No acro? What? WHAT?!
"Oh man. Oh dude. Oh no."
I've had a lot of occasions to contemplate the act of writing dialogue of late. Conversations with playwrights, readings, participating in
's First Look acting company and their film school, etc. It's kind of coming out of the walls, actually. Yesterday I was emailed two new scripts, one inviting me to participate in a reading (probably can't) and one asking for my feedback (see
). A few days ago a friend made an unlikely request that I connect him with someone well-versed in screenwriting (Surprise! I know NONE, save my boss's husband [co-wrote a little movie called
] and that's just too weird.). I've done some play writing, to greater and lesser degrees of ill-advised notions (see tha' website for
...for two actors...sh'up!) and whereas when I was younger, short stories were the most natural milieu for me to narrate in, now I find myself inclined toward dialogue. Perhaps that's a result of surrounding myself with theatre. It's hard to say.
What's funny is that at times I get these snippets of dialogue bouncing around my brain that have no recognizable source. I'm a big fan of movie quotes, so my first inclination is to imagine that I'm randomly sampling some moment from some movie I've seen in the past twenty years. More often than not, however, when this Mad-Libs style of quote pops up (and lingers on) it is from nothing but my own noodle. It's a little like I'm quoting my own imagination . . . but I haven't even seen a teaser of what I'm imagining, much less the DVD with commentary. Which can be frustrating.
It's fine when it happens and the line or lines is/are rather poetic, or well-trenched in some context, but sad to say that is not the norm. The norm is akin to what you see in the title of this 'blog entry. Something on the level of stoner/slacker comedies from the nineties. In fact, the above is the quote of my day. I'm not dishing any money out for it, because it hails from my imagination and any money I paid you you'd have to pay right back to me in royalties. At some point not long ago, I realized I had been repeating this "line" over and over in my head today. Not just repeating the words, actually, but imagining myself acting them. Fiddling with the beats, the intonation, wondering about the person saying them and the scenario he's (it is a guy, that much I'm certain of) in. All of this is happening quite below the radar, as I go about my various activities, to the extent that I wasn't even fully aware of it until I started writing about it. And it's taking up some mental power. The rest of the stuff I'm doing is kind of getting the shaft. I mean, it's getting done, but not necessarily well, or quickly.
So:
. I am rehearsing, entirely in my mind over and over again, a single line of dialogue, consisting of six words, which I made up from absolutely no criteria or context, and it's not even
good dialogue per se. (I like it, actually. I'm doing a lot with it, sort of hashing through the changes in perception the guy experiences as he progresses through the line, toying with how to communicate that he's really just at a loss for words, but still trying to find them, etc. ...) What. The hell. Is wrong. With this picture?
I really don't want to write another entry about how lame it is not to be working on a show.
So I won't. What I will write, is that I do verily dig the art of play writing. I can't claim to have insight into it, really, because it is an art and I do not approach it as such. It's a kind of miracle to write a conversation, and, while making it unobtrusive and believable, make it also rich, full of meaning and change. Because you start with nothing, and somehow get this self-contained world of experience and consequence that is vastly, intricately interwoven. Novels can achieve this, of course, but it's not the same. They often weave things like themes, or events. Plays (and to a lesser extent [lesser because it's a more purely visual medium, ergo less word-driven] film) weave together real-time moments, people instead of just "characters,"
lives
in the most encompassing sense of the word. It's amazing. McNally. Kushner. Churchill. Endless others, these people amaze me. Amaze me.
So I hesitate to call myself a playwright, sort like I hesitate to call myself a dancer, or like how I wish more people would hesitate before calling themselves actors. Because yes, I have written four full plays, had some of my work produced, etc., but I have too much respect for the people who really dedicate themselves to that craft to call myself in league with them as yet. It's not a self-deprecating pretense at all; rather a humble nod to fellow artists whom I respect. Shout -out to ma' homies o' the quill! What up, ninjas!
Now: "Oh man. Oh dude. Oh no." Write something incorporating this line. I dare you.
I Took a Quiz:
This, apparently, is the Norse god I best resemble. I'm a little embarassed not to be Odin, what with the title of my 'blog and everything, but sort of thrilled with this result all the same. And if I needed further comfort, I can always console myself in the knowledge that Loki's counterpart in many Native American cultures is the trickster Raven.
Find out about yerself here.
 | You scored as Loki.
Which Norse God or Goddess are you most like? created with QuizFarm.com |
Find out about yerself here.
O Sainted Day
's Day, 2007. It starts snowing somewhere toward the middle of the night and keeps on into the day--a hard, light snow that stings your face when you walk into it. I'm now nestled snug in my cubicle at the matrimonial law office that shall represent my day job. I'm wearing a tie, for once, in honor of the day. This is the first substantial snow of the season that I have experienced in the city. It's rapidly turned to brown slush on the streets and in the curb nooks, the kind that deceives you into thinking it's a level surface right up until you see your foot plunge too-deep into the melancholic soup. So I'm wearing my Doc Marten's as well.
This is my least favorite of all holidays. It feels the most misguided and obligatory to me (Even more so than Arbor Day!). However, I started a tradition some years ago of making it a day in honor of my friends, as I believe
probably would have appreciated. This year that honoring is a humble one, just catching up on much-neglected email and reading of other 'blogs. Nevertheless, the (small) effort has made me feel so much better than I might have. It's a credo of Unitarian Universalism (and
) that service to others is a service to oneself, and I'm living it today. In a life such as mine, friends are family, and I am very, very grateful for you all.
Happy V-day. If you're still at home, put on some swimming goggles before going out, because that snow
stings
.
I'm Ready for My Close-Up Now, Mister Strindberg
James Lipton strikes again (see 2/12/07):
"If you haven't yet seen the Manhattan Theatre Source's production of August Strindberg's Miss Julie, go directly out and attach your nipples to a car battery until you can smell the burning of your own hair. It . . . is . . . A DELIGHT."
Sadly, as I type this entry, they are closing the last show of this production. So if you didn't see it, you have officially missed out. For those of you not familiar with the play, it's an intense, three-character exploration of power, desire and class inequality. And it is funny as hell. I had no idea it was funny as hell before I saw this production. Without compromising the stakes at all, the director and cast made for some very funny moments, and they kept me laughing right up until the title character convinced herself to commit suicide. So yeah: It's dark. But definitely funny, and I wonder if this doesn't relate to some of my theories regarding humor (see 1/24/07). I must admit my bias here, when it comes to lauding the production. I have worked with the director of it three times before, twice directed by him and once acting with him, and I have performed with the actress playing the title character. Nevertheless, I like to be honest with my critique, in particular when my friends are involved. Laura and Daryl, in addition to being an amazing couple, seem to bring out the best in each others' theatrical work.
It was quite a contrast to sit in the audience for such a tightly woven live production last night, then act in the second half of the film class at NYU today. I had to switch mental gears, and it was a bit like the first time my friend Barbara tried to teach me to drive a manual transmission. Today the work was not about well-timed, crisp dialogue, nor drastic status shifts, but ultimate naturalism and hitting the marks. Yet somehow it was my job to make as much truth of that scenario. It's no less artificial than the conventions of live theatre, I suppose. But I've had almost twenty years of experience with those conventions, and virtually none with those of film and television. At its most complex, in a physical sense, theatre can have arena or environmental staging, which requires the actors to move in circles, face each other, make sure any group of audience can at least see somebody's face. Acting for three independently mobile cameras, alternately behind me or behind the person I was facing, reminded me of trying to learn how to use an PlayStation controller for the first time.
(That's not quite clear to everyone, is it? 'K: I grew up playing DOOM on my PC, mostly, which was [still is, in fact] a "first-person shooter" game in which I used a couple of fingers to navigate forward, backward, right and left. You could jump and climb stairs too, but as far as aiming control went, you were pretty much concerned with general direction--everyone was on the same plane. When I finally got back to exploring such games, suddenly I was faced with a controller that had more in common with a starfish than a remote control, and included two thumb joysticks in addition to about 74 buttons. Suddenly, too, my first-person shooter was a multi-dimensional world in which enemies could come at one from any ol' direction, and in which I had to use them thar sticks to pick one, specific point of a complete sphere of motion at which to fire. It was then that I surrendered any aspiration I still had to become the morally justified hit man of movie fame.)
I believe that amazing ability to track multiple movement points and still deliver a line as though one's life depended on it can be developed. In the meantime, I will provide nigh-endless amusement for undergraduates learning to operate their cameras. Today I had to deliver a line of great import ("I'm just dropping off my stuff..." [but you had to be there]) whilst getting a door closed and placing a suitcase and shoulder bag on the right place on the floor, all in time to look in a prolonged, meaningful fashion at one of my fellow actors. I got the door closed, I got the bags to the right place, and I engaged in the requisite four-second eye contact with my scene partner . . . and realized I hadn't yet let go of the strap of the shoulder bag. Perhaps that doesn't seem so bad. It was. I had at least half of the crew in stitches, presumably over the awkwardness it lent the would-be meaningful moment. Funny how such simple mechanics can influence that work. And here I am worrying that I'm using my eyebrows too much.
Two appetites battle in me. Perhaps they're not mutually exclusive. I hope not. Some part of me wants to have worked very hard on that relatively unobserved Miss Julie and just know in my heart that I did good work that had something to say. Some other part of me wants to have a job in television, with a crew I joke around with and stories that turn not on a series of lines, but on a glance, or raised eyebrow. The moral of this story? If you are reading this: I WILL TAKE ANY WORK. I AM AN ACTING WHORE. USE ME; ABUSE ME; CALL ME YOUR DOG AND MAKE ME RESPOND TO "ACTION!"
I am at this moment reminded of the immortal Mitch Hedberg:
"You know, I'm sick of following my dreams, man. I'm just gonna ask them where they're going and hook up with them later."