Space for Truckdrivers

...the first in an occasional series discussing the mechanics of acting for the Stage...








"Pace," as used in the theatrical world, means the rhythm of a production. It reflects character, motivation, and urgency (or lack thereof). Take this hypothetical:





Actor A: "I got a phone call asking for Blah Blah Blah."


Actor B: "Who is Blah Blah Blah???"


Actor C: "That's me. They call me that at [insert hysterical punchline]"





It is a very traditional and very effective formula to build to a joke, and keeps up the momentum of the show.





But suppose all of the actors are not tuned into the rhythm of the moment? The following might happen:





Actor A: "I got a phone call asking for Blah Blah Blah."


[beat.]


[beat.]


[beat.]


[beat.]


[beat.]


[beat.]


[beat.]


Actor B:" Who is Blah Blah Blah?"








A "beat," as used in the above context, is simply a pause. Not a full second, but a pause of silence. Think of it as a heartbeat.





Perhaps Actor B is pausing for six or seven beats because he/she is doing a lot of "silent acting" before he/she can deliver the next line.





But a savvy director is sure to point out that a long pause is unnecessary at this point, and is even detrimental in a farcical, high-voltage production. It's likely to reflect a lack of urgency in the proceedings.





In that case, that director might say:

"You could drive a truck through that cue."

By Myself

The party's over, the game is ended,

The dreams i dreamed went up in smoke.

They didn't pan out as i had intended;

I should know how to take a joke.














Those are the lyrics of the little-known intro to a song famously sung by Fred Astaire. Recognize it? I didn't either, but they are the words leading up to Fred's jaunty take on being alone: "By Myself." He sang the ditty in The Bandwagon (and on many other occasions, I suspect), as he sauntered through town on his own, feeling relieved that no one in the world had a claim on him. (Of course, he was about to meet Cyd Charisse and fall madly in love, so the song has an ironic tinge.)









That song has been running through my head lately, as I have been reminded how very single I am.













"We travel single-oh, " Fanny Brice tells Nick Arnstein in "Funny Girl,"

"Maybe we're lucky. But I don't know..."










I don't know either. I've always "Traveled Single-Oh", though I don't ever remember making a conscious decision to do so. I am a self-centered man, and I admit that without judgement attached. I mean that, because my life has always been lived alone, I have naturally put myself at the center of it. Any occasion which comes up, any emotion which reveals itself, any event which occurs, I am likely to experience it as it pertains to me.













My dear friends Scott and Drew, about whom I have written as members of my chosen family, are about to celebrate a quarter of a century together, and the success of their relationship lies in the fact that they put each other at the center of each other's lives. Who am I to argue with that? They have proof: relationships flourish when the participants are self-less, rather than self-ish.

















I believe that hypothesis put forward by Scott and Drew is correct. I'm sure I never made a conscious decision to put myself at the center of my life, but that is surely how I have lived it. And because I have done so, has my life not really been open to being shared with another? I may very well have brushed up against someone who would have turned out to be my soul-mate, particularly in my younger years, but I didn't give him much leeway to prove it. I was busy taking care of myself; making my own choices, pursuing my own goals, living my own life.

















No one has a claim on my life. I still revel in being alone, I have to admit. To quote Scott, I get to have beer and toast for breakfast if I wish.













But I also have to admit that, as I've entered middle age, I feel more loneliness than I used to. I am not sure that means I regret anything I did as a younger man. But I do wonder if things might have been different, had I not put myself at the center of my life.









I'll face the unknown,
i'll build a world of my own;
No one knows better than i, myself,
i'm by myself alone.

Theatre Droppings: Miss Daisy drives by

I popped out to Front Royal, VA, to catch my buddies Elliot, Faith, and Jim, in a charming little play called Driving Miss Daisy. Ever hear of it? As opposed to the Oscar-winning film adaptation, this stage version is very much a chamber piece, played quite well by a trio of actors, with all of whom I have a bit of history.

I have not worked with Faith Potts, but have seen her work several times, and all of us who have worked on the Madness of Shear share a special kinship (she has often played the society matron Mrs. Shubert). I particularly enjoyed Faith quite a while ago in an Irish play called The York Realist at Studio Theatre. One of her costars in that production was a gal I went to grad school with, which is how I ended up in that audience.

Faith's rendition of the indefatigable Miss Daisy lent a robustness to the show which I did not expect.

Jim Fleming was playing Daisy's son, Boolie. I worked with Jim a few seasons back at Wayside, in an Agatha Christie thriller called Black Coffee. Jim dominated that production (rightly so) as the quirky Dutch detective Hercule Poirot, and I found him to be a most generous actor onstage. I was a last-minute replacement in the production, and unfortunately, was not cast into my strengths, so I came away from the experience hoping Wayside would one day ask me back to correct the rather mediocre impression I had left with them. In Driving Miss Daisy, Jim once again proved himself to be a sensitive (but savvy) character actor. He delivered every laugh, and every poignant moment, which the playwright could have wished.

Of the three cast members in the show, I have the most history with Elliot Dash, playing the chauffeur Hoke. Ell and I were in graduate school together, and as always happens with any MFA in Acting, we practically lived together for three years. On campus, we shared the stage in The Cherry Orchard, Measure for Measure, and Othello, and we performed in five productions at the Shakespeare Theatre Company during our internship. This was quite a while ago, and Elliot has matured into an actor of dignity and gravitas, as illustrated in his performance in Miss Daisy.

I'm so glad I was able to get out to see the show, which closed last night. There must have been even more poignancy to last night's final performance. It was Wayside Theatre's last performance in the Front Royal space, a theatre they created out of almost nothing a year ago, and have inhabited ever since. I've mentioned several times that Wayside was in temporary digs while their permanent home underwent renovation, but there was always the hope that this temporary theatre could turn into a permanent, second space for Wayside. That possibility has sadly disappeared, so Wayside will return to their single space in July.

I chatted a bit with Wayside's artistic director, Warner Crocker, and could detect some real disappointment that they were not able to continue to use the Front Royal theatre. Apparently, funding was in place, then was withdrawn. Probably a common occurrence in the life of a theatre like Wayside, but no less disappointing.

I intend to write a bit later about theatres such as Wayside, regional theatres which have been around for decades, have strong national reputations, but are often stymied by financial matters. These theatres operate on a lower tier than the regionals I referenced in my earlier entry. They struggle mightily to find the funds necessary for survival, and even more mightily for growth. When these theatres are located in areas more rural than cosmopolitan, that struggle is even harder.

I know Wayside's final performance in Front Royal must have had all the bittersweet qualities of the show they were presenting.

Requiem For the Regionals, part one

My friend and former director Warner Crocker, who runs Wayside Theatre out in Virginia, also runs a fun and interesting blog. He brought this topic to his readers attention, though I've been aware of the issue ever since becoming an actor back during the Roosevelt administration. There is a one-man show running in New York called How Theater Failed America, which deals, at least in part, with the collapse of the regional theatre movement in this country.










Well, "regional theaters" have certainly not collapsed, but they seem to have failed their regional actors. As pointed out in the referenced article, regionals around the country have abandoned the original concept of maintaining a permanent company of actors to perform their repertory. Instead, huge amounts of money are spent on luxurious new theatres (or massive upgrades of existing theatres, which Arena Stage is doing right now), while salaries and benefits for the artists who occasionally inhabit these swanky digs have remained penurious.










Again referencing the New York Times article, most major theaters confronted with this reversal cite diminished funding as their reason for discontinuing the practice of the resident company. Yet, as Mike Daisey, the star and creator of How Theater Failed America, points out, these theatres have huge marketing and development departments, peopled with employees well-paid and well-insured. Actors' salaries, (on the rare occasions actors have work) remain at union-mandated minimums.


















The response to this show from the artistic directors who have examined it is predictable enough. In a nutshell, the actor has no idea what it takes to run a regional theatre, and has no business lecturing administrators on how to run their organizations.




















Nicholas Martin, a high-profile director who has lately been running the Huntington Theater in Boston, sniffed, "Go run a theater and get back to me."












At the end of my current gig, I will be back on unemployment, at about 200 bucks a week. I have a request for Mr. Martin:




"Come be a regional theatre actor and get back to me."

Actor/Beggars: is there a difference?

The Artichoke That Ate Cleveland

Travelin' Man

I've just returned from a relaxing few days in the mountains of North Carolina.

I really love to travel.

Except for the traveling part. I have never been a good traveler, dating back to my early days when the folks dragged the family all along the Eastern seaboard for "vacation."

As an adult, I have grown to abhor the act of traveling. I love being in new places, I just hate getting there. I'm proud to have visited 44 of these United States. And one day, I hope to visit Alaska and Hawaii, Oregon and Washington, and even Idaho and Montana.

But I know I'll hate every moment of getting there.

I have, for example, an irrational disgust for the strangers with whom I am traveling. Without fail, my seat mate on the plane or train or bus or subway is an obnoxious slug.

This most recent trip confirmed my opinions, though this time, my scorn must be heaped on the airline which ferried me hither and yon. I won't mention the name of the airline.

OK, here are its initials:

I have traveled this airline many times in the past, as for some reason known only by the gods who wish to torture me, US Air seems to be the most convenient airline for my needs.

I won't bore you with the gory details of my travails. Everybody who has flown in the last five years has a similar story, no matter which airline they used.

But here's the kicker. Even as service on the airlines becomes more and more absent, those same airlines are charging us more and more fees. It now costs an additional 25 bucks to check a second bag on most airlines. It now costs 2-3 dollars per bag to utilize the curbside check-in service. It now costs passengers in coach 7-10 smackers to purchase a meal on a trans-continental flight.

Those of us on shorter jumps are not even offered food, but rather a tiny packet labelled "Fiesta Snack Mix."

"Fiesta," my sombrero. Two miniature pretzels and five peanuts covered in BBQ powder do not a fiesta make.

And here's more. USAir has just announced that it will now begin charging their coach customers (victims, more like) an additional charge if they choose to sit on the aisle or the window near the front of the plane.

This is explained as yet another necessity to help pay for the rising cost of fuel. This claim would not be so ludicrous if I had not just witnessed the following. On my flight leaving DC National Airport, the pilot suddenly discovered that the plane was over weight. His solution: to burn fuel. So, the passengers sat on the tarmac for 20 minutes while the jet's engines roared at full throttle, filling the fuselage with noxious fumes and polluting the environment for absolutely no reason.

It's not wonder oil prices are skyrocketing. Pilots at USAir are burning off fuel to lessen their plane's weight.

Hasn't anybody heard of a hose and a syphon?

I have a better idea for those geniuses at USAir. Next time an airplane is over weight, rectify the situation by throwing my seat mate out the emergency exit. I guarantee that will take care of the problem.

She's always a fat slob.

Shear Madniversaries

It sometimes seems that Shear Madness has taken over my life, and in truth, it probably has, at least for a while. It is virtually impossible to forget about the show completely during the off hours.





But I shall do my best for the next week or so. Our company is laid off until the 21st, as the American College Theatre Festival (which includes the "Irene Ryan Awards") is moving into our space.






I was feeling pretty privileged to be performing the Madness on Monday night. Why, you may query? Monday night's show happened to be Performance # 9,000 of Shear Madness at the Kennedy Center. Quite a feat. I was actually honored that the show's management asked me to make a little curtain speech after the show, letting the audience know why they had attended a very special performance.










Later in the week, we celebrated another anniversary, and a few farewells. Two of our actors are moving on to other projects, so Thursday's show had a bit of poignancy to it.









In addition, Thursday marked the 1,000th performance in the show of Marcus Kyd. Marcus has played most of those shows as the younger detective, Mikey, though he's done a fair number of performances as the sleazy antiques dealer. Because of understudy requirements, he has performed the role of Tony (my role) several times as well. But his best fit is Mikey, where he supports the rest of the cast with naturalistic enthusiasm. One of the pleasures of appearing with this cast this year is the chance to get to know this young go-getter, who balances his commitment to Shear with fatherhood, while heading one of the city's newest and most avant-guarde theatre groups, the Taffety Punk (he'll be absent from one of our future performances in order to accept a Helen Hayes Award for his new company). Marcus's enthusiasm is infectious, and I enjoy every moment I share with him onstage. Even those moments in which, as Marcus puts it, his "interior monologue" becomes an exterior one. Several vets of the Madness have this habit, acquired after years of performances, of keeping up an almost constant stream of muttering under their breath. I have not acquired that habit (actors playing "Tony" tend not to, as we talk too much at full volume), but over the years, I've become accustomed to this odd quirk of other oldsters.





So, it's been an event-filled week at Shear Madness. I admit I look forward to our ten days off, during which I will spend a long weekend in North Carolina visiting the pater. I'll return to KenCen with one third of our cast having changed, which means, though it may not be a whole new ballgame, the change in roster will mean a different rhythm to the music.


And of course, a return to frequent note sessions post-show, and additional daytime rehearsals. Like I said, when I am in Shear Madness, it takes over my life...