. Actually, they are like flip sides of the same coin, when one thinks about it. Perhaps it was Oliver Warbucks' having been born in poverty and orphaned at a young age that properly aligned his moral compass. I'll look into this and get back to you. The truth is, I've been secretly anticipating the moment of shaving ever since I was cast in the role.
Imagine my delight when I was told in early October that I would need to shave my head earlier than we'd thought, because of the photo shoot on October 25. Frankly, I would have shaved it the next day, but I was in the process of planning a film shoot in which I was a key player. A full head of hair was needed. So it had to wait until after that shoot, which was about a week before October 25. The only question now was, how to do it? I still own the Oster clippers, so that was an option. But first, a word about the film project:
I'm producing an indie short, in which I star. We are shooting on location this Winter. We've got our project at Kickstarter.com, and I would love it if you would take a look at it. If you like the video -- and if the movie seems like one that you would actually want to watch -- then please, share it all over Facebook and with everyone you know. The film is called A Waltz, and I'd love it if you would comment on the project.
So, the day we shot the final sequence in the promo video, literally within an hour of finishing the shoot, I went to Vaughn's Barbershop, here in Livermore. I prefer Barbershops to salons. I like the atmosphere, the craft of their work, the heated shaving cream and the straight razor they use to edge the base of the neck. I also like having a conversation with the person cutting my hair. The number of times I've had a bad haircut from an ESL Asian woman who spends most of the haircut squacking to her fellow hairdressers and doesn't understand or ignores the specificity of my haircutting needs ... so frustrating. To be clear, it's the language barrier that's the problem. I'm sure there would be the same issue if the hairdresser was German ... though in my experience Germans speak better English than Americans. So, assuming that I found a German hairdresser who could not speak any English, I'm guessing it would be the same. I suspect that a German Barber, on the other hand, would perhaps command multiple languages. Such is the esteem in which I hold the mighty Barber.
I decided on the Barbershop for several reasons. Chief among them: time. I had to get it done and then drive to Vallejo, where I'm directing a youth cast of Annie. Standing over my sink with clippers, making a mess that Veronica would be angry about, possibly cutting myself in my rush to get it done ... none of this appealed to me. Vaughn's was the best choice.
After making it clear that I wanted it shaved clean, the Barber buzzed me down to almost nothing. Then he lathered me up with heated foam and got out the straight razor. He told me something then that I did not know: Barbers are not allowed to use the traditional straight razor anymore. It's considered unsafe. They have to use a "safety" version of the straight razor, same shape, same folding into the handle, but from what I could see, maybe less likely to be used in a murderous revenge-and-meat-pie plot.
The feeling of having someone else shave one's head is really quite pleasant. I would go get it done every week, were I made of money and were I not gauging the rate at which my hair will grow back for the film shoot in February. I like how I look with a goatee and moustache and shaved head, but Warbucks has to be clean-shaven. So I'm fine with that. Lots of salads.
Usually, when I'm facially clean-shaven, Veronica can't look at me. I think she thinks I'm ugly without a beard. It's a pleasant surprise that having no hair on my head except my eyebrows did not repulse her. So, should the thinning that certain family members so lovingly rhapsodize at Thanksgiving take the course they hungrily predict, I know that Veronica will still find me attractive. And I can play the gentleman heavy on cop shows.
Until then, I shall continue sacrificing goats to the Gods of lustrous hair.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Oliver Warbucks Beyond Thunderdome
I'm sure that, somewhere in this great nation of ours, there is an adult male actor playing Oliver Warbucks who -- for any number of reasons -- is opting out of shaving his head. This poor bastard has to arrive much earlier every day and take the time and effort to put on a bald cap and make it look real, make sure that there are no visible lines at the border between the cap and his actual flesh. Depending on the resources available to this actor, he might be struggling to get it right every night, because someone helpfully 'trimmed' the cap for him, thus making it impossible for the thing to fit correctly. In order to make his job easier, he might even have gotten a very close-cropped haircut -- even a buzz cut -- so that his hair is not as bulky beneath the cap.
Chances are, the actor is in this position because he is a) young, b) polite, c) stupid, d) all of the above. I speak from experience. I played Cyrano de Bergerac when I was 22. For those of you who don't know, Cyrano has a very large nose. My nose is, for lack of a better term, Welsh. Clearly, I needed to bulk up the proboscis. The director was relatively new to the department, she had been hired the year before and had suddenly become head of the theatre department. She brought in a costumer who did not know how to costume, firing the long-time costume and makeup designer, effectively halting any artistic cohesion between costumes and makeup. The result? Our makeup "designer" for Cyrano was a young woman of 19 who considered herself a makeup artist because she had taken a one-week workshop over the summer and been given a Microsoft Print Shop certificate saying she was certified.
Certifiable, perhaps. So I picture our fictional actor, the one struggling with the bald cap like some bad PSA actor in a video series on theatrical etiquette, sitting politely by in a similar situation as a teenage idiot blathers about her certificate and trims a good two inches off the edges of the bald cap. He should go talk to the director immediately. He doesn't know this. If he could trust his Stage Manager, he would know to go to said Stage Manager immediately for advice/assistance. The Stage Manager is a young woman of about 20, best friends with the makeup "designer," and is upset because her German boyfriend is leaving for Berlin next week. If he had an agent, the actor would call his agent. He does not have an agent. This guy is maybe talented, but he took his parents' advice and became a podiatrist. He's getting fat, he's got three kids, his wife indulges his "little hobby" and he is grateful that she never inquires with anyone at the theatre as to what his exact rehearsal schedule is, or why he gets home so late smelling of trendy cologne. This is not the life he pictured when he was 22. He should have gone to Boston. And to his credit, he looks at his hairline in the mirror as the moron with the nose piercing is butchering the bald caps and thinks, "I could just do it, I could shave my head and make my life much easier."
I was thinking something similar as the fictional idiot's real-life twin trimmed my nose. Not the tip, but the edges. This was a Kryolan foam latex nose, truly a remarkable piece of makeup: lightweight, these false noses fit right over your own; held in place with medical adhesive, they don't come off until you take them off (I recommend olive oil). You breathe through your own nostrils, over which the false nostrils fit nicely. There is no gross buildup of condensation that one gets in a hollow latex rubber piece, and the nose looks like flesh. On the edges of the piece, the foam latex thins out to a very light, skin-like consistency. To be honest, our "designer" had read the instructions, which stated that the edges could be trimmed if needed. This last phrase did not sink much deeper than the surface of her eyes. She cut about 1/8 of an inch off, all around the nose. This made it impossible to blend the edge of the nose easily with my skin, so that I had to spend an hour or two every night applying liquid latex to the edge of the nose and hoping I got the makeup on it in time to avoid having what appeared to be a big pink scar running around the bridge of my now gigantic nose.
It almost never worked, and I see our fictional bald-cap actor in the same boat. He gamely applies various substances and various powders or creams, but his hair shows just enough at his forehead or the nape of his neck that he realizes he has to cut ... some of it. He starts with the neck, getting a very conservative haircut and asking the barber to shave up to the base of his skull. This is an improvement, but during the first tech rehearsal, the bald cap pulls back from his hairline in the waltz and it looks like he is turning werewolf. Old ladies from the local Baptist congregation, who come to tech rehearsals to be able to assure the faithful that the show is of good moral quality, are rushed from the building in a panic. Murmurs of monstrosities are heard. The director insists that the actor shave two or three inches back from his forehead. The actor suggests that he just get his head shaved, but the director is one of those who must have every good idea be his own, and shoots the actor's suggestion down as ridiculous. The Stage Manager hands the actor a janky electric beard trimmer. It looks like it has pubes in the blade. "Better take three inches off, all the way around, it will be easier," saith the Stage Manager. Quoth the actor, "Don't you think I should just shave my head?" "And piss off Bill? Think about it," returneth the Stage Manager. There are rumors that the director hired the makeup girl for skills that have less to do with how she applied lipstick and more with how she applied.
No such rumors in the case of my botched nose, but the director did not have the control or wisdom to step in and help me. I did ask for help. She said there was one other nose, but that these noses were super expensive and the department couldn't afford to use them all. So, could I please make the first nose work for the run of the show? And I did my best. But this added about two hours to my preparation every night, so that I was just barely getting into my costume by the time places was called. This pissed the director off. She would come backstage yelling at me, and I would go as fast as I could, but I was caught between logic (use the fresh nose and be ready sooner) and following orders (use the shitty nose and always be late) and irrational demands (use the shitty nose and ALWAYS be ON TIME!). I am always amazed when a director works to make things more difficult or complex for a leading actor. For any actor, really, but particularly for a lead. There is enough stress involved in leading roles, why add bullshit to the platter?
The Bald Cap Actor has gone to a barber to try to fix his odd self-administered haircut; the barber has gamely faded the sides and back, resulting in what resembles a monk in negative. Or, more correctly, Bert and Ernie. The barber asks the actor, "Why don't you just shave it?" The actor responds, "The director doesn't want me to." He looks like some inbred backwoods pinhead. The twenty-something who was flirting with him is now totally uninterested. His wife and children cannot meet his eyes. His neighbor laughs a lot whenever he is outside. He is glad he is a podiatrist, because the frustration of this kind of thing day in and day out would be too much. He's taken to wearing a baseball cap at work.
I had applied the latex three times to the edge of the nose and each time had to peel it off because I was so stressed that I messed up with the makeup. Suddenly, a gigantic bearded man I'd seen backstage during Tech appeared at the door and said quietly, "I hear you may need some help. Let me show you something." He sat down and showed me how to make a slurry with my makeup, filling in all cracks on the sides and edges of the nose. He was a massively calm presence, and he spoke quietly about where he'd learned this and how it had helped him in the past. Turns out he had learned it from Margaret, former head of makeup and costumes. The one who had been fired. The one who, had she been there, would have made certain that my nose was amazing from day one. That moment was the first time I realized the importance of politics in theatre, and how one bad decision can affect everything to follow. I looked at the tech pirate. "What would you do in my case?" I asked. "I'd use the fresh nose. What's she going to do, fire you? There's no understudy."
Bald Cap hasn't got an understudy, either. Nor has he a tech pirate to advise him. He takes a break from theatre after playing Warbucks. This break lasts the rest of his life, though one reviewer does point out, "Bill Billing's stroke of genius in making Warbucks as misshapen cranially as he must be spiritually is to be commended. Finally, someone has recognized Warbucks as the Halliburton of 1933."
I was too cautious to use the fresh nose on my own, but the next night the makeup moron tore the first nose as she was removing it, something she insisted on every night. I tried to patch it the next day, but it wasn't working. I opened the new package, trimmed only the part that would get stuck in my moustache, and had the new nose on in record time. When Makeup Girl arrived and saw me with the better nose on, she freaked out: "You're not supposed to use it!" When she arrived with the angry director in tow, I may have said something along the lines of, "You're not the one who has to wear this thing," or, "The other nose ripped," or, "It was just taking too long." I don't remember. What I should have said, and what I'm sure I didn't, was, "If you had been doing your job as a director, none of this would happen. These noses cost $12.00. I'll give you the money. So back the fuck off and let me do my job."
Which is all to explain why I am shaving my head when I play Daddy Warbucks. I will detail my recent shearing in my next blog. Do please comment.
Chances are, the actor is in this position because he is a) young, b) polite, c) stupid, d) all of the above. I speak from experience. I played Cyrano de Bergerac when I was 22. For those of you who don't know, Cyrano has a very large nose. My nose is, for lack of a better term, Welsh. Clearly, I needed to bulk up the proboscis. The director was relatively new to the department, she had been hired the year before and had suddenly become head of the theatre department. She brought in a costumer who did not know how to costume, firing the long-time costume and makeup designer, effectively halting any artistic cohesion between costumes and makeup. The result? Our makeup "designer" for Cyrano was a young woman of 19 who considered herself a makeup artist because she had taken a one-week workshop over the summer and been given a Microsoft Print Shop certificate saying she was certified.
Certifiable, perhaps. So I picture our fictional actor, the one struggling with the bald cap like some bad PSA actor in a video series on theatrical etiquette, sitting politely by in a similar situation as a teenage idiot blathers about her certificate and trims a good two inches off the edges of the bald cap. He should go talk to the director immediately. He doesn't know this. If he could trust his Stage Manager, he would know to go to said Stage Manager immediately for advice/assistance. The Stage Manager is a young woman of about 20, best friends with the makeup "designer," and is upset because her German boyfriend is leaving for Berlin next week. If he had an agent, the actor would call his agent. He does not have an agent. This guy is maybe talented, but he took his parents' advice and became a podiatrist. He's getting fat, he's got three kids, his wife indulges his "little hobby" and he is grateful that she never inquires with anyone at the theatre as to what his exact rehearsal schedule is, or why he gets home so late smelling of trendy cologne. This is not the life he pictured when he was 22. He should have gone to Boston. And to his credit, he looks at his hairline in the mirror as the moron with the nose piercing is butchering the bald caps and thinks, "I could just do it, I could shave my head and make my life much easier."
I was thinking something similar as the fictional idiot's real-life twin trimmed my nose. Not the tip, but the edges. This was a Kryolan foam latex nose, truly a remarkable piece of makeup: lightweight, these false noses fit right over your own; held in place with medical adhesive, they don't come off until you take them off (I recommend olive oil). You breathe through your own nostrils, over which the false nostrils fit nicely. There is no gross buildup of condensation that one gets in a hollow latex rubber piece, and the nose looks like flesh. On the edges of the piece, the foam latex thins out to a very light, skin-like consistency. To be honest, our "designer" had read the instructions, which stated that the edges could be trimmed if needed. This last phrase did not sink much deeper than the surface of her eyes. She cut about 1/8 of an inch off, all around the nose. This made it impossible to blend the edge of the nose easily with my skin, so that I had to spend an hour or two every night applying liquid latex to the edge of the nose and hoping I got the makeup on it in time to avoid having what appeared to be a big pink scar running around the bridge of my now gigantic nose.
It almost never worked, and I see our fictional bald-cap actor in the same boat. He gamely applies various substances and various powders or creams, but his hair shows just enough at his forehead or the nape of his neck that he realizes he has to cut ... some of it. He starts with the neck, getting a very conservative haircut and asking the barber to shave up to the base of his skull. This is an improvement, but during the first tech rehearsal, the bald cap pulls back from his hairline in the waltz and it looks like he is turning werewolf. Old ladies from the local Baptist congregation, who come to tech rehearsals to be able to assure the faithful that the show is of good moral quality, are rushed from the building in a panic. Murmurs of monstrosities are heard. The director insists that the actor shave two or three inches back from his forehead. The actor suggests that he just get his head shaved, but the director is one of those who must have every good idea be his own, and shoots the actor's suggestion down as ridiculous. The Stage Manager hands the actor a janky electric beard trimmer. It looks like it has pubes in the blade. "Better take three inches off, all the way around, it will be easier," saith the Stage Manager. Quoth the actor, "Don't you think I should just shave my head?" "And piss off Bill? Think about it," returneth the Stage Manager. There are rumors that the director hired the makeup girl for skills that have less to do with how she applied lipstick and more with how she applied.
No such rumors in the case of my botched nose, but the director did not have the control or wisdom to step in and help me. I did ask for help. She said there was one other nose, but that these noses were super expensive and the department couldn't afford to use them all. So, could I please make the first nose work for the run of the show? And I did my best. But this added about two hours to my preparation every night, so that I was just barely getting into my costume by the time places was called. This pissed the director off. She would come backstage yelling at me, and I would go as fast as I could, but I was caught between logic (use the fresh nose and be ready sooner) and following orders (use the shitty nose and always be late) and irrational demands (use the shitty nose and ALWAYS be ON TIME!). I am always amazed when a director works to make things more difficult or complex for a leading actor. For any actor, really, but particularly for a lead. There is enough stress involved in leading roles, why add bullshit to the platter?
The Bald Cap Actor has gone to a barber to try to fix his odd self-administered haircut; the barber has gamely faded the sides and back, resulting in what resembles a monk in negative. Or, more correctly, Bert and Ernie. The barber asks the actor, "Why don't you just shave it?" The actor responds, "The director doesn't want me to." He looks like some inbred backwoods pinhead. The twenty-something who was flirting with him is now totally uninterested. His wife and children cannot meet his eyes. His neighbor laughs a lot whenever he is outside. He is glad he is a podiatrist, because the frustration of this kind of thing day in and day out would be too much. He's taken to wearing a baseball cap at work.
I had applied the latex three times to the edge of the nose and each time had to peel it off because I was so stressed that I messed up with the makeup. Suddenly, a gigantic bearded man I'd seen backstage during Tech appeared at the door and said quietly, "I hear you may need some help. Let me show you something." He sat down and showed me how to make a slurry with my makeup, filling in all cracks on the sides and edges of the nose. He was a massively calm presence, and he spoke quietly about where he'd learned this and how it had helped him in the past. Turns out he had learned it from Margaret, former head of makeup and costumes. The one who had been fired. The one who, had she been there, would have made certain that my nose was amazing from day one. That moment was the first time I realized the importance of politics in theatre, and how one bad decision can affect everything to follow. I looked at the tech pirate. "What would you do in my case?" I asked. "I'd use the fresh nose. What's she going to do, fire you? There's no understudy."
Bald Cap hasn't got an understudy, either. Nor has he a tech pirate to advise him. He takes a break from theatre after playing Warbucks. This break lasts the rest of his life, though one reviewer does point out, "Bill Billing's stroke of genius in making Warbucks as misshapen cranially as he must be spiritually is to be commended. Finally, someone has recognized Warbucks as the Halliburton of 1933."
I was too cautious to use the fresh nose on my own, but the next night the makeup moron tore the first nose as she was removing it, something she insisted on every night. I tried to patch it the next day, but it wasn't working. I opened the new package, trimmed only the part that would get stuck in my moustache, and had the new nose on in record time. When Makeup Girl arrived and saw me with the better nose on, she freaked out: "You're not supposed to use it!" When she arrived with the angry director in tow, I may have said something along the lines of, "You're not the one who has to wear this thing," or, "The other nose ripped," or, "It was just taking too long." I don't remember. What I should have said, and what I'm sure I didn't, was, "If you had been doing your job as a director, none of this would happen. These noses cost $12.00. I'll give you the money. So back the fuck off and let me do my job."
Which is all to explain why I am shaving my head when I play Daddy Warbucks. I will detail my recent shearing in my next blog. Do please comment.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Debacle, Part IV
"There's a moth in your wine."
"I know."
"It's dead."
"Yep."
"That why you're not drinking it?"
"Yep."
"Want a fresh glass?"
"Nope."
"Want a fresh glass with fresh wine in it?"
"Yep."
"'Kay. Be right back."
His sister goes into the house and he is struck by the power of the relief that flooded through him when it was she, and not the peculiar callers, who stepped onto the back patio a few moments ago. It occurs to X. to wonder if perhaps the phone call is part of an elaborate ruse, a joke played by some college friends or part of a massive revenge scheme perpetrated by an ex-girlfriend. He has discarded both of these ideas by the time his sister returns with two glasses, the remaining bottle of Riesling and a fresh bottle of something she will not let him see.
"You are uncharacteristically quiet tonight, Brother Mine."
"I am uncharacteristically alarmed, O Sister, My Sister."
"What by, O Respected Elder Sibling?"
"A series of odd and seemingly unconnected events which now appear either connected or so misshapen in their randomness that they have overlapped one another and now threaten to intersect unpleasantly with my everyday life, such as it is."
"'Such as it is,' he murmured, gesturing lazily about him with his wineglass before raising it to sip."
"Mock, mock, mock."
"Detail these events and I will clarify for you, Fellow Offspring of our Progenitor and Progenitrix."
"Are you quite prepared to marinate in details over the next several hours?"
"As long as you come with me to the Secret Barn Dance in Lost Canyon."
"Done. Shall I begin?"
"Do."
"Very well, then: as you know, I've been looking for a way to finance my eventual return to NYC or a foray into the wilds of Chicago."
"And you took the job with the creepy dusty office people."
"Yes. It appears that they nor their company do not exist. Nobody contacted the school and the only reason I have any money is because the staff took up a collection."
"Hence the pile of cash on the table here in the out-of-doors."
"Quite. But, mysteriously you will no doubt agree, I have received several phone calls from a 408 number and no voicemails on my phone, but a strange and disconcerting one on the home number just before you arrived."
"No!"
"O, indeed. Go. Listen to it. Discern, if you can, the dialect."
"Curiouser and curiouser," she says, heading in through the French Doors to hit play on the machine.
And now X. discovers that it is not, in fact, the first such message on his parents' machine.
"I know."
"It's dead."
"Yep."
"That why you're not drinking it?"
"Yep."
"Want a fresh glass?"
"Nope."
"Want a fresh glass with fresh wine in it?"
"Yep."
"'Kay. Be right back."
His sister goes into the house and he is struck by the power of the relief that flooded through him when it was she, and not the peculiar callers, who stepped onto the back patio a few moments ago. It occurs to X. to wonder if perhaps the phone call is part of an elaborate ruse, a joke played by some college friends or part of a massive revenge scheme perpetrated by an ex-girlfriend. He has discarded both of these ideas by the time his sister returns with two glasses, the remaining bottle of Riesling and a fresh bottle of something she will not let him see.
"You are uncharacteristically quiet tonight, Brother Mine."
"I am uncharacteristically alarmed, O Sister, My Sister."
"What by, O Respected Elder Sibling?"
"A series of odd and seemingly unconnected events which now appear either connected or so misshapen in their randomness that they have overlapped one another and now threaten to intersect unpleasantly with my everyday life, such as it is."
"'Such as it is,' he murmured, gesturing lazily about him with his wineglass before raising it to sip."
"Mock, mock, mock."
"Detail these events and I will clarify for you, Fellow Offspring of our Progenitor and Progenitrix."
"Are you quite prepared to marinate in details over the next several hours?"
"As long as you come with me to the Secret Barn Dance in Lost Canyon."
"Done. Shall I begin?"
"Do."
"Very well, then: as you know, I've been looking for a way to finance my eventual return to NYC or a foray into the wilds of Chicago."
"And you took the job with the creepy dusty office people."
"Yes. It appears that they nor their company do not exist. Nobody contacted the school and the only reason I have any money is because the staff took up a collection."
"Hence the pile of cash on the table here in the out-of-doors."
"Quite. But, mysteriously you will no doubt agree, I have received several phone calls from a 408 number and no voicemails on my phone, but a strange and disconcerting one on the home number just before you arrived."
"No!"
"O, indeed. Go. Listen to it. Discern, if you can, the dialect."
"Curiouser and curiouser," she says, heading in through the French Doors to hit play on the machine.
And now X. discovers that it is not, in fact, the first such message on his parents' machine.
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