previously published by me elsewhere:
The houselights poured down upon us. Our shadows melted onto the remnants of the set from the show that closed two weeks ago. There was a chill in the air and some vague attempts at misappropriated British accents. This was the scene at our local blackbox theater on Tuesday evening. Several of us were there to run through a couple scripts of tentative shows for next season. I've steadily become the standby camera guy for their shows and I consider many of them my friends, but beyond that my presence was pretty much unjustified.
On the menu were the screenplay for the 1985 cult classic based on the Parker Brothers game, "Clue", and that rabblerousing "Hamlet" via "Waiting for Godot" piece, "Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead". My apologies in advance, but for my picky palate the soup du jour kicked the entrée's ass.
Over the years I'd merely heard buzz from my dorky Thespian pals and intellectual compatriots about the greatness of the latter work. Although I'll grant that the inactive read-through won't do much justice to most shows, I found it to be a real yawner in parts, mostly for its Shakespearean ass-kissing. When will this persistent canonization of the Bard end? I was set to share these opinions with my brethren, but they all seemed so enthusiastic. That same enthusiasm I have seen before, many times.
That enthusiastic Will Love often comes across to me as disingenuous, as if most people are just trying to impress, look learned, and show the gigantic size of their brainstem. Bill and I go way back. In fact, I recall trying to travail Juliet's tower at a pre-teen age. The tattered copies of Shakespeare's plays filled part of a shelf in the living room, and I've always fancied things full of dialogue instead of all of that other nonsense.
A couple years ago I had planned on making a short film based on "A Winter's Tale" with a friend of mine, who was trying to get me to see or, rather, understand the greatness everyone else seems to grasp. Ultimately the language feels oppressive to me, as if what was once open for the dumb masses has left a sector of the populace out in the cold, scratching their heads, disinterested, and insulted. Might I add, filled with ire? I liken it to my wife's distaste for Bob Dylan. He's highly revered for his extensive contribution to music, yet she'd prefer he shut the fuck up and let anyone else this side of Tom Petty sing the tunes.
Hey, I'll admit I'm limited in my refinement, regardless of the many stories I'd like to tell to dispel such a rumor. I'm less Frasier and more, uh, some less brie-scented option. I'd rather drink my wine, not smell it. I'm the antithesis of a Shakespeare snob, and damn proud of that fact. I've no problem missing the next tights and swords show about some King, or stomping my muddied boots all over Wm.'s coattails, conceiving whatever tragedy that might strike my fancy of my own according and without offering sampling credit on the liner notes.
Take that Kenneth Branagh!
14 June 2007
13 June 2007
mirror mirror
previously published by me elsewhere:
Growing up, an arms length or more was kept between my immediate family and my extended family. It's all part of the inner family lore as to the melodramatic twists and turns that created this situation, but what resulted was a small, sad huddle of five displaced individuals hoping this was the group whose membership we sought.
In our own ways my brother, sister, and I have been reeling from this familial awkwardness ever since. My brother has created a small tribe to call his own and my sister has made sporadic attempts at reconnecting with the outer branches of our genetic foliage. One of those efforts happened this week according to an e-mail that floated into my inbox. My sister forwarded a page and a half long treatise from one of our horde of long-lost cousins, updating her on the current goings-on of what possibly accounts for thirty people. It almost felt like something fresh from the Associated Press.
I've gotten similar deals stuffed into Christmas cards, bringing me visions of the assembly line procedure that it must entail to go along with those sugarplums already taking up residence. My first reaction should be to use the return e-mail address to stamp out some semblance of an update from here, but I've been down this lovely trail before. It must have been three years ago when my sister felt the inclination to reconnect, only to have a disappointing M.I.A. situation on her hands. I tried too, but two e-mails later and it was over again.
It's frustrating to me, this D.N.A. I feel driven to build on a foundation built of literal building blocks, since the bulk of the memories any of this family has of me were when I played with those wooden wonders of grade school. If my brother feels the need to over-populate and my sister uses her birth month as a line of demarcation for catching up, this nametag required family deal leaves me reconsidering what the hell that word really means anyway.
Growing up, an arms length or more was kept between my immediate family and my extended family. It's all part of the inner family lore as to the melodramatic twists and turns that created this situation, but what resulted was a small, sad huddle of five displaced individuals hoping this was the group whose membership we sought.
In our own ways my brother, sister, and I have been reeling from this familial awkwardness ever since. My brother has created a small tribe to call his own and my sister has made sporadic attempts at reconnecting with the outer branches of our genetic foliage. One of those efforts happened this week according to an e-mail that floated into my inbox. My sister forwarded a page and a half long treatise from one of our horde of long-lost cousins, updating her on the current goings-on of what possibly accounts for thirty people. It almost felt like something fresh from the Associated Press.
I've gotten similar deals stuffed into Christmas cards, bringing me visions of the assembly line procedure that it must entail to go along with those sugarplums already taking up residence. My first reaction should be to use the return e-mail address to stamp out some semblance of an update from here, but I've been down this lovely trail before. It must have been three years ago when my sister felt the inclination to reconnect, only to have a disappointing M.I.A. situation on her hands. I tried too, but two e-mails later and it was over again.
It's frustrating to me, this D.N.A. I feel driven to build on a foundation built of literal building blocks, since the bulk of the memories any of this family has of me were when I played with those wooden wonders of grade school. If my brother feels the need to over-populate and my sister uses her birth month as a line of demarcation for catching up, this nametag required family deal leaves me reconsidering what the hell that word really means anyway.
12 June 2007
sublimated reality
previously published by me elsewhere:
A dreamer tends to be associated with thinking big, but finding myself in that pool of whack jobs I've often found myself restructuring my impression of what actually constitutes "big". There's the big that's conveyed as the carrot on that dreadful movie-related program "On the Lot" on the FOX Network. Just mention the name Spielberg to a group of moviegoers or moviemakers and they flock in droves, cash in hand.
Granted Spielberg is probably the reason I got interested in film in the first place since his Reese's peddling "E.T." was the first flick I ever saw, but as I've inched my way through my career's pursuit I feel far more enamored by the Cassavettes of the world. That's the other big; the little-big, if you will. I don't really get a rush from the prospect of having my name in lights and being associated with well-oiled moneymaking machines so much as representing something honest that welcomes ideals and sustains in a different fashion. It's the more accessible and sometimes more ordinary part of the (dare I say) industry.
With that in mind, I've been working on a reality show for the past couple months. I absolutely never expected to utter or type, as the case may be, those fateful words, but it's an honest job and entirely different than I had predicted. The show has aired its first four episodes already and just this week received its first comment on IMDb. Even though many aspects of it strike of the big Hollywood machine with stockholders, executives, and a network to please, the day-to-day labor that I participate in and hold a modicum of power over feels separate.
There's something very real about the collective coming together, working through the unbearable sweat cascading from our brows and everywhere else it may, to assemble this (pardon me) "Little Show that Could". That's at least what I've gained from going to work everyday, what I felt while watching our most recent episode amongst my new peers, and the thrill I felt from reading the vague thoughts from some random viewer. It's the upward climb, the nursing of the whole project that I respect the most and puts me to bed at night.
A dreamer tends to be associated with thinking big, but finding myself in that pool of whack jobs I've often found myself restructuring my impression of what actually constitutes "big". There's the big that's conveyed as the carrot on that dreadful movie-related program "On the Lot" on the FOX Network. Just mention the name Spielberg to a group of moviegoers or moviemakers and they flock in droves, cash in hand.
Granted Spielberg is probably the reason I got interested in film in the first place since his Reese's peddling "E.T." was the first flick I ever saw, but as I've inched my way through my career's pursuit I feel far more enamored by the Cassavettes of the world. That's the other big; the little-big, if you will. I don't really get a rush from the prospect of having my name in lights and being associated with well-oiled moneymaking machines so much as representing something honest that welcomes ideals and sustains in a different fashion. It's the more accessible and sometimes more ordinary part of the (dare I say) industry.
With that in mind, I've been working on a reality show for the past couple months. I absolutely never expected to utter or type, as the case may be, those fateful words, but it's an honest job and entirely different than I had predicted. The show has aired its first four episodes already and just this week received its first comment on IMDb. Even though many aspects of it strike of the big Hollywood machine with stockholders, executives, and a network to please, the day-to-day labor that I participate in and hold a modicum of power over feels separate.
There's something very real about the collective coming together, working through the unbearable sweat cascading from our brows and everywhere else it may, to assemble this (pardon me) "Little Show that Could". That's at least what I've gained from going to work everyday, what I felt while watching our most recent episode amongst my new peers, and the thrill I felt from reading the vague thoughts from some random viewer. It's the upward climb, the nursing of the whole project that I respect the most and puts me to bed at night.
04 June 2007
unforgettable loser
previously published by me elsewhere:
For me several classic moments in Sam Mendes' "American Beauty" strike significant chords within me. The bit that comes to mind right now happens during some annual real estate dinner. Upon being introduced to the so-called Real Estate King, Kevin Spacey's character Lester says that they've already met, then adds the clincher: "I wouldn't remember me either."
A couple weeks ago marked one year since I signed up with Myspace. I had initially been resistant, because I had perceived the site as a place for the high school set, and felt I'd be a glaring example of a married, steadily aging thirty-year-old in search of his youth or a means to identify with contemporary culture thanks to the echoes of late sixties America about not trusting anyone over thirty.
I have come to discover the site as something altogether different.
Sure there are the occasional so-called ninety-nine year old fourteen year olds scantily clad in their default pictures. It's also a place to discover underground art, meet new people, and reunite with long gone friends. I've reconnected with a number of friends who've been out of touch for upwards of thirteen years. Recently I tried to do the same with an old college friend from UCF.
We had met through one of our low-level sophomore year classes. My initial interest in her was predictably in the romantic pool, which was often the case given my overflowing libido and disposition as a hopeless romantic. Unfortunately she wasn't real receptive to my initial inclinations. In fact she was noticeably blind to them, but we had pretty well hit it off in the friend department, that specified area that usually makes lesser guys run cowering for the hills. Even though the relationship never worked out, a friendship did development through e-mails, letters, phone calls, lunches, and whatnot.
When I left UCF for UF in the summer of '97 we completely lost touch. I spotted her on Myspace about a month ago, and considered e-mailing her, but I cope with hesitance like it's alcohol. Add to that her "old flame" status so to speak in that 1950's vernacular that makes conversations evermore classy. The wife even thought I should write her.
So I did.
And it turns out that she couldn't even place me. What the fuck?! It's one thing to pass by someone in the halls of your middle school and promptly forget them, but to actually interact with somebody over lunch and whatnot and to completely lose sight of them like Jim Carrey in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" is ridiculous. The scenario is one of my worst fears, and the reason that anytime I've contacted someone through Myspace from a number of years ago I include the phrase "I don't know if you remember me". Usually that's just the underdog in me whimpering.
For me several classic moments in Sam Mendes' "American Beauty" strike significant chords within me. The bit that comes to mind right now happens during some annual real estate dinner. Upon being introduced to the so-called Real Estate King, Kevin Spacey's character Lester says that they've already met, then adds the clincher: "I wouldn't remember me either."
A couple weeks ago marked one year since I signed up with Myspace. I had initially been resistant, because I had perceived the site as a place for the high school set, and felt I'd be a glaring example of a married, steadily aging thirty-year-old in search of his youth or a means to identify with contemporary culture thanks to the echoes of late sixties America about not trusting anyone over thirty.
I have come to discover the site as something altogether different.
Sure there are the occasional so-called ninety-nine year old fourteen year olds scantily clad in their default pictures. It's also a place to discover underground art, meet new people, and reunite with long gone friends. I've reconnected with a number of friends who've been out of touch for upwards of thirteen years. Recently I tried to do the same with an old college friend from UCF.
We had met through one of our low-level sophomore year classes. My initial interest in her was predictably in the romantic pool, which was often the case given my overflowing libido and disposition as a hopeless romantic. Unfortunately she wasn't real receptive to my initial inclinations. In fact she was noticeably blind to them, but we had pretty well hit it off in the friend department, that specified area that usually makes lesser guys run cowering for the hills. Even though the relationship never worked out, a friendship did development through e-mails, letters, phone calls, lunches, and whatnot.
When I left UCF for UF in the summer of '97 we completely lost touch. I spotted her on Myspace about a month ago, and considered e-mailing her, but I cope with hesitance like it's alcohol. Add to that her "old flame" status so to speak in that 1950's vernacular that makes conversations evermore classy. The wife even thought I should write her.
So I did.
And it turns out that she couldn't even place me. What the fuck?! It's one thing to pass by someone in the halls of your middle school and promptly forget them, but to actually interact with somebody over lunch and whatnot and to completely lose sight of them like Jim Carrey in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" is ridiculous. The scenario is one of my worst fears, and the reason that anytime I've contacted someone through Myspace from a number of years ago I include the phrase "I don't know if you remember me". Usually that's just the underdog in me whimpering.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)