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Sunday, January 28, 2018

Life Lesson


Odd memory to surface: I was 14, parents were trying to get my father divorced from his estranged wife (1973, remember). I'm sitting in the lawyer's office getting a serious lecture on what may happen in the court room: accusations, recriminations, threats, etc. Guaranteed miles of extremis ahead in the process.
From the get-go I just had a bad feeling about the lawyer; nothing I could articulate, he just seemed shifty, skeevy, and somehow--and this was the clearest impression--dangerous. But at age 14 one's ability to parse the fruits of instinct may not be fully developed, and my parents seemed to be okay with him and it was their adult business, so I just sat there and kept my mouth shut.
During the coaching...for some reason long forgotten...probably to get the point across that this was indeed Very. Serious. Business...the lawyer told me a personal story about having to do what you need to do to get ahead and succeed. Because that was the sole point: success. I awaited some inestimable gem of wisdom, that for the many years ahead of me, I could recall in times of struggle and set myself back on the straight path. 
But what I got was the following, and what you get, retold some 44 years later:
So, kid. Lissen up. Two things about law school. (I'm picturing solemnity, hallowed halls, John Houseman gravely laying down the (pun intended) law.) First was the convocation. The president of the college up at the podium—you know what a podium is, right? Up at the podium and he looks across the hall at all of us sitting there and he says, from the podium, 'Look at the person to your left, then the person on your right. Now shake their hands. Good. Because in four years only one of you will still be here.'”
And I'm thinking...okay... that sounds pretty ominous. He made it through, I guess, one out of three and there's a diploma on the wall that says he a graduate (And no, I don't remember the institution).
So I work myself like I've never worked before. You have to do this or you'll end up as nothing. So my fourth year comes along and our theses are ready to hand in. This is what will determine if we graduate or not. Now I'm an assistant for one of the adjudicating professors, a man revered in his field--by everyone--and he tells me to take all of the collected theses—mine included--and bring them to his house that afternoon. And in this huge pile I see my fellow student Joe Blow's thesis. Now Joe Blow is by far the brightest guy in the class and his thesis is twice as big as anybody else's. It's huge. I take it out and look at it and I see it's in three parts. So I take out the second two parts and only deliver the first part. Lesson is, if you're gonna get ahead you gotta find a way to beat the competition.”
True story. And one that has come back over the years at different times. I keep thinking (as an adult) why would my parents hire somebody this dishonest? Because, simply, they wanted someone who could get the job done, and my Dad's divorce would not be an amicable or easy one. So they hire a guy who can impress with his git-er-done, them-or-us tactics.
But what I ultimately take away from all this is the way he told the story. He clearly thought he had done the necessary thing, therefore the right thing for the situation. He knew it was dishonest. He clearly did. But in his mind he did what any good lawyer needed to do to edge out the competition. Why tell me this? He was looking to impress me. A 14-year-old.

Make what you will.

Sunday, January 21, 2018

A Playwright's Day



Make coffee.
Write.
Think about taking shower. 
Write.
Change title.
Write.
Daydream.
Write.
Feed/change baby.
Write.
Eat.
Write.
Realize coffee is now cold.
Write.
Change title.
Write.
Disregard inconsistencies until “later.”
Write.
Fix typos.
Write.
Rearrange bedroom.
Write.
Think.
Write.
Think.
Write.
Think more.
Write.
Decide it's utter shit.
Write.
Change title.
Write more.
Laugh at funny brilliant line.
Write.
Cut funny brilliant line.
Write.
Hate self.
Write.
Drink cold coffee.
Write.
Think about what to make for dinner.
Write.
Try unsuccessfully to nap.
Write.
Cut.
Write.
Cut.
Write.
Jog.
Write.
Change title.
Write.
Clean kitchen.
Write.
Look up old friend from grammar school.
Write.
Take shower.
Write.
Search for dinner recipes that feature Norwegian cardamom discovered in the back of your pantry.
Write.
Cry.
Write.
Feed/change baby.
Write.
Donate to deceased old grammar school friend's memorial charity.
Write.
Discuss new title with baby.
Write.
Clean bathroom.
Write.
Experience “breakthrough” epiphany.
Write.
Entertain idea that it might be best thing you've ever written.
Write.
Take zeppelin out of zeppelin scene.
Write.
Go out for dinner.
Write.
Go back to original title.
Write.
See faint light at the end of the road.
Write.
Write.
Write.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Noooooo...It belongs Over HERE.


Every once in a while the question comes up: how detailed should I be with my set directions?
For me, the answer is easy. For others it may not be and the difference lies with either experience or preference. Some playwrights feel the use of detailed stage directions is necessary; it is as much a part of the script as the dialogue because it distinctly sets (pun intended) the visual aspect. In most cases a play needs a set. I say “in most cases” because there are those where the playwright is happy to let the actors have command of the bareness, the sheer volume of unimpeded air, the nakedness of the stage space itself. Some plays benefit from this deliberate nondescription, this lack of specificity.
Because it is specificity. Every object on the stage is a tool that helps define the time and place of the piece. Because every object on the stage is either a character's personal property or situational indicator, they should tell us something about the characters, the time, the place, the political situation, the geography. Sets tell us about the vision of the playwright, director, designers; are they realistic or exaggerated? A drawing room with 9-foot bookcases diminishes the actors while accenting the vast array of available knowledge, illuminating the difficulty of attaining the knowledge (those books placed on the upper shelves), and and [promoting] the economic advantages of the person(s) who can afford such luxury.
Or is the set nearly bare, such as the typical set for Samuel Beckett's Waiting For Godot? A road, a tree. (And the road itself can be implied as opposed to created.)
Is it a living room (if so, what culture/era/economic status?) where certain furniture is utilized?
My preference is that nothing should be onstage that is not critical or actually used. I lean towards minimalism for several reasons. In the first place, it's less clutter. Fewer distractions from the action. Theatre audiences don't need to be shown everything. They can imply. I like my actors to have as much attention and command as possible.
Second, it's expensive. I don't know about you, but I've lost beaucoup dinero on productions. It's bad enough to afford a venue, actor and tech salaries, and gosh knows what else, without forking out for a genuine 1930s Appalachin-style wood stove. Maybe the Public or the Mark Taper can shrug this off, but Bad Dog! Productions (“Who??”) certainly can't. On the other hand I was in a production of Mamet's American Buffalo on a set that was jam-crammed with tables of junk shop whatever-you-name-it. Most of the set was “found” or donated. The purpose (in addition to realism) was revealed when the director instructed me to, at the end of the play when Teach realizes that Bobby has been full of shit this whole time and that all his machinations and preparations were for naught, to “Trash the place. Destroy it.” Aside from one obscenely hammed-up death scene in Book of Days, I've never had so much fun on stage in my life.
In third place, it can be indulgent. Listing in detail how everything should be placed, how it should look, in order to transmit a world in exact detail because the play will not work to its fullest perspective otherwise is overkill. Theatre is not an exact science. Theatre is the realm of imagination. In movies everything is done for you. Hence “Lazy brain.” In theatre we leave room for our minds to fill in, amplify, translate what is happening. Theatre is where the audience is to be trusted, not led by the nose. For me, overcontrol of the production by the playwright squeezes the life out of it. By leaving as much to the discretion of the designers and director, I thrill to the idea that every production will be different, that every set will be unique. That every time my work is produced/translated, it will be fresh and new.
I suppose the best and most simple answer I can come up with to the question is: what do you absolutely need to make this play function? And what should you include that is absolutely essential?

As my colleague Arthur M. Jolly wrote: “For A Gulag Mouse, I have a detailed set description. That's partly technical (it really matters whose bunk is closest to the stove - that there is a stove - you can't have a fight about that without it!) and partly as the feel of the bunkhouse in this Siberian prison is important; it's part of the story. For my latest [play], I literally have a single word to say what room we are in, and I'll let the designers handle it. I let the play dictate.”