It's all about sex. It doesn't matter what "it" is: film, plays, business, paintings, music, power, ... The list goes on. There is a difference, however, between sex and 'sexploitation'. As actors, it's up to us to determine which is which and to make a deliberate decision about which we'd like to perpetuate.
Earlier this year, I posted an entry about a film in production that (in all fairness) I haven't read entitled Misogyny. I wrote about how much disdain I had for the very idea of an adult slasher film called Misogyny because I'm disgusted by the exploitation and objectification of women. I tried that genre once and determined, in spite of the sweet and supportive nature of the director and crew, that I would not have a hand in perpetuating the cultural objectification of women with gratuitous footage of the female body ever again. It means turning down a lot of paying work.
Last week, I was cast in a local film rife with skimpy clothing and sex. I get to play twins. One twin is a hot-mess of a wife who is severely mentally disturbed and the other twin is a stipper who has her life put together in spite of her work.
How can I, in good conscience, do this film?
I love the idea of playing twins, for one.
Two, these twins, however sexualized in the story, are written as human beings, NOT objects. This film is a story about human fragility and desperation, not a gratuitous presentation of half-naked women. That's the difference. Sex may be a part of that story, but this film isn't just sex. It isn't just a gratuitous representation of half-naked women for the purpose of tittilation and arousal.
We'll never get away from sex, especially in this business. Sex sells, afterall. But, we can choose to be responsible with sex. We can choose to take roles that are more than just a dehumanizing body. We can own it--own our sexuality and own our choices. Our culture can only move from sexpoitation to sex if every actor makes that choice.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Theater Or
Back in May, I auditioned for Denver Center Theater Company. I wrote up a post about how they rarely hire from within Denver Metro and implored all cities everywhere to wake up to their local talent. No, DCTC did not call and, as far as I know, I still haven't pissed anyone off with that particular blog post. I'm just not that popular or powerful.
On the other hand, someone is out there listening, watching, and taking notes. Let this be a lesson to actors everywhere. (And to blogging actors, especially!)
The audition for DCTC went fine, all things considered. When I walked in the casting directors made polite faces, but were obviously exhausted from seeing 250 hopeful faces in the course of two days. Aside from the casting directors and the accompanist, there was a woman sitting in the audience. I assumed she was timing the auditioners since DCTC made it clear that they would be strict about time constraints. I did my monologues, sang my 16 bars and made a swift exit.
The next day, I got an email from a casting director at Theatre Or, Diane Gilboa. It turned out, SHE was the woman in the audience and she liked my work. I was invited to audition for Theatre Or's upcoming production of "Apples from the Desert". How about that? Someone was listining, watching and taking notes!
For the audition I was asked to read for the role of Rivka, an 18 year old, 5'9" tall, skinny Sephardic Jewish girl in Israel. Needless to say, I did not actually get cast in the role seeing as how I'm a 30 year old, 5'3" short, curvy gentile. But, days after the audition, Diane called to apologize for not giving me the role, explaining they even talked about putting me in high heels but knew that I'd look too petite when I sat down!
There are two lessons to be learned from this experience:
Actor beware--this works both ways! Don't sabotage a career by talking bad about your fellows, writing scathing blogs (*note to self) about how you didn't get the role, and just generally being an ass. There will be someone listening, watching and taking notes on you when you least expect it so make sure the notes they take are good ones.
Thanks, Diane, for the invitation to audition. I had a great time and look forward to seeing the show. Thanks, too, for using local talent and for producing innovative, thought provoking theatre.
On the other hand, someone is out there listening, watching, and taking notes. Let this be a lesson to actors everywhere. (And to blogging actors, especially!)
The audition for DCTC went fine, all things considered. When I walked in the casting directors made polite faces, but were obviously exhausted from seeing 250 hopeful faces in the course of two days. Aside from the casting directors and the accompanist, there was a woman sitting in the audience. I assumed she was timing the auditioners since DCTC made it clear that they would be strict about time constraints. I did my monologues, sang my 16 bars and made a swift exit.
The next day, I got an email from a casting director at Theatre Or, Diane Gilboa. It turned out, SHE was the woman in the audience and she liked my work. I was invited to audition for Theatre Or's upcoming production of "Apples from the Desert". How about that? Someone was listining, watching and taking notes!
For the audition I was asked to read for the role of Rivka, an 18 year old, 5'9" tall, skinny Sephardic Jewish girl in Israel. Needless to say, I did not actually get cast in the role seeing as how I'm a 30 year old, 5'3" short, curvy gentile. But, days after the audition, Diane called to apologize for not giving me the role, explaining they even talked about putting me in high heels but knew that I'd look too petite when I sat down!
There are two lessons to be learned from this experience:
- The first lesson is that no matter how amazing your audition, no matter how prepared you are, no matter if you're the most talented actor on the face of the planet, if you're not right for the role, you're not right for the role. End of story.
- The second lesson is that someone is ALWAYS watching.
Actor beware--this works both ways! Don't sabotage a career by talking bad about your fellows, writing scathing blogs (*note to self) about how you didn't get the role, and just generally being an ass. There will be someone listening, watching and taking notes on you when you least expect it so make sure the notes they take are good ones.
Thanks, Diane, for the invitation to audition. I had a great time and look forward to seeing the show. Thanks, too, for using local talent and for producing innovative, thought provoking theatre.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
On Meisner
Red.
Red. Red. Red.
Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt.
You are wearing a red shirt. I am not wearing a red shirt. You are wearing a red shirt. I am not wearing a red shirt. You are wearing a red shirt.
...and on and on it goes.
If you've never taken a Meisner class, that's pretty much what the first three months sound like, over and over and over again. It can get pretty tedious, but then, Meisner was a genius. He understood that the best way to get an actor out of her head was to make her endlessly repeat this observational drivel until her instincts kick in and she acts not from some pre-concieved idea about what the lines mean but from within the electricity of the moment, the subtext, the gut.
There is much I love about Sanford Meisner's acting technique. Meisner is a wonderful exercise for connecting with another human being on a very visceral level. It heightens the actor's awareness. It grounds the actor in the idea that every action is actually a reaction, that listening is imperative, that we exist in relationship and that the walls we erect around our beings are so much more impenetrable than we ever imagine them to be.
Pinch/Ouch. Let it do you. Put your attention on the other person.
But.
Yes, here is the 'but':
I think there comes a time in an actors training when she needs to realize that Meisner is but one weapon in the arsenal to be fired when appropriate. After all, how many times have you caught yourself not really listening to the friend who is pouring her heart out? How many times have you lied to yourself about who you are and what you want? How many times have you wanted to react from your gut, your instinct, but held yourself back and used that rational brain instead?
This is where Meisner falls short as an acting technique. The technique offers an actor a tremendous advantage of honing in on the world around you, both audibly and somatically. But, the characters in the play don't always listen (heck! this is the recipe for comedy gold). Sometimes, even when the character does listen, she doesn't always care. The characters in the movie lie to themselves and to each other and bite their tongues all the time and we, as actors, cannot forget that. To assume that every character listens well, is honed in on her partner and acts according to her gut is to erase what often lies at the heart of a scintillating plotline.
On the other hand, Meisner is great for preparing the actor's instrument to make terrific, genuine, human drama. So what if we brought Sanford Meisner's famous technique into the "real world"? As Hitchcock famously said, "Drama is life with all the dull bits cut out." Life often suffers from inattention. We don't listen. We don't react. We don't let people in because it feels scary and vulnerable and overwhelming.
How much more raw, engaging, and authentic might life be if we all actually listened? If we dropped our cleverly transparent walls and just let it hurt? If we let it do us? If we felt the 'pinch/ouch' of a moment in time and responded genuinely? If we put our attention on the other person?
Would we find ourselves in pieces, shrinking and shaking in impotence?
Or, might we find that our neighbor is just as scared, lackadaisical, vulnerable, overwhelmed, interested, fucked up, and joyful as we?
***For great Meisner training in Boulder, CO, check out Chris Thatcher! He's super dedicated and has that eye for authenticity that makes acting class such a rewarding experience.***
Red. Red. Red.
Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt. Red shirt.
You are wearing a red shirt. I am not wearing a red shirt. You are wearing a red shirt. I am not wearing a red shirt. You are wearing a red shirt.
...and on and on it goes.
If you've never taken a Meisner class, that's pretty much what the first three months sound like, over and over and over again. It can get pretty tedious, but then, Meisner was a genius. He understood that the best way to get an actor out of her head was to make her endlessly repeat this observational drivel until her instincts kick in and she acts not from some pre-concieved idea about what the lines mean but from within the electricity of the moment, the subtext, the gut.
There is much I love about Sanford Meisner's acting technique. Meisner is a wonderful exercise for connecting with another human being on a very visceral level. It heightens the actor's awareness. It grounds the actor in the idea that every action is actually a reaction, that listening is imperative, that we exist in relationship and that the walls we erect around our beings are so much more impenetrable than we ever imagine them to be.
Pinch/Ouch. Let it do you. Put your attention on the other person.
But.
Yes, here is the 'but':
I think there comes a time in an actors training when she needs to realize that Meisner is but one weapon in the arsenal to be fired when appropriate. After all, how many times have you caught yourself not really listening to the friend who is pouring her heart out? How many times have you lied to yourself about who you are and what you want? How many times have you wanted to react from your gut, your instinct, but held yourself back and used that rational brain instead?
This is where Meisner falls short as an acting technique. The technique offers an actor a tremendous advantage of honing in on the world around you, both audibly and somatically. But, the characters in the play don't always listen (heck! this is the recipe for comedy gold). Sometimes, even when the character does listen, she doesn't always care. The characters in the movie lie to themselves and to each other and bite their tongues all the time and we, as actors, cannot forget that. To assume that every character listens well, is honed in on her partner and acts according to her gut is to erase what often lies at the heart of a scintillating plotline.
On the other hand, Meisner is great for preparing the actor's instrument to make terrific, genuine, human drama. So what if we brought Sanford Meisner's famous technique into the "real world"? As Hitchcock famously said, "Drama is life with all the dull bits cut out." Life often suffers from inattention. We don't listen. We don't react. We don't let people in because it feels scary and vulnerable and overwhelming.
How much more raw, engaging, and authentic might life be if we all actually listened? If we dropped our cleverly transparent walls and just let it hurt? If we let it do us? If we felt the 'pinch/ouch' of a moment in time and responded genuinely? If we put our attention on the other person?
Would we find ourselves in pieces, shrinking and shaking in impotence?
Or, might we find that our neighbor is just as scared, lackadaisical, vulnerable, overwhelmed, interested, fucked up, and joyful as we?
***For great Meisner training in Boulder, CO, check out Chris Thatcher! He's super dedicated and has that eye for authenticity that makes acting class such a rewarding experience.***
Monday, May 9, 2011
Buy Local
It's all the rage with the hippies nowadays: buy local. That's right--as with all things that move in cycles, we, as a society, have come back around to understanding the benefits of a strong local economy. Hell, Boulder has had a campaign to produce its own currency to keep the local economy strong. We understand how important community shared agriculture (CSA) is. We know what it means to build relationships in the community with our local merchants. We hippie Boulderites strive for more cottage industry and are willing to pay fifty percent more for damned near anything if we can proudly support our local economy; it makes us one of the strongest, wealthiest small cities in the US today.
And naturally, that begs the question of WHY?! Why what? WHY is there no equity theatre here that supports the LOCAL actors?
One of my most recent theatre auditions was for the Denver Center Theatre Company. Sure, Denver is something of a cowboy town still, but it's coming up on the radar of cool cities in the US. It has a night life that involves steampunk operas at Lannie's Clocktower, a zombie crawl, a Columbus Day protest and more! It has a few great restaurants and a reasonable amount of film and theatre production (in spite of the lack of tax breaks) for a place known for wrangling anything but the acting herd. And yet, there are so many wonderful actors in and around Denver. So again, I ask you WHY?
It's one thing to audition for equity theatre in NYC. Crammed into the back room of the equity building, seven to a bench, getting friendly with your neighbor at seven a.m. hoping desperately that if you're one of the eight left by five p.m. you'll be seen by one of the casting directors. In Denver, the acting market isn't quite so saturated so we each get appointments, AEA and non-AEA alike. How lovely.
Except... in spite of the casting appointment and the AEA-like treatment, it's all a sham. Denver has no intention of using their local talent pool. It's like any other medium sized US city today: they all import their actors from NYC or LA. Occasionally, they'll travel to Chicago if they're really desperate.
Buy why? WHY? There's talent here. And if they used their local talent they wouldn't have to pay to house out-of-state actors. And if they 'bought local' then the actors scraping by here could use that AEA cash to spend more money in the Denver area, feed the local economy, support the CSA farms, spend that extra boutique 50% at local businesses. Further, no show in the DCTC season hinges on the pull of a big-name actor in a solo performance. In fact, this argument is in no way exclusive to the Denver Center Theater Company--it goes for all those medium sized cities across the US. You don't need out-of-state talent. You just don't.
There's really no sound reason not to hire locally, theater peeps. And I can't answer the big, glaring, incomprehensible WHY that lingers around this topic. It make so much sense to me to hire local actors so please, DCTC, join the hippies in Boulder and buy local.
And naturally, that begs the question of WHY?! Why what? WHY is there no equity theatre here that supports the LOCAL actors?
One of my most recent theatre auditions was for the Denver Center Theatre Company. Sure, Denver is something of a cowboy town still, but it's coming up on the radar of cool cities in the US. It has a night life that involves steampunk operas at Lannie's Clocktower, a zombie crawl, a Columbus Day protest and more! It has a few great restaurants and a reasonable amount of film and theatre production (in spite of the lack of tax breaks) for a place known for wrangling anything but the acting herd. And yet, there are so many wonderful actors in and around Denver. So again, I ask you WHY?
It's one thing to audition for equity theatre in NYC. Crammed into the back room of the equity building, seven to a bench, getting friendly with your neighbor at seven a.m. hoping desperately that if you're one of the eight left by five p.m. you'll be seen by one of the casting directors. In Denver, the acting market isn't quite so saturated so we each get appointments, AEA and non-AEA alike. How lovely.
Except... in spite of the casting appointment and the AEA-like treatment, it's all a sham. Denver has no intention of using their local talent pool. It's like any other medium sized US city today: they all import their actors from NYC or LA. Occasionally, they'll travel to Chicago if they're really desperate.
Buy why? WHY? There's talent here. And if they used their local talent they wouldn't have to pay to house out-of-state actors. And if they 'bought local' then the actors scraping by here could use that AEA cash to spend more money in the Denver area, feed the local economy, support the CSA farms, spend that extra boutique 50% at local businesses. Further, no show in the DCTC season hinges on the pull of a big-name actor in a solo performance. In fact, this argument is in no way exclusive to the Denver Center Theater Company--it goes for all those medium sized cities across the US. You don't need out-of-state talent. You just don't.
And...oooooh--AND, I want my chance to be rejected, goshdarnit. That's right! I believe it is my right, as an actor, to be rejected. And when the local equity theater company won't even give the local actors a true opportunity for a good, honest rejection, what do we have left? It's not fair to tease the Denver actors with an audition only to scamper off to NY and LA because it's fashionable. Give us a chance, even if it's a chance to be rejected.
There's really no sound reason not to hire locally, theater peeps. And I can't answer the big, glaring, incomprehensible WHY that lingers around this topic. It make so much sense to me to hire local actors so please, DCTC, join the hippies in Boulder and buy local.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
PMS
You know what? One should never make decisions when PMSing.
Prejudicial? No. I firmly believe that men PMS too. And, like many things, I started this blog whilst PMSing. Which might explain why I haven't even attempted to post for my last three sheduled postings.
You know, I started my palm reading business while PMSing. I signed up to have a Ren Faire booth while PMSing. I decided to travel to Peru while PMSing. I decided to buy a house and get married while PMSing. I'm pretty sure I also decided to move to Boulder while PMSing. I've had more than one suicide/audition/marriage proposal brewing during my PMS cycle--you think I'd learn. But, sadly, no.
It's amazing to me how much of a role hormones play in, well, everything.
When I'm high on my own girly chemistry, I think I'm on the top of the world. Or that the world isn't worth living for. There's really no telling which ahead of time in spite of the fact that I know it's coming and can depend on faulty judgment like clockwork. I wish I could bottle that do-anything attitude for later.
I'm not sure I can consistently tie this to acting right now, but as an [currently] inebriated semi-out-of-work actor, I can make excuses for why I thought a blog would be a great idea when jacked up on creative body chemistry.
Unfortunately, that's all I have to offer at present. Take it or leave it, much like any audition. You're either right for it or you're not and most of it is out of your conscious control.
Sure, there are another twenty ideas that I've written down and a dozen topics I want to write about, but it's amazing how quickly school, work, and extra-curriculars can dampen the creative spirit. So, until things calm down a bit or I have another extra-energized PMS creative burst or I decide to stop being lazy, scared and alcoholic, don't hold your breath.
Peace.
Prejudicial? No. I firmly believe that men PMS too. And, like many things, I started this blog whilst PMSing. Which might explain why I haven't even attempted to post for my last three sheduled postings.
You know, I started my palm reading business while PMSing. I signed up to have a Ren Faire booth while PMSing. I decided to travel to Peru while PMSing. I decided to buy a house and get married while PMSing. I'm pretty sure I also decided to move to Boulder while PMSing. I've had more than one suicide/audition/marriage proposal brewing during my PMS cycle--you think I'd learn. But, sadly, no.
It's amazing to me how much of a role hormones play in, well, everything.
When I'm high on my own girly chemistry, I think I'm on the top of the world. Or that the world isn't worth living for. There's really no telling which ahead of time in spite of the fact that I know it's coming and can depend on faulty judgment like clockwork. I wish I could bottle that do-anything attitude for later.
I'm not sure I can consistently tie this to acting right now, but as an [currently] inebriated semi-out-of-work actor, I can make excuses for why I thought a blog would be a great idea when jacked up on creative body chemistry.
Unfortunately, that's all I have to offer at present. Take it or leave it, much like any audition. You're either right for it or you're not and most of it is out of your conscious control.
Sure, there are another twenty ideas that I've written down and a dozen topics I want to write about, but it's amazing how quickly school, work, and extra-curriculars can dampen the creative spirit. So, until things calm down a bit or I have another extra-energized PMS creative burst or I decide to stop being lazy, scared and alcoholic, don't hold your breath.
Peace.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Be Yourself
Some of the best advice I can think of for actors is, ironically, to be yourself. Sure, you'll need to pretend to be all those other people, too, but first just try being you. I say this because it's been my saving grace as I've learned the ropes of auditioning. In fact, this is good advice in any profession.
I should preface this by saying that I'm terrible at auditions. Nothing makes less sense to me than making an actor act alone, as in monologue auditions. And, in cold readings, one is forced to make choices that make no sense unless the actor has had the rare benefit of reading the whole road map of the script ahead of time. Thus, as a dedicated, analytical actor, I suck at auditions.
On the other hand, I've been cast in a lot of stuff recently. I think it has to do with my winning combination of confidence, adaptability, and apathy. Ya, after dozens of crappy auditions I just kind of gave up. I got tired of buying into the game and decided I didn't care anymore. It may seem obvious but I can't control my audience and I can't predict what casting directors want. Actors: you can't live up to unknown expectations so don't bother; in the end, it's all a bit of a crap shoot.
Yesterday, I auditioned for the Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Again. Yes, every year there are probably 150 women, both equity and non-equity, vying for four roles with one of the only professional gigs in town. The odds, suffice it to say, aren't terrific.
I've auditioned for them the two years prior, too, making this my third year running. I'm beyond nervousness (cue the apathy), but I still went through the motions of selecting the 'right' clothes, running through my lines, second guessing my technique and wondering if a slight heel would be to my advantage (oooh, look how much better my legs look in these pants!) or disadvantage (hm... maybe I will look taller than their idea of a Juliet). In the end, of course, I threw it all out the window anyway.
I wore something professional but that I was comfortable wearing. I read a book instead of obsessing over lines I've known for years anyway. I gave in to my training and instincts and remembered that it is never, NEVER, a good idea to change anything at the last minute. And, I wore my heels.
I went in to the theatre just before noon. Karyn Casl, the casting director, introduced herself and then Phil Sneed, the artistic director, poked his head around and gave me a bit of a perplexed once-over.
"You look familiar. Have you auditioned for us before?"
Well, if I was nervous before, I definitely wasn't now. Instead of making me feel self-consious in a good way, I was just embarassed. Why, oh why does Phil Sneed remember me?
It felt a little tragic as I ambled up to the stage. The artistic director of the CSF remembers me from last year? You mean the last year when I was running late, couldn't find the building, left my headshot & resume at home? Please, no.
I performed admirably and thanked them both.
On my way home, I wondered about the pitfalls of being memorable. Naturally, George W came to mind. "Fool me once..."
And then Janet Jackson's boob.
And then the movie version of 'Mamma Mia'...
Was I so terrible last year that they can't forget me? Or maybe it wasn't my performance, per se, but my total lack of togetherness last year? Did I make him relive awful memories of watching me butcher Shakespeare?
Or, was I so great that I lingered in his mind? Did he wish last year that he could have cast me, but something went awry and now he's thrilled to see me again? Maybe my performance was stupendous but their four female roles were filled by returning actresses last year and so he kept me in mind?
After a bit of disconcerted stewing over what it all meant, I hastily returned to apathy--the safer bet. I spent an afternoon in the backyard doing homework and sunning myself in the unseasonably warm January weather. Later I went to work at the Dairy Center.
After the show, I chatted with our masterful techie. He asked me what was new and I relayed my story of the CSF audition replete with angst.
"Well, maybe he remembered you from when you worked 3rd Law Dance a few months ago. He was here for that whole run."
Hm. He was. And I had forgotten completely. I worked with Phil Sneed via the Dairy Center--duh.
So, it may be that Phil Sneed remembers me from last year's CSF audition when I could have been amazing or terrible. Or I might simply seem familiar to him because we worked together at the Dairy for a weekend. I'll never really know which one it is, just like I can't predict whether I should wear heels or not.
To guess and then second guess the meaning of every question or to try and gauge the 'right' way to be is too much work.
All I can do is be who I am, whether they think I'm amazing or terrible, and keep on plodding through. And the apathy helps, too.
I should preface this by saying that I'm terrible at auditions. Nothing makes less sense to me than making an actor act alone, as in monologue auditions. And, in cold readings, one is forced to make choices that make no sense unless the actor has had the rare benefit of reading the whole road map of the script ahead of time. Thus, as a dedicated, analytical actor, I suck at auditions.
On the other hand, I've been cast in a lot of stuff recently. I think it has to do with my winning combination of confidence, adaptability, and apathy. Ya, after dozens of crappy auditions I just kind of gave up. I got tired of buying into the game and decided I didn't care anymore. It may seem obvious but I can't control my audience and I can't predict what casting directors want. Actors: you can't live up to unknown expectations so don't bother; in the end, it's all a bit of a crap shoot.
Yesterday, I auditioned for the Colorado Shakespeare Festival. Again. Yes, every year there are probably 150 women, both equity and non-equity, vying for four roles with one of the only professional gigs in town. The odds, suffice it to say, aren't terrific.
I've auditioned for them the two years prior, too, making this my third year running. I'm beyond nervousness (cue the apathy), but I still went through the motions of selecting the 'right' clothes, running through my lines, second guessing my technique and wondering if a slight heel would be to my advantage (oooh, look how much better my legs look in these pants!) or disadvantage (hm... maybe I will look taller than their idea of a Juliet). In the end, of course, I threw it all out the window anyway.
I wore something professional but that I was comfortable wearing. I read a book instead of obsessing over lines I've known for years anyway. I gave in to my training and instincts and remembered that it is never, NEVER, a good idea to change anything at the last minute. And, I wore my heels.
I went in to the theatre just before noon. Karyn Casl, the casting director, introduced herself and then Phil Sneed, the artistic director, poked his head around and gave me a bit of a perplexed once-over.
"You look familiar. Have you auditioned for us before?"
Well, if I was nervous before, I definitely wasn't now. Instead of making me feel self-consious in a good way, I was just embarassed. Why, oh why does Phil Sneed remember me?
It felt a little tragic as I ambled up to the stage. The artistic director of the CSF remembers me from last year? You mean the last year when I was running late, couldn't find the building, left my headshot & resume at home? Please, no.
I performed admirably and thanked them both.
On my way home, I wondered about the pitfalls of being memorable. Naturally, George W came to mind. "Fool me once..."
And then Janet Jackson's boob.
And then the movie version of 'Mamma Mia'...
Was I so terrible last year that they can't forget me? Or maybe it wasn't my performance, per se, but my total lack of togetherness last year? Did I make him relive awful memories of watching me butcher Shakespeare?
Or, was I so great that I lingered in his mind? Did he wish last year that he could have cast me, but something went awry and now he's thrilled to see me again? Maybe my performance was stupendous but their four female roles were filled by returning actresses last year and so he kept me in mind?
After a bit of disconcerted stewing over what it all meant, I hastily returned to apathy--the safer bet. I spent an afternoon in the backyard doing homework and sunning myself in the unseasonably warm January weather. Later I went to work at the Dairy Center.
After the show, I chatted with our masterful techie. He asked me what was new and I relayed my story of the CSF audition replete with angst.
"Well, maybe he remembered you from when you worked 3rd Law Dance a few months ago. He was here for that whole run."
Hm. He was. And I had forgotten completely. I worked with Phil Sneed via the Dairy Center--duh.
So, it may be that Phil Sneed remembers me from last year's CSF audition when I could have been amazing or terrible. Or I might simply seem familiar to him because we worked together at the Dairy for a weekend. I'll never really know which one it is, just like I can't predict whether I should wear heels or not.
To guess and then second guess the meaning of every question or to try and gauge the 'right' way to be is too much work.
All I can do is be who I am, whether they think I'm amazing or terrible, and keep on plodding through. And the apathy helps, too.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Blithe Spirit
Nothing says dedication like trying over and over again after relentless humiliation.
About two years ago, I left the New York Conservatory because of financial issues. I had a lot of cheerleaders on my side, though, and a few faculty let me know that I was ready to start auditioning even without my certificate. Armed with a bit of enthusiasm and a lot of desperation, I started scouring Actor's Access, Backstage and, yes, even Craigslist looking for work.
I wasn't union, so some projects were automatically out. I was too old for others, too plain for some, too chubby for everything after gaining 15 lbs in that stinky, loud, misery-inducing city. I pranced around in front of newby NYU film school students trying to get a bit part in a five minute short. I waited in line at 7am by the AEA audition building to get my name first on the list. Then, I waited around in the non-AEA waiting room for nine hours for the casting directors to not call my name. Thrice.
Once, I even took one of those Craigslist gigs for an art gallery opening in Chinatown. For $30, I had to wear a puffy coat and rap Notorious B.I.G's Hipnotize for someone's performance art piece. I still don't get it; must be an art thing.
You might think nothing could be quite as humiliating as pasty white girl trying to rap "Recently niggaz frontin' ain't sayin' nuttin' so I just speak my piece, keep my piece, Cubans with the Jesus piece, with my peeps, packing, asking who want it, you got it nigga flaunt it, that Brooklyn bullshit, we on it".
But... [sigh] you'd be wrong.
I don't even know how it happened. For some reason the casting director had decided to hold an open audition right after the Christmas holidays. This was about a week after I dropped out of school so the glow of the craft was still lingering about me. I was oozing confidence. This should have been my first sign.
My audition was for just after noon. I was trying out for the role of the maid--a part I mistakenly assumed would be the perfect Broadway break-out role for fabulous me! Auditioners were asked to prepare a one minute monologue from a Noel Coward play. And I did. The night before. Let this be a lesson to all aspiring actors.
I arrived promptly and attired in my most handsome, maid-inspiring audition-wear. After about 20 minutes, I was ushered into a small room with a man sitting behind a table beaming. I introduced myself and my piece to the very handsome (and patient, and KIND) casting director. And then, something happened. Or rather, didn't.
I got the first two lines out. Then I looked at the wall and the voice inside my head said "you're auditioning for a broadway play, you nitwit". Then, the voice coming out of my mouth stumbled in a terrible British accent and I thought, "What did I just say?!!". Like a terrible feedback loop, my brain kept distracting my mouth, but words kept coming out. My cognizant, self-aware actor brain said very loudly and clearly "STOP!".
Still, nothing. Words, they were coming. My brain started to wage war against my mouth:
"He knows everything about Noel Coward. He knows I just screwed up."
"You have humiliated yourself on Broadway--SHUT UP!"
"But there are these words and they sound clever if I keep breathing and making things up in a bad British dialect!"
"Dear lord, what the hell did I just say?!" Ya, take that brain. I'm still making shit up. And the nonsense just keeps coming...
"For the sake of all things holy, thank the nice man and LEAVE!"
Unfortunately, words continued to spill out. For-ever. I was improvising Noel Coward. Alone. Talking to a wall. In a tiny white room with a handsome man behind a desk judging me. Too humiliated to stop, too humiliated to keep going, too humiliated to look at him or the window, or the floor. Ya, just me and the wall and my brain and my mouth in one big, screwed up performance.
SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!
Finally, after what felt like several painful hours wearing wet socks and drinking sherry with an aunt that smells like buttermilk, I shut up. Sheepishly, I lowered my gaze, mumbled "mankyou" and left the room.
And that is the story of how I did not get cast as Edith in the 2009 Broadway revival of Blithe Spirit featuring Angela Landsbury, Rupert Everett, and Christine Ebersole.
About two years ago, I left the New York Conservatory because of financial issues. I had a lot of cheerleaders on my side, though, and a few faculty let me know that I was ready to start auditioning even without my certificate. Armed with a bit of enthusiasm and a lot of desperation, I started scouring Actor's Access, Backstage and, yes, even Craigslist looking for work.
I wasn't union, so some projects were automatically out. I was too old for others, too plain for some, too chubby for everything after gaining 15 lbs in that stinky, loud, misery-inducing city. I pranced around in front of newby NYU film school students trying to get a bit part in a five minute short. I waited in line at 7am by the AEA audition building to get my name first on the list. Then, I waited around in the non-AEA waiting room for nine hours for the casting directors to not call my name. Thrice.
Once, I even took one of those Craigslist gigs for an art gallery opening in Chinatown. For $30, I had to wear a puffy coat and rap Notorious B.I.G's Hipnotize for someone's performance art piece. I still don't get it; must be an art thing.
You might think nothing could be quite as humiliating as pasty white girl trying to rap "Recently niggaz frontin' ain't sayin' nuttin' so I just speak my piece, keep my piece, Cubans with the Jesus piece, with my peeps, packing, asking who want it, you got it nigga flaunt it, that Brooklyn bullshit, we on it".
But... [sigh] you'd be wrong.
I don't even know how it happened. For some reason the casting director had decided to hold an open audition right after the Christmas holidays. This was about a week after I dropped out of school so the glow of the craft was still lingering about me. I was oozing confidence. This should have been my first sign.
My audition was for just after noon. I was trying out for the role of the maid--a part I mistakenly assumed would be the perfect Broadway break-out role for fabulous me! Auditioners were asked to prepare a one minute monologue from a Noel Coward play. And I did. The night before. Let this be a lesson to all aspiring actors.
I arrived promptly and attired in my most handsome, maid-inspiring audition-wear. After about 20 minutes, I was ushered into a small room with a man sitting behind a table beaming. I introduced myself and my piece to the very handsome (and patient, and KIND) casting director. And then, something happened. Or rather, didn't.
I got the first two lines out. Then I looked at the wall and the voice inside my head said "you're auditioning for a broadway play, you nitwit". Then, the voice coming out of my mouth stumbled in a terrible British accent and I thought, "What did I just say?!!". Like a terrible feedback loop, my brain kept distracting my mouth, but words kept coming out. My cognizant, self-aware actor brain said very loudly and clearly "STOP!".
Still, nothing. Words, they were coming. My brain started to wage war against my mouth:
"He knows everything about Noel Coward. He knows I just screwed up."
Yep, still with the words.
"You have humiliated yourself on Broadway--SHUT UP!"
"But there are these words and they sound clever if I keep breathing and making things up in a bad British dialect!"
"Dear lord, what the hell did I just say?!" Ya, take that brain. I'm still making shit up. And the nonsense just keeps coming...
"For the sake of all things holy, thank the nice man and LEAVE!"
Unfortunately, words continued to spill out. For-ever. I was improvising Noel Coward. Alone. Talking to a wall. In a tiny white room with a handsome man behind a desk judging me. Too humiliated to stop, too humiliated to keep going, too humiliated to look at him or the window, or the floor. Ya, just me and the wall and my brain and my mouth in one big, screwed up performance.
SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!
Finally, after what felt like several painful hours wearing wet socks and drinking sherry with an aunt that smells like buttermilk, I shut up. Sheepishly, I lowered my gaze, mumbled "mankyou" and left the room.
And that is the story of how I did not get cast as Edith in the 2009 Broadway revival of Blithe Spirit featuring Angela Landsbury, Rupert Everett, and Christine Ebersole.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Vaginas
It's that time of year again--the time of year when colleges and community theatres join forces with Eve Ensler to make a ruckus about women's rights.
If you've been living in a vacuum in the US for the last ten years, Eve Ensler is a writer, performer, activist, and the author of The Vagina Monologues. Every year, thousands of volunteers across the nation and around the globe get together to stage a collection of monologues both funny and heart-wrenching in order to raise awareness and funds for anti-violence groups and community charities. This is known as V-Day.
This year in Boulder, both Naropa and the University of Colorado will be hosting events. I participated last year in Theatre O's community production, but I just can't bring myself to do it again.
"But... why?" you may ask. "This is perfect for you! Activism and theatre? AND women's rights?!!"
True, true; there is a lot to commend The Vagina Monologues and the V-Day campaigns. If you've never heard these stories, please support your local V-Day campaign this year and find out how appalling the statistics are regarding violence toward women. You can locate the performance nearest to you by clicking here. I absolutely recommend attending as an audience member--you will learn something, you might be changed.
Performing in the benefit, however, I'm not so thrilled about.
I participated* the Vagina Monologues last year with Theatre O. This year, I would like to implore all the V-Day 2011 organizers everywhere to think very carefully before you call your fellow volunteers a vaginas. I really shouldn't have to say this, but by addressing me as a vagina you are, in fact, reducing me to my sex organ and giving yourself away as ignorant of your cause.
The correct term [*nodding head expectantly*] ladies and organizers, is Vagina Warrior. Ya--that last part is important. See how vagina becomes an adjective now instead of a pronoun? See how instead of calling me a vagina, I've now become a warrior? No self-respecting woman would tolerate a man calling her a vagina. Why are you, my fellow warriors, calling me a vagina?
I assumed last year that calling the cast 'vaginas' was a quirk of the particular set of (tireless, fantastic!) organizers I was working for. I thought maybe it was the ladies' equivalent to 'nigga, please!'. However, I'm disappointed to report that I just recieved an email from the coordinator of Naropa's campaign with the subject line: "Calling all vaginas!" Bah! Even my Happy-Hippie diversity sensitive University can't get this right!
So, in summary, go support your local V-Day campain in February. I will forgive you all your vagina-name-calling trespasses as I join in solidarity to stop the violence. Now go out there and do vaginas everywhere proud! *wink!*
And please, please, please stop callng me a vagina.
Thank you.
*Okay, so technically, I did NOT actually perform in The Vagina Monologues last year because I caught the Death Flu opening night and was down for the count--more than ten days, in fact! (I also missed a rehearsal because I got kidney stones. See, it was divine intervention. God didn't want me to do The Vagina Monologues.) It was the first time in my history of theatre that I didn't perform and had no understudy. I played one of the emcees, basically, and the other ladies stepped up and learned my lines and cues the afternoon of opening night. I heard it went well, but I was laying in bed with a head full of snot contemplating my infectious demise.
If you've been living in a vacuum in the US for the last ten years, Eve Ensler is a writer, performer, activist, and the author of The Vagina Monologues. Every year, thousands of volunteers across the nation and around the globe get together to stage a collection of monologues both funny and heart-wrenching in order to raise awareness and funds for anti-violence groups and community charities. This is known as V-Day.
This year in Boulder, both Naropa and the University of Colorado will be hosting events. I participated last year in Theatre O's community production, but I just can't bring myself to do it again.
"But... why?" you may ask. "This is perfect for you! Activism and theatre? AND women's rights?!!"
True, true; there is a lot to commend The Vagina Monologues and the V-Day campaigns. If you've never heard these stories, please support your local V-Day campaign this year and find out how appalling the statistics are regarding violence toward women. You can locate the performance nearest to you by clicking here. I absolutely recommend attending as an audience member--you will learn something, you might be changed.
Performing in the benefit, however, I'm not so thrilled about.
I participated* the Vagina Monologues last year with Theatre O. This year, I would like to implore all the V-Day 2011 organizers everywhere to think very carefully before you call your fellow volunteers a vaginas. I really shouldn't have to say this, but by addressing me as a vagina you are, in fact, reducing me to my sex organ and giving yourself away as ignorant of your cause.
The correct term [*nodding head expectantly*] ladies and organizers, is Vagina Warrior. Ya--that last part is important. See how vagina becomes an adjective now instead of a pronoun? See how instead of calling me a vagina, I've now become a warrior? No self-respecting woman would tolerate a man calling her a vagina. Why are you, my fellow warriors, calling me a vagina?
I assumed last year that calling the cast 'vaginas' was a quirk of the particular set of (tireless, fantastic!) organizers I was working for. I thought maybe it was the ladies' equivalent to 'nigga, please!'. However, I'm disappointed to report that I just recieved an email from the coordinator of Naropa's campaign with the subject line: "Calling all vaginas!" Bah! Even my Happy-Hippie diversity sensitive University can't get this right!
So, in summary, go support your local V-Day campain in February. I will forgive you all your vagina-name-calling trespasses as I join in solidarity to stop the violence. Now go out there and do vaginas everywhere proud! *wink!*
And please, please, please stop callng me a vagina.
Thank you.
*Okay, so technically, I did NOT actually perform in The Vagina Monologues last year because I caught the Death Flu opening night and was down for the count--more than ten days, in fact! (I also missed a rehearsal because I got kidney stones. See, it was divine intervention. God didn't want me to do The Vagina Monologues.) It was the first time in my history of theatre that I didn't perform and had no understudy. I played one of the emcees, basically, and the other ladies stepped up and learned my lines and cues the afternoon of opening night. I heard it went well, but I was laying in bed with a head full of snot contemplating my infectious demise.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Misogyny
Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to say no.
Last week I was offered what would have likely been my first major paid (PAID!) role in a local feature film. The producer-writer-director has won an Emmy, been nominated for a second Emmy, and has made four other films which were successful for their respective genres. On the surface, it seemed pretty amazing--the cherry to my day's delicious sundae.
You see, I started this unseasonably warm Saturday with dreams of a paisley shaped swimming pool followed by a round of swashbuckling and martial arts demonstrations with my friend Kenny. We were auditioning a new segment of combat for Stephen Weitz & Rebecca Romaly of BETC fame. Considering I fell asleep to the National Geographic special on the Science of Evil, the dreams were a relief. I dreamed a few days ago about ecological disaster after watching The Future of Food so waking from dreams of theatre and paisley swimming pools was a welcome alternative to the nightmares that could have ensued.
Anyhow, I headed into Denver later that morning to crash the auditions for the New York Conservatory for Dramatic Arts, the acting school I attended for a year and a half in NYC. I showed up with no knowledge of who might be auditioning the young hopefuls, only thinking I might say hello and send my well-wishes back to New York. It turned out the auditioner was none other than Joan See, the founder of the school and one of my biggest cheerleaders. It was great. And it made me feel great about being an actor. It was the perfect boost to my morale after the fiasco of nearly being homeless in pursuit of my craft.
I came home from Denver reeling and revived in my quest to build the acting community in and around Boulder. After a few rounds of Munchkins with the housemates (NERDS!), I checked my electronic communication platforms and got the message about the audition. I was being offered a private audition for a supporting role. The film's leading actress had recommended me and wanted to set me up for a time slot. I'll be working with her on an upcoming Amish film and couldn't believe my good fortune. Then I checked the links she sent for the project. Billed as a 'psychological thriller/slasher with adult themes', the movie's title is Misogyny. The catch phrase? "The girls said he was too nice to date...they were wrong." Of course, what really won me over was the poster. Yes--check it out!
To be fair, I haven't read the script, I don't know the plot, characters, & story, and I don't know the man making it. Plus, it's money ($$!); I could get paid to... well... act? In spite of the glowing recommendation and privileged audition, I came to the hard realization that I'm not in this business for money after all--ain't that a bitch!
I'm not a prude, and there are a lot of things I will do to make movies, but no, no. I cannot in good conscience participate in a slasher movie titled Misogyny. I can't in good conscience participate in a slasher film titled Rainbows and Unicorns for that matter. It goes against everything I stand for in movies, art and life. How does a movie like this get funded over and over and over again? Why is our culture ready and willing to pay to watch beautiful women get subjected to abuse and then discarded? And why are women still participating in it?
I'm sorry if the nice guys feel like they finish last, but you know what? Put on your big-boy pants, take some ownership of your life, and stop blaming and objectifying the women around you for taking away your power.
So, to my first potential paying gig, I said no. I wrote a kind letter to the woman who recommended me and declined to participate in the slasher film, explaining that the genre wasn't to my taste. I just said "No, thank you" to making money as an actor in a film. The very thing I wanted most of all, and I said no.
Oh, well. Boxes of herbal supplements and self respect, here I come.
Last week I was offered what would have likely been my first major paid (PAID!) role in a local feature film. The producer-writer-director has won an Emmy, been nominated for a second Emmy, and has made four other films which were successful for their respective genres. On the surface, it seemed pretty amazing--the cherry to my day's delicious sundae.
You see, I started this unseasonably warm Saturday with dreams of a paisley shaped swimming pool followed by a round of swashbuckling and martial arts demonstrations with my friend Kenny. We were auditioning a new segment of combat for Stephen Weitz & Rebecca Romaly of BETC fame. Considering I fell asleep to the National Geographic special on the Science of Evil, the dreams were a relief. I dreamed a few days ago about ecological disaster after watching The Future of Food so waking from dreams of theatre and paisley swimming pools was a welcome alternative to the nightmares that could have ensued.
Anyhow, I headed into Denver later that morning to crash the auditions for the New York Conservatory for Dramatic Arts, the acting school I attended for a year and a half in NYC. I showed up with no knowledge of who might be auditioning the young hopefuls, only thinking I might say hello and send my well-wishes back to New York. It turned out the auditioner was none other than Joan See, the founder of the school and one of my biggest cheerleaders. It was great. And it made me feel great about being an actor. It was the perfect boost to my morale after the fiasco of nearly being homeless in pursuit of my craft.
I came home from Denver reeling and revived in my quest to build the acting community in and around Boulder. After a few rounds of Munchkins with the housemates (NERDS!), I checked my electronic communication platforms and got the message about the audition. I was being offered a private audition for a supporting role. The film's leading actress had recommended me and wanted to set me up for a time slot. I'll be working with her on an upcoming Amish film and couldn't believe my good fortune. Then I checked the links she sent for the project. Billed as a 'psychological thriller/slasher with adult themes', the movie's title is Misogyny. The catch phrase? "The girls said he was too nice to date...they were wrong." Of course, what really won me over was the poster. Yes--check it out!
Hm... an exposed left breast, with the "h" tastefully *almost* covering the nipple, dripping with blood. There's just enough string and hand in the frame to indicate the woman is bound. And, bloody psycho font. Why wouldn't I want to see this movie?
To be fair, I haven't read the script, I don't know the plot, characters, & story, and I don't know the man making it. Plus, it's money ($$!); I could get paid to... well... act? In spite of the glowing recommendation and privileged audition, I came to the hard realization that I'm not in this business for money after all--ain't that a bitch!
I'm not a prude, and there are a lot of things I will do to make movies, but no, no. I cannot in good conscience participate in a slasher movie titled Misogyny. I can't in good conscience participate in a slasher film titled Rainbows and Unicorns for that matter. It goes against everything I stand for in movies, art and life. How does a movie like this get funded over and over and over again? Why is our culture ready and willing to pay to watch beautiful women get subjected to abuse and then discarded? And why are women still participating in it?
I'm sorry if the nice guys feel like they finish last, but you know what? Put on your big-boy pants, take some ownership of your life, and stop blaming and objectifying the women around you for taking away your power.
So, to my first potential paying gig, I said no. I wrote a kind letter to the woman who recommended me and declined to participate in the slasher film, explaining that the genre wasn't to my taste. I just said "No, thank you" to making money as an actor in a film. The very thing I wanted most of all, and I said no.
Oh, well. Boxes of herbal supplements and self respect, here I come.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Boulder Film Links
Okay, I know my subtitle says I'm an actor in a movie-less town but that may be slight hyperbole. Turns out, just in the last five days, I have discovered and/or been invited to get involved with several local film buffs trying to perpetuate a fledgling grass roots film movement here in the Boulder/Denver area.
- The first is the Dairy Center for the Arts. They have started construction on what will be Boulder's only art house cinema. Called the Boedecker Theater and sponsored by a generous grant, I look foreward to watching all my favorite indie and foreign films that don't get play at the Century Boulder Theater. (hey Dairy--can we get Song of Sparrows?)
- Then, check out what RockRose Entertainment is starting up this year: The Indie Colorado Cinema Experience! This is the same pair of young entrepreneurs that brought the one-day theatre experience from L.A. to Boulder just over a year ago, and have locally produced a great full length feature called Lilith. They won the Shoot Out 24hr Filmmaking Festival this last year, too. Way to go Jesse & Erin--great to have you two go-getters in the community.
- Now the great Jesse McDonald of RockRose Entertainment will be volunteering in February for the Boulder International Film Festival, or BIFF. It's going to be a busy weekend for me at work during BIFF 2011, but I'm dying to check out some of this year's films (Ajami--VertigoFilmsUK--wow!). I've even put in my own volunteer application. I'll make the time--won't you?
- Finally, I just learned about FLIC--Food, Libation, and Independent Cinema. I'm not exactly sure what they do, but it appears they get people together at the Draft House to watch indie films. Pretty cool--eat, drink, make friends, be merry, watch new films. Win-win-win-win-win, eh?
Bottom line--get out there and keep this film community growing! As soon as I have enough money to buy rice and underwear, I'm totally putting my money in this local film community. Maybe one day it will pay me back.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Code Trailer 2
Be proud of the work you do. So few others will be.
Last autumn, I wrapped my first starring role in a feature film. It was written and produced by the most amazing local entrepreneur here in Boulder, K Thorpe, on a shoestring budget. It's due out in February, I believe.
Check out the second teaser-trailer:
Making movies is an awful lot of fun, even when it's not. That's what I love about making movies--swamps, guns, cold nights in tee shirts, hot days in winter coats, outtakes, fake blood, lots of running. In other words, it's a controlled adventure.
I was so excited to be working as an actor in Boulder that I told everyone about the film. The more I talked about it, the more I found myself skirting the truth about its content. Talk of a 2012 movie doesn't inspire conversation of much depth; generally, I was laughed at and, by way of association, so was K. Yes, even the open-minded 'Age of Aquarius' Happy-Hippie Buddhist University folk looked at me sideways and did their best to pretend not to judge.
But you know what? No matter what happens, I will stand up for this movie. My performance won't be perfect. I guarantee some things will look melodramatic and other things will look silly. This movie may not change the world, reveal truths, or challenge what we think about our humanity. Then again, it might! Regardless, it's my movie now and if I can't be proud of it, how can I expect anyone else to watch it?
Art cinema is overrated in the [insert snooty accent] film critic milieu. That's not to say that there isn't a place in the world for the new and unexpected. Yes, sometimes we need persons who will tread over boundaries with a lead foot in the name of art. Through art, progress can be made, thought can be transformed, and vision can trickle down to us plebes and get co-opted by Hollywood. But in a world where the US has been engaged in an ideological war for a decade, where one billion people have no clean drinking water, where genes can be patented and privatized, we sometimes need a little glitter and cupcakes and a song and dance show.
What it really boils down to is that we all need some good ol' Jerry Bruckheimer sensationalism every now and then. Yes, I equally hail social documentaries and dramatic fiction with a message, but we also need a break from the constant barrage of bad news and bitter politics to help us recoup our energies and fight the good fight again the next day. That's what K gives us with her X-files-meets-DaVinci-Code 2012 Mayan bible code film and I love it.
Oh, and I also love my prop gun, Beatrice.
Last autumn, I wrapped my first starring role in a feature film. It was written and produced by the most amazing local entrepreneur here in Boulder, K Thorpe, on a shoestring budget. It's due out in February, I believe.
Check out the second teaser-trailer:
Making movies is an awful lot of fun, even when it's not. That's what I love about making movies--swamps, guns, cold nights in tee shirts, hot days in winter coats, outtakes, fake blood, lots of running. In other words, it's a controlled adventure.
I was so excited to be working as an actor in Boulder that I told everyone about the film. The more I talked about it, the more I found myself skirting the truth about its content. Talk of a 2012 movie doesn't inspire conversation of much depth; generally, I was laughed at and, by way of association, so was K. Yes, even the open-minded 'Age of Aquarius' Happy-Hippie Buddhist University folk looked at me sideways and did their best to pretend not to judge.
But you know what? No matter what happens, I will stand up for this movie. My performance won't be perfect. I guarantee some things will look melodramatic and other things will look silly. This movie may not change the world, reveal truths, or challenge what we think about our humanity. Then again, it might! Regardless, it's my movie now and if I can't be proud of it, how can I expect anyone else to watch it?
Art cinema is overrated in the [insert snooty accent] film critic milieu. That's not to say that there isn't a place in the world for the new and unexpected. Yes, sometimes we need persons who will tread over boundaries with a lead foot in the name of art. Through art, progress can be made, thought can be transformed, and vision can trickle down to us plebes and get co-opted by Hollywood. But in a world where the US has been engaged in an ideological war for a decade, where one billion people have no clean drinking water, where genes can be patented and privatized, we sometimes need a little glitter and cupcakes and a song and dance show.
What it really boils down to is that we all need some good ol' Jerry Bruckheimer sensationalism every now and then. Yes, I equally hail social documentaries and dramatic fiction with a message, but we also need a break from the constant barrage of bad news and bitter politics to help us recoup our energies and fight the good fight again the next day. That's what K gives us with her X-files-meets-DaVinci-Code 2012 Mayan bible code film and I love it.
Oh, and I also love my prop gun, Beatrice.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A Homeless Plan
What is it about our capacity to endlessly believe, to hope, if you will, that the future will be brighter than today? When the lustre of youth has worn off and the dull edges of reality have worn away the naive optimism of an unfettered life full of potential, why do we continue to wake up every day?
To be fair, I don't think anyone would describe me as a hopeful person. I'm a realist, though some may say a generally glass-half-empty kind of gal, who watches too many depressing apocalyptic documentaries and who worries about things like plastics, nuclear waste, Helvetica, crude oil, God, corporate greed, naked short selling, the degeneration of the English language, and the human incapacity for tolerance. I do not, however, worry about suicide. Life, sacred, generally, yes. But it's a choice and it's the right choice for some people.
So, given that I'm a *ahem* realist who doesn't condemn suicide, why am I still here on this bleak rock? I don't know. How can I still wake up and believe that this will be the year of world peace? That this year I will get a paycheck with my name on it and it will be for acting in some film or play? How can I believe that this year will be the year I can buy a reliable car, or visit my family, or not worry about being homeless? I don't know. How do any of us continue to do this every day?
About a month ago, I was facing the very real scenario of being homeless. It came about because I was chasing the old acting dream. Yes, I didn't work for two months so that I could take a non-paying starring role in a local feature film while concurrently going to school full time and also starring in a non-paying play. I didn't sleep much those two months.
Anyhow, I sold everything of value to try and pay my rent in the aftermath. Everyone I knew was broke so, resigned, I started planning my next survival strategy. Instead of spending my money on rent, I would buy a camper top for the old gas-guzzling-cracked-windshield-genie-laden-bald-tired pickup truck I own. I would park it in a friendly neighborhood and put my mattress in the back. There would be just enough room for a suitcase and maybe my school books and every blanket I own in order to brave the winter in Boulder. I would actually try not to die of exposure, even if I had nothing to live for. I would pack everything else into storage and get a cheap gym membership so I could still shower (and stay fit!--classy!). In my mind's eye, this didn't seem horrible. When this didn't seem horrible, I began to wonder what was wrong with me.
The truth is, I am a pretty joyful realist. That joy didn't come without my fair share of heartache and depression over the years, but maybe it means I actually learned something in my twenties. Maybe I learned that life really is an adventure and that the cliche is true: this too shall pass. And it did, for now. Sure, I may be on a strict diet of ramen noodles and Cool Whip for the next six months and I almost certainly can't afford new underwear until I'm thirty-five, but I'm livin' the dream, yo.
Maybe attitude really is everything.
Or maybe, when they tell you in school that you have to risk everything for your dreams, they don't really mean it, kids. Tony Robinson will try to tell you that will power will get you everything and The Secret will assure you that you just have to 'want it bad enough', but the ugly truth is that unless you have a trust fund or you are extraordinarily pretty, you will end up bankrupt and homeless.
At least if you quit early you stand a very reasonable chance of obtaining a couch that isn't a futon before you're thirty. And, you'll be able to buy enough booze to dull the pain of living a life of broken dreams and second-best.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Actor in a Strange Land
I am an actor.
I say that to myself everyday to remind me of what I 'really' do when I'm slapping stamps on boxes of supplements at my day job like a mindless doozer set on repeat. Then again, there are worse jobs.
I work in a small ayurvedic clinic and spa with about eight other people. I'm the one that puts products in boxes every morning; I'm the shipping girl. I'm also a full time student at Happy-Hippie Buddhist University pursuing a degree in everything that will likely get me nowhere. So, how does an actor act like an actor in Boulder, Colorado? In short, she doesn't.
I went to a public performing arts high school over a decade ago and then gave up the stage because of marriage, homeownership, and just plain burn-out. That is, until I ended up divorced, broke and wandering about three years ago. I wandered to Flagstaff, Arizona, which coaxed me to New York City--the land of quiet desperation, broken dreams, and 26,400,000 lbs of garbage daily. It was instant loathing on my part.
Before my stint in New York City, I'd passed through Vancouver, BC during a major film festival and braved the Hollywood star tour in Los Angeles (did you know Julie Andrews lives next door to P Diddy?! ...or was it 50 Cent?...). Though all these cities are cosmopolitan, cultural meccas of North America (and, most importantly, film industry leaders), I refuse to live in any of them. I'd rather live far away from people and get my cultural edification via the interwebs.
Sure, sure. People will insist that New York and the other big cities are full of fodder for actors who are keen to observe human behavior, blah-dee-blah-dee-blah. This is a false pretense. New York and other metropolitan areas are great fodder for comedians and photographers who long to exploit the little person dressed as Michael Jackson moonwalking down the subway car trailing his duet partner, the 7 ft tall tranny Dolly Parton impersonator. But, unless you are playing either of these characters in the Next Big NYU Student Film, it's just another thing to try to be too cool to laugh at.
Well, here I am now on the front range at the foothills of the Rocky Mountians. I wake up to sunshine 300 days of the year. I ride my bicycle everywhere. And yes, I hug trees. I'm happy having a yard. I'm happy going hiking in the summer. I'm happy making snow forts in the winter. I'm happy falling asleep to the sound of crickets and I'm happy to see more than 5 stars on any given night. I'm just happy here in ways that I can never be in a city. So what's the problem?
Boulder, CO is an amazing town if you want to be a sponsored cyclist or an Olympic skier. Not so much if you long to make movies and actually get paid for it. Heck, I'm not asking to be a famous actor or anything. It's just, you know, a paycheck would be nice.
So, to come full circle, what does it mean to be an actor without an outlet? And how long can a person try for the highly-improbable-nigh-impossible before she throws in the towel altogether? How long can a poor, car-less, thirty-something undergraduate student continue to delude herself into believing she'll be an actress when she grows up? I guess I'll find out.
I say that to myself everyday to remind me of what I 'really' do when I'm slapping stamps on boxes of supplements at my day job like a mindless doozer set on repeat. Then again, there are worse jobs.
I work in a small ayurvedic clinic and spa with about eight other people. I'm the one that puts products in boxes every morning; I'm the shipping girl. I'm also a full time student at Happy-Hippie Buddhist University pursuing a degree in everything that will likely get me nowhere. So, how does an actor act like an actor in Boulder, Colorado? In short, she doesn't.
I went to a public performing arts high school over a decade ago and then gave up the stage because of marriage, homeownership, and just plain burn-out. That is, until I ended up divorced, broke and wandering about three years ago. I wandered to Flagstaff, Arizona, which coaxed me to New York City--the land of quiet desperation, broken dreams, and 26,400,000 lbs of garbage daily. It was instant loathing on my part.
Before my stint in New York City, I'd passed through Vancouver, BC during a major film festival and braved the Hollywood star tour in Los Angeles (did you know Julie Andrews lives next door to P Diddy?! ...or was it 50 Cent?...). Though all these cities are cosmopolitan, cultural meccas of North America (and, most importantly, film industry leaders), I refuse to live in any of them. I'd rather live far away from people and get my cultural edification via the interwebs.
Sure, sure. People will insist that New York and the other big cities are full of fodder for actors who are keen to observe human behavior, blah-dee-blah-dee-blah. This is a false pretense. New York and other metropolitan areas are great fodder for comedians and photographers who long to exploit the little person dressed as Michael Jackson moonwalking down the subway car trailing his duet partner, the 7 ft tall tranny Dolly Parton impersonator. But, unless you are playing either of these characters in the Next Big NYU Student Film, it's just another thing to try to be too cool to laugh at.
Well, here I am now on the front range at the foothills of the Rocky Mountians. I wake up to sunshine 300 days of the year. I ride my bicycle everywhere. And yes, I hug trees. I'm happy having a yard. I'm happy going hiking in the summer. I'm happy making snow forts in the winter. I'm happy falling asleep to the sound of crickets and I'm happy to see more than 5 stars on any given night. I'm just happy here in ways that I can never be in a city. So what's the problem?
Boulder, CO is an amazing town if you want to be a sponsored cyclist or an Olympic skier. Not so much if you long to make movies and actually get paid for it. Heck, I'm not asking to be a famous actor or anything. It's just, you know, a paycheck would be nice.
So, to come full circle, what does it mean to be an actor without an outlet? And how long can a person try for the highly-improbable-nigh-impossible before she throws in the towel altogether? How long can a poor, car-less, thirty-something undergraduate student continue to delude herself into believing she'll be an actress when she grows up? I guess I'll find out.
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