I like working on things. You know, mucking around. I love rehearsal. I love reading plays and picking out scripts to direct. I love auditions (though I hate cutting people). I like writing drafts of plays and thinking about how I would rewrite them. Mulling over characters and the things they might do.
I love all of this so much, the work of the theatre, that I would trade it for the finish line.
You see, by the time a show that I'm directing reaches the polishing stage, I start to lose interest. I've accomplished most of what I wanted to and the actors have to start to make it their own. And I fuss over details, yes, but in a kind of forced "it's my responsibility to point this out" kind of way. For me, the fun is in discovery - helping groups of young actors figure out how to work together, pushing them toward different ways of interpreting their work. Performance, to me, is almost a necessary evil.
Isn't that awful? Isn't performance what it's all about? Yes, it is. All that work is for naught if, ultimately it doesn't mean something to an audience. The audience is who it's for. They determine the true value of a given work by their presence and precious attention. But audiences freak me out. I love them, I do. But I fear them, too. When a production goes up, it's out of my hands, and it feels like I (and more importantly the work I've done for the previous three months or so) meets its maker. Judgement ensues.
I'm fortunate to work in educational theatre. Everyone loves kids and wants to see them do well, so the audiences I have the fortune to work with are always willing and supportive. But, I don't believe that in the theatre, "everything always works out" as they say. Sometimes things aren't ready. Or they just plain suck. I have a mortal fear of that scenario, something I've worked on sucking. Mortal. It's happened, bt dubs. Not always, but I'm aware that it's possible. And that possibility lurks over every show.
So, I think I walk around with this "I'm process-oriented" label I've placed on myself in part as some sort of excuse to not see things through all the way. In terms of my writing, I wonder if I avoid reaching completion and pushing for production. Do I like playwriting limbo? Is my residency there due to mortal fear or a love of mucking about in development/discovery stage?
It's worth thinking about, anyway.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Let There Be Dogs!
So, today I was chatting about my play with a dramaturg (Michelle) from Alberta Playwrights Network. A few years ago, I developed a relationship with APN (love them!). Tooth Sized Holes is the second play I've sent there.
I was expecting her to bring it up. She totally has a point. "So, you have two dogs in this play . . ." (the ellipses being code for " . . . and how do you expect this to ever be produced?" - but in a kind and supportive way).
She began the conversation by asking how I felt about the play - where it was at, etc. I was thrilled to be able to respond by saying that my life has taken a U-turn of sorts and that though a couple of years ago I was quite ambitious about playwriting, I have the luxury now of writing for the joy of it and for the unadulterated thrill of discovering the layers and possibilities of a story. And I think I believe that. Production isn't as much on my mind as it used to be, but I still feel the drive to write plays. Anyhow, it ends up that I am in a good place in my feelings towards this latest draft of Tooth Sized Holes and let 'er rip. Tell me what needs doing.
Hence the dog concern. Yes, there are two dogs in the play and although one of them takes more of a principal role, they are both on stage at the same time for one scene. I realize that rare is the theatre company that will to take that on when they could go for something that, say, doesn't have dogs in it and would be much easier to produce. There was some subtext about theatrical ways of including dogs in the story without actually having dogs on stage.
I responded by saying, "I wrote the play I wanted to write. It has dogs in it. Some people go to the theatre because they want to see something in particular, some people go to everything, some people are dragged there. People have dogs." And then I said something about the fact that maybe Shakespeare and his colleagues wondered about presenting his audience with a severed head, but it doesn't seem so weird now. And maybe it wasn't then either, but it was the first idea that popped into my head.
As I relay it, it seems like the tone of the conversation was much more snarky than it was. It was not snarky at all - I just think sometimes that playwriting in this day and age has become highly limited. That's probably a really great thing. Limitation gives way to creativity. I know that. But is there room to think outside of such strict limitations? What if someone were to take a risk and produce this play and then, suddenly, dogs become all the rage in plays? To the point that everyone spends their time trying to figure out how to put a dog or two in their scripts?
I don't know. Just something I'm thinkin' about.
I was expecting her to bring it up. She totally has a point. "So, you have two dogs in this play . . ." (the ellipses being code for " . . . and how do you expect this to ever be produced?" - but in a kind and supportive way).
She began the conversation by asking how I felt about the play - where it was at, etc. I was thrilled to be able to respond by saying that my life has taken a U-turn of sorts and that though a couple of years ago I was quite ambitious about playwriting, I have the luxury now of writing for the joy of it and for the unadulterated thrill of discovering the layers and possibilities of a story. And I think I believe that. Production isn't as much on my mind as it used to be, but I still feel the drive to write plays. Anyhow, it ends up that I am in a good place in my feelings towards this latest draft of Tooth Sized Holes and let 'er rip. Tell me what needs doing.
Hence the dog concern. Yes, there are two dogs in the play and although one of them takes more of a principal role, they are both on stage at the same time for one scene. I realize that rare is the theatre company that will to take that on when they could go for something that, say, doesn't have dogs in it and would be much easier to produce. There was some subtext about theatrical ways of including dogs in the story without actually having dogs on stage.
I responded by saying, "I wrote the play I wanted to write. It has dogs in it. Some people go to the theatre because they want to see something in particular, some people go to everything, some people are dragged there. People have dogs." And then I said something about the fact that maybe Shakespeare and his colleagues wondered about presenting his audience with a severed head, but it doesn't seem so weird now. And maybe it wasn't then either, but it was the first idea that popped into my head.
As I relay it, it seems like the tone of the conversation was much more snarky than it was. It was not snarky at all - I just think sometimes that playwriting in this day and age has become highly limited. That's probably a really great thing. Limitation gives way to creativity. I know that. But is there room to think outside of such strict limitations? What if someone were to take a risk and produce this play and then, suddenly, dogs become all the rage in plays? To the point that everyone spends their time trying to figure out how to put a dog or two in their scripts?
I don't know. Just something I'm thinkin' about.
Monday, October 22, 2012
What You Do
Have you ever met someone, and got to know them a little bit and been so impressed with the fact that they are doing (job wise) exactly what it is they're supposed to be doing?
I'll give you an example. I know a lighting designer/professor at one of the universities I used to attend. She is a brilliant (pun!) lighting designer and also a fabulous teacher. She is interested in student learning, and makes it her business to make students better (and feel better about their work) when they leave her class.
I've also met people -talented, smart people - who have just never seemed to land where they were meant to. A case in point is an old friend of my husband's. He didn't graduate high school, took a number of jobs, made a lot of money, lost it all, is divorced, has had trouble with the law and from what I can tell, has no place to go. And yet, you should listen to him speak! Gorgeous speaking voice. He has a gregarious personality and relates really well with people. He could easily be some kind of radio talk show host, or even television host for that matter. When we spent a little bit of time with him this summer, I couldn't help but think, "If only he had a good drama teacher, who could have encouraged him . . . "
I've never ever really wanted to be anything but a high school drama teacher. I have a distinct memory as a teenager of thinking to myself, "I just love drama class. I want to be in drama class all day." Which led me, quite naturally, to go down that road. I've been in and out of the drama classroom - I had kids, I taught strictly academic courses for a year and, of course took time off with my recent sabbatical. I often wonder if it's what I'm supposed to be doing. Does everyone wonder that about themselves?
I went to Kidprovisers at the Edmonton Fringe this past summer. Basically, the adult professionals carried the young folks through all of the scenes, but I was so happy to see young kids doing drama and being apprenticed in the craft. I think that was a telling moment: "Kids doing drama. What could be better?"
I love writing, of course. I have precious little time to do any these days, but I hope to do more soon. I hope to have more to say about that next time.
Cheers.
I'll give you an example. I know a lighting designer/professor at one of the universities I used to attend. She is a brilliant (pun!) lighting designer and also a fabulous teacher. She is interested in student learning, and makes it her business to make students better (and feel better about their work) when they leave her class.
I've also met people -talented, smart people - who have just never seemed to land where they were meant to. A case in point is an old friend of my husband's. He didn't graduate high school, took a number of jobs, made a lot of money, lost it all, is divorced, has had trouble with the law and from what I can tell, has no place to go. And yet, you should listen to him speak! Gorgeous speaking voice. He has a gregarious personality and relates really well with people. He could easily be some kind of radio talk show host, or even television host for that matter. When we spent a little bit of time with him this summer, I couldn't help but think, "If only he had a good drama teacher, who could have encouraged him . . . "
I've never ever really wanted to be anything but a high school drama teacher. I have a distinct memory as a teenager of thinking to myself, "I just love drama class. I want to be in drama class all day." Which led me, quite naturally, to go down that road. I've been in and out of the drama classroom - I had kids, I taught strictly academic courses for a year and, of course took time off with my recent sabbatical. I often wonder if it's what I'm supposed to be doing. Does everyone wonder that about themselves?
I went to Kidprovisers at the Edmonton Fringe this past summer. Basically, the adult professionals carried the young folks through all of the scenes, but I was so happy to see young kids doing drama and being apprenticed in the craft. I think that was a telling moment: "Kids doing drama. What could be better?"
I love writing, of course. I have precious little time to do any these days, but I hope to do more soon. I hope to have more to say about that next time.
Cheers.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Fight Club
Can I tell you about something really cool?
Sometimes we have experiences that are so deeply meaningful and profound that it's a long time before we can put words to them. And when some time has passed, to do so is to risk letting go of the immediacy and excitement of that adventure - that the intensity and they way it's remembered will never quite be the same and we want to hold on to our version of those memories as tightly as we can. But there comes a point when the experience demands utterance and defying the call to express it only results in a dull, chronic stomach-rot. I've had a few times like these in my life, but there really is something special about my time in Vancouver during the 2012 Fight Directors Canada National Workshop.
Back in May, I learned that I would be teaching Drama at the high school this fall. That's totally cool, I love that stuff. But, I really want it to go well. And I know that I don't always relate so well to teenage boys (I just don't get them. I mean, I'm a teacher, so I should, but . . . ) and I thought, "You know what? I should really look into taking a stage combat course. If I can teach them how to throw a few punches and kick each other in the nuts for a scene, they'll be thrilled and I'll be golden."
So, I looked into it online - something that would fit the timeline of anywhere between then and the end of the summer. I've never done anything like this before, so I let Google do the walking. The first thing that popped up was an FDC Basic class at Rapier Wit in Toronto. That sounded totally cool. Then I discovered the Nationals which would be a couple of weeks later. A variety of circumstances (to do with timing and family stuff) led me to go with Vancouver. I was looking at two weeks of intense training in unarmed, quarterstaff and sword combat for the stage. Cool, right? Yes. Oh, and at the end we would have to get up in front of a panel of judges and be tested on 3 choreographed partner fights . . . *Cool.*
So, I made my decision. And then I put off doing anything about it. A week would go by and my husband would ask, "Have you registered yet?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"Yep." And then I wouldn't. This happened a few times. I left it until the last minute.
And then,
"Have you booked your plane ticket?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"'Kay." More procrastination. I booked. And then I checked the website I don't know, about a week and half before it was to start and noticed that I booked it for a day too late. I must have read it wrong, so I had to change my flight.
I should have been excited and I was, but I was also really dreading it. What the hell was I thinking? I had never done anything like this before and I was completely out of shape. And not that I want it to matter, but 40 is looming larger than I want it to. I'm short. I'm left-handed. I could have just not gone. But as the start date approached, I began to know (in a way that I wished I could ignore) that this was going to be about far more than just teaching kids how to kick each other in the nuts on stage. It would also be about me going through something really hard just to come out on the other side of it still standing.
I had five goals (the pursuit of which took up all the available space in my head):
• learn the moves
• try not to look like too much of a moron
• catch the bus on time (there were two buses from downtown Vancouver to Capilano University in North Van).
• follow the pack and don’t get lost (the classes were in various buildings).
• don’t forget to eat (when you're married you become half-useless. Food is the domain of my other half).
As regards the second point, (for the first week at least) I felt like a moron every day. Every minute of each of those days. I'm talking tears. Most people (including some of the instructors, certainly those looking to be instructors) were younger than me. I thought I could be so cool about learning from younger people, but it was harder than I thought. I mean, it's humbling. I'm usually the teacher - the one who knows and imparts, not the one who doesn't know and is at the mercy of another to impart. But I got over it and then it was wonderful. The young folks (not to the exclusion of the older-than-me-folks, who are master teachers and completely mesmerizing) were extremely cool and smart and funny and totally dedicated, not to mention unrelenting in their high standards. It was not long before I was enchanted by the whole thing.
But. Let's just say I was out of my element.
Cut to the first day of the second week. It was a good start - I had been struggling with all of my choreography for the entire first week and spent some of our one free day studying and rehearsing. Sword class was first and I made it through the choreography fairly smoothly when my partner and I presented it to the class. Therefore, a win.
I pause here to talk about my gargantuan fear of performing.
As a teenager, I loved being on stage. I enjoyed it a bit beyond high school, but then I think something changed. Maybe there was some kind of significant identity shift or something in my early twenties, but I found myself shying away from acting (or even being interested in it.) Drama class? That's my thing - be it teaching or participating. Putting myself out there in front of people, especially professional actors and directors? I could die. In there somewhere is a malignant form of insecurity entwined in narcissistic self-obsession. Any way you look at it, I am most at home in the rehearsal hall, the classroom or in front of the computer - not onstage.
So, I made it through the morning sword class. And I got through most of the rest of the day all right. But then we had a second sword class at the end of the day. I was pretty spent (see above re: completely out of shape). And nervous - getting through the choreography the first time seemed like a fluke and I had so many doubts about being able to reproduce it. The instructor wanted to see the scenes again, pair by pair. I went first last time, so I kept sitting there as each of the pairs went up to show their work. Time marched until only one pair was left other than myself and my partner. Class was due to be over so I just sat there and let them go, relieved that I seemingly dodged a bullet. But it was not to be. We were called up. And I choked. I lost my way and the thing completely fell apart. My partner (who was actually an advanced actor combatant journeying to be a fight instructor) was a champ and made the best of it, but I felt awful because I knew that I didn't really try because I didn't really feel like it.
There was some time to eat before we were due to be back for evening rehearsals. You can't go back and change what happened, you can only change what you do from there. So I took some time to feel bad and let that bad feeling register in my gut for a while so that I could ensure that such a thing wouldn't happen again. As I thought it all through, it became clear to me that this fight stuff isn't about me (What? Something's not about me?) It's about the partnership. And a partnership only really works if both people bring everything they have to serve each other. So, even though I'm new at this, and I fumble over myself every five seconds, my partner (any of my partners) needs me, too. In short, I learned that I don't have a right to my insecurities.
Oh.
I went back to rehearsal and worked like a dog. Things went better from there. Turned out, I had a lot of fun throughout the rest of the week. Classes were great and rehearsals were better. And then, I failed my fights.
Yeah, I failed the fights. Which I expected. It's really cool how the whole thing is run. You have your fights pair by pair and then a bunch of hours pass and the fight masters call you in one by one to give you your results. By that time, you're tired and thinking about going home and wearing real clothes every day and feeling surprised that though you didn't come here with any intent to get to know anyone, that you might actually miss some people. It's an intensely emotional time. The fight masters were really supportive and it all resulted in a good conversation. I may or may not have gushed about how great I thought everyone was. I meant every word.
The game face I hoped to don didn't pan out when I left the room to face my classmates. I totally wanted to pick up my things, take the bus back to downtown and meet up with my sister for dinner like she and I had tentatively planned. That's what I wanted to do. But something inside just said, "Dammit, you're staying here and you're going to hug and congratulate the others when they come out of there." I did. It wasn't easy, but I really was proud of them all and I'm glad I had the chance to show them that.
There was a "do" after. A party at a pub. I didn't want to go to that, either. I would rather have run and hid in urban obscurity with my sister anywhere in Vancouver except the pub where the party was being held. Again with the "Dammit, you're going. It's not going to kill you. And people may want to see you and hang out with you, so just stop your bawling and go."
I'm glad I went. The humiliation of my relatively public failure subsided after a couple of drinks and I was thrilled to be able to enjoy the company of some of the funnest, most interesting people I've had the pleasure to meet (as are most people you meet for a short time I suppose, but it was true in this case for this period of time, anyway).
I haven't taught anyone how to fake-kick someone else in the nuts yet. I don't know if I'm any closer to understanding teenage boys, either. I may eventually, but even if I never do, I have this remarkable experience that has rendered me forever changed in a way that I still don't know if I can fully articulate. Not to mention that it was among the most exceptional learning experiences I've ever had. You can't beat that.
And I'm still intrigued by all this fight stuff. I haven't done any of it since, but I'll be at the Paddy Crean Stage Combat Workshop over the new year in Banff. I think it's going to be totally scary, but I can't wait to find out for sure.
Sometimes we have experiences that are so deeply meaningful and profound that it's a long time before we can put words to them. And when some time has passed, to do so is to risk letting go of the immediacy and excitement of that adventure - that the intensity and they way it's remembered will never quite be the same and we want to hold on to our version of those memories as tightly as we can. But there comes a point when the experience demands utterance and defying the call to express it only results in a dull, chronic stomach-rot. I've had a few times like these in my life, but there really is something special about my time in Vancouver during the 2012 Fight Directors Canada National Workshop.
Back in May, I learned that I would be teaching Drama at the high school this fall. That's totally cool, I love that stuff. But, I really want it to go well. And I know that I don't always relate so well to teenage boys (I just don't get them. I mean, I'm a teacher, so I should, but . . . ) and I thought, "You know what? I should really look into taking a stage combat course. If I can teach them how to throw a few punches and kick each other in the nuts for a scene, they'll be thrilled and I'll be golden."
So, I looked into it online - something that would fit the timeline of anywhere between then and the end of the summer. I've never done anything like this before, so I let Google do the walking. The first thing that popped up was an FDC Basic class at Rapier Wit in Toronto. That sounded totally cool. Then I discovered the Nationals which would be a couple of weeks later. A variety of circumstances (to do with timing and family stuff) led me to go with Vancouver. I was looking at two weeks of intense training in unarmed, quarterstaff and sword combat for the stage. Cool, right? Yes. Oh, and at the end we would have to get up in front of a panel of judges and be tested on 3 choreographed partner fights . . . *Cool.*
So, I made my decision. And then I put off doing anything about it. A week would go by and my husband would ask, "Have you registered yet?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"Yep." And then I wouldn't. This happened a few times. I left it until the last minute.
And then,
"Have you booked your plane ticket?"
"No."
"You better get on that."
"'Kay." More procrastination. I booked. And then I checked the website I don't know, about a week and half before it was to start and noticed that I booked it for a day too late. I must have read it wrong, so I had to change my flight.
I should have been excited and I was, but I was also really dreading it. What the hell was I thinking? I had never done anything like this before and I was completely out of shape. And not that I want it to matter, but 40 is looming larger than I want it to. I'm short. I'm left-handed. I could have just not gone. But as the start date approached, I began to know (in a way that I wished I could ignore) that this was going to be about far more than just teaching kids how to kick each other in the nuts on stage. It would also be about me going through something really hard just to come out on the other side of it still standing.
I had five goals (the pursuit of which took up all the available space in my head):
• learn the moves
• try not to look like too much of a moron
• catch the bus on time (there were two buses from downtown Vancouver to Capilano University in North Van).
• follow the pack and don’t get lost (the classes were in various buildings).
• don’t forget to eat (when you're married you become half-useless. Food is the domain of my other half).
As regards the second point, (for the first week at least) I felt like a moron every day. Every minute of each of those days. I'm talking tears. Most people (including some of the instructors, certainly those looking to be instructors) were younger than me. I thought I could be so cool about learning from younger people, but it was harder than I thought. I mean, it's humbling. I'm usually the teacher - the one who knows and imparts, not the one who doesn't know and is at the mercy of another to impart. But I got over it and then it was wonderful. The young folks (not to the exclusion of the older-than-me-folks, who are master teachers and completely mesmerizing) were extremely cool and smart and funny and totally dedicated, not to mention unrelenting in their high standards. It was not long before I was enchanted by the whole thing.
But. Let's just say I was out of my element.
Cut to the first day of the second week. It was a good start - I had been struggling with all of my choreography for the entire first week and spent some of our one free day studying and rehearsing. Sword class was first and I made it through the choreography fairly smoothly when my partner and I presented it to the class. Therefore, a win.
I pause here to talk about my gargantuan fear of performing.
As a teenager, I loved being on stage. I enjoyed it a bit beyond high school, but then I think something changed. Maybe there was some kind of significant identity shift or something in my early twenties, but I found myself shying away from acting (or even being interested in it.) Drama class? That's my thing - be it teaching or participating. Putting myself out there in front of people, especially professional actors and directors? I could die. In there somewhere is a malignant form of insecurity entwined in narcissistic self-obsession. Any way you look at it, I am most at home in the rehearsal hall, the classroom or in front of the computer - not onstage.
So, I made it through the morning sword class. And I got through most of the rest of the day all right. But then we had a second sword class at the end of the day. I was pretty spent (see above re: completely out of shape). And nervous - getting through the choreography the first time seemed like a fluke and I had so many doubts about being able to reproduce it. The instructor wanted to see the scenes again, pair by pair. I went first last time, so I kept sitting there as each of the pairs went up to show their work. Time marched until only one pair was left other than myself and my partner. Class was due to be over so I just sat there and let them go, relieved that I seemingly dodged a bullet. But it was not to be. We were called up. And I choked. I lost my way and the thing completely fell apart. My partner (who was actually an advanced actor combatant journeying to be a fight instructor) was a champ and made the best of it, but I felt awful because I knew that I didn't really try because I didn't really feel like it.
There was some time to eat before we were due to be back for evening rehearsals. You can't go back and change what happened, you can only change what you do from there. So I took some time to feel bad and let that bad feeling register in my gut for a while so that I could ensure that such a thing wouldn't happen again. As I thought it all through, it became clear to me that this fight stuff isn't about me (What? Something's not about me?) It's about the partnership. And a partnership only really works if both people bring everything they have to serve each other. So, even though I'm new at this, and I fumble over myself every five seconds, my partner (any of my partners) needs me, too. In short, I learned that I don't have a right to my insecurities.
Oh.
I went back to rehearsal and worked like a dog. Things went better from there. Turned out, I had a lot of fun throughout the rest of the week. Classes were great and rehearsals were better. And then, I failed my fights.
Yeah, I failed the fights. Which I expected. It's really cool how the whole thing is run. You have your fights pair by pair and then a bunch of hours pass and the fight masters call you in one by one to give you your results. By that time, you're tired and thinking about going home and wearing real clothes every day and feeling surprised that though you didn't come here with any intent to get to know anyone, that you might actually miss some people. It's an intensely emotional time. The fight masters were really supportive and it all resulted in a good conversation. I may or may not have gushed about how great I thought everyone was. I meant every word.
The game face I hoped to don didn't pan out when I left the room to face my classmates. I totally wanted to pick up my things, take the bus back to downtown and meet up with my sister for dinner like she and I had tentatively planned. That's what I wanted to do. But something inside just said, "Dammit, you're staying here and you're going to hug and congratulate the others when they come out of there." I did. It wasn't easy, but I really was proud of them all and I'm glad I had the chance to show them that.
There was a "do" after. A party at a pub. I didn't want to go to that, either. I would rather have run and hid in urban obscurity with my sister anywhere in Vancouver except the pub where the party was being held. Again with the "Dammit, you're going. It's not going to kill you. And people may want to see you and hang out with you, so just stop your bawling and go."
I'm glad I went. The humiliation of my relatively public failure subsided after a couple of drinks and I was thrilled to be able to enjoy the company of some of the funnest, most interesting people I've had the pleasure to meet (as are most people you meet for a short time I suppose, but it was true in this case for this period of time, anyway).
I haven't taught anyone how to fake-kick someone else in the nuts yet. I don't know if I'm any closer to understanding teenage boys, either. I may eventually, but even if I never do, I have this remarkable experience that has rendered me forever changed in a way that I still don't know if I can fully articulate. Not to mention that it was among the most exceptional learning experiences I've ever had. You can't beat that.
And I'm still intrigued by all this fight stuff. I haven't done any of it since, but I'll be at the Paddy Crean Stage Combat Workshop over the new year in Banff. I think it's going to be totally scary, but I can't wait to find out for sure.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
0 to 60
Holy fuck. I shouldn't say things like that, it misrepresents me (I like to think of myself as the kind of person who wouldn't say things like that. But obviously, I'm wrong). But, man. I went from a total couch potato to hardly having a minute in the day to even, like, eat.
It's cool, though. It's all good (kinda, except that I have no time). See, I mentioned before about job shuffling . . . So, what happened was that the guy who was originally going to be a partner in crime of sorts in the Drama department at the school is now the Vice Principal. I opted to take his position (there was no middle ground), but it means a steep learning curve. I know nothing about film. And I'm now teaching it. To give you an idea.
I just auditioned kids for You Can't Take it With You. We had such a fun time. I'm in denial about having to make a cast list. I could seriously be happy just sitting about making stuff up with a bunch of kids. These guys are awesome!
A former student from many moons ago stopped by and we chatted through the whole lunch hour. SO good to catch up with her.
That's that. Just gotta breathe.
It's cool, though. It's all good (kinda, except that I have no time). See, I mentioned before about job shuffling . . . So, what happened was that the guy who was originally going to be a partner in crime of sorts in the Drama department at the school is now the Vice Principal. I opted to take his position (there was no middle ground), but it means a steep learning curve. I know nothing about film. And I'm now teaching it. To give you an idea.
I just auditioned kids for You Can't Take it With You. We had such a fun time. I'm in denial about having to make a cast list. I could seriously be happy just sitting about making stuff up with a bunch of kids. These guys are awesome!
A former student from many moons ago stopped by and we chatted through the whole lunch hour. SO good to catch up with her.
That's that. Just gotta breathe.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Cape Fear
So,things are crazy around here right now. There's been some job stuff - changes, shuffling, you know, stuff - and that has thrust me into having to really face the school year coming up and all that will entail. It's all good, it's just there are some unknown quantities that translate into "this school year is gonna be hella busy." Writing 'to do' lists helps to mitigate the chaos. I swore off 'to do' lists when I was an at home mom at the time my kids were little. It is so depressing to come across a piece of paper in May that has "October - finish drapes for Georgia's room" written on it and and it didn't get done and all it felt like I did during that time was hold a baby. But somehow, now, the 'to do' thing helps clear my head. These days, it's things like, "Haircut 12:30", "Meet with Joel 1:45", "Call Dave and ask if he got in touch with Evelyn."
Out of the blue, without being entirely aware of it, I actually wrote this down on my page today: "Deal with fear about sending scripts to companies that have invited me to."
In July, I sent a query to the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia. I got a message back from the guy that deals with that sort of thing (not sure if he's the literary manager or associate producer . . . his name's Will and he seems very nice) wanting to see the full script, so I sent it. That's easy. He asked, I submitted. Now I go on with my life as usual until he gets back to me.
I've been in this position before with a few prominent theatre companies. I would give my eyeteeth to be produced at these places. They asked for a script, I sent it and then they wrote back to say that though that particular script isn't right for them, they really like my work and would I send them something else? At which I get a warm feeling inside and then go on with my day as though it didn't happen.
Ummm . . . what?
I have other plays. Most need rewrites. I've avoided getting to them. Here's the thing: What if I send something and they don't like it? And then they decide that they were wrong about me and write me off? The fear of that scenario is nothing short of arresting. At least this way, I'm sustaining mystery. Who doesn't love a little mystery?
I know. Hence the list item.
I have had some experiences in this past year which have been completely life-changing. I will tell you about them in detail some time. The bottom line is that fear has to go. I don't know how, but it's on my list. Please understand that this is a big deal. Remember the mouse thing way back? Along those lines.
Love you, blogosphere. G'day.
Out of the blue, without being entirely aware of it, I actually wrote this down on my page today: "Deal with fear about sending scripts to companies that have invited me to."
In July, I sent a query to the Wilma Theater in Philadelphia. I got a message back from the guy that deals with that sort of thing (not sure if he's the literary manager or associate producer . . . his name's Will and he seems very nice) wanting to see the full script, so I sent it. That's easy. He asked, I submitted. Now I go on with my life as usual until he gets back to me.
I've been in this position before with a few prominent theatre companies. I would give my eyeteeth to be produced at these places. They asked for a script, I sent it and then they wrote back to say that though that particular script isn't right for them, they really like my work and would I send them something else? At which I get a warm feeling inside and then go on with my day as though it didn't happen.
Ummm . . . what?
I have other plays. Most need rewrites. I've avoided getting to them. Here's the thing: What if I send something and they don't like it? And then they decide that they were wrong about me and write me off? The fear of that scenario is nothing short of arresting. At least this way, I'm sustaining mystery. Who doesn't love a little mystery?
I know. Hence the list item.
I have had some experiences in this past year which have been completely life-changing. I will tell you about them in detail some time. The bottom line is that fear has to go. I don't know how, but it's on my list. Please understand that this is a big deal. Remember the mouse thing way back? Along those lines.
Love you, blogosphere. G'day.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Walking Out
I walked out of a play last night. That brings my count to a total of three (plays that I've walked out of in my life).
The first play I walked out of was 4 Rooms (an adaptation of the movie of the same name) at the Stage Door in Cranbrook. A former student directed it, so we went to support him and the theatre community in general. It was awful. The storyline didn't go anywhere, the characters were completely unlikable (and un-rootforable - and uninteresting - the biggest crime ever), besides which the production was just sloppy. My husband and I didn't even make it through to intermission. Luckily we were sitting at the back and I think we slipped out unnoticed.
The second play I walked out of was Hurlyburly. I think it was at the Carousel Theatre on Granville Island some 12 years ago or so. I'm not sure what company put it on, but I think it was one of those groups of actors (who never really stay together very long) who think they're going to rock everyone's world by getting together and mounting something "edgy." I went with my brother and prior to the show starting (out in the foyer), one of the company members (could have been the director) assured us that the show was going to be great and punctuated the fact that it would be "full on" with such force that it left me unclear as to whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. It sucked - for many of the same reasons 4 Rooms did. At intermission I looked over at my brother (apologetically) and asked him how he was doing. His answer resembled something like, "In my worst dreams, where I question whether I would really rather live or die and decide that dying would be better, I look around and I'm sitting through this play." I felt the same way, so we left.
Which brings me to last night. Where I live, the theatre community is pretty tight and supportive. As in, no one goes super public when a production sucks balls. Which is good in many ways. I know how hard it is to put up a show, and depending on who you've got in your cast and to support you with lights, costumes and sets at the local level, results are always variable. I've directed good stuff and not so good stuff, so I am thankful that the blows are soft when something doesn't land quite the way I hoped. So, even though my sentiments about this topic are strong, I feel a little guilty about coming clean.
The birthplace of this most recent disappointment is the Wildhorse Theatre at Ft. Steele. Years ago, Ft.Steele had some caché as a professional summer theatre gig for young emerging artists. Some seriously good people (with hefty training and chops) came out and spent their summers there, giving solid crowd-pleasing work. Though the "Fort Steele Follies" as they were called weren't my favourite style of theatre, I was always pleasantly entertained and appreciated the level of execution and I was always impressed. For details on the kinds of theatre offerings currently available at Ft. Steele, check it out here.
I went to the evening play last night, along with 9 other folks (no, that was not the number of people in my party, that was the sum total of the audience), one of whom is my good friend, Eve. I'll let you read about the play (title, synopsis, etc.) yourself, but the first half can be summed up thus: Talk. Talk. Talk. Irrelevant backstories galore. Two characters play a multitude of caricatures (oops, I meant characters) placed in a fictitious historical situation I could not care less about. One of the actors (that's 50% of the cast!) stifled a yawn on two occasions. Right up there in front of everyone. One of them was right before he told the audience (there was a lot of "telling the audience" in this play) how much he adored the girl he was sitting in the boat with. Oy.
After the polite but scattered applause at intermission, I looked over at Eve. She confessed that she was falling asleep and was bored as fuck (okay, she didn't quite say that, but that was her sentiment). Since we were two of ten people in the audience, and since I was pretty sure I was spotted by one of the actors (whom I know - he is a former student - God, I am such a bitch), I was reluctant to leave (but I wanted to leave). We knew a couple of the other audience members - a mother and daughter combo - and we went to the foyer to suss out whether they were going to deke so Eve could catch a ride back to Cranbrook with them. They looked like they were staying put, so I acted on my "I'm leaving and they can just suck it" impulse (a true rarity - I felt so rebellious!). Eve and I bolted. Before we got to the car, we joked, "Will the two leads (whose names escaped us because the plot was so confusing) succeed in convincing the town that there really should be a radio station where young girls can sing mildly jazzy songs?" Who the fuck cares? Not us.
You see, babies are being born. Wombs are closing. The earth is turning on its axis. So many things are happening in this world that if we want people to go to the theatre, we have to give them a reason. The play's the thing. It really, really is. The best acting, the flashiest lighting design and the most fly set in the world cannot cover over the multitude of sins inherent in a bad script. Much of the faults of last night's travesty were due to the horrible, horrible script. It is my prayer that Ft. Steele (and the local theatre community in general) can raise their game at choosing scripts. Aristotle provides a means of determining what's important in that endeavour.
Let me close with this. I, as an audience member do not owe any given production company (should I choose to attend one of their shows) anything more than my money and polite attention. It is I who am owed. I am owed a reason for being there and I am owed engagement. I hereby declare a moratorium on sitting through execrable plays from beginning to end in the interest of being seen supportive. No one needs to be rude, but neither does anyone need to miss out on the glories of laughing and joking with friends or enjoying a night summer breeze (or having pubic hair pulled out one by one, for that matter) because they felt obligated to stay in a dark room with a handful of other people suffering through a terrible theatre production.
Step it up, Ft. Steele. You can do it.
The first play I walked out of was 4 Rooms (an adaptation of the movie of the same name) at the Stage Door in Cranbrook. A former student directed it, so we went to support him and the theatre community in general. It was awful. The storyline didn't go anywhere, the characters were completely unlikable (and un-rootforable - and uninteresting - the biggest crime ever), besides which the production was just sloppy. My husband and I didn't even make it through to intermission. Luckily we were sitting at the back and I think we slipped out unnoticed.
The second play I walked out of was Hurlyburly. I think it was at the Carousel Theatre on Granville Island some 12 years ago or so. I'm not sure what company put it on, but I think it was one of those groups of actors (who never really stay together very long) who think they're going to rock everyone's world by getting together and mounting something "edgy." I went with my brother and prior to the show starting (out in the foyer), one of the company members (could have been the director) assured us that the show was going to be great and punctuated the fact that it would be "full on" with such force that it left me unclear as to whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing. It sucked - for many of the same reasons 4 Rooms did. At intermission I looked over at my brother (apologetically) and asked him how he was doing. His answer resembled something like, "In my worst dreams, where I question whether I would really rather live or die and decide that dying would be better, I look around and I'm sitting through this play." I felt the same way, so we left.
Which brings me to last night. Where I live, the theatre community is pretty tight and supportive. As in, no one goes super public when a production sucks balls. Which is good in many ways. I know how hard it is to put up a show, and depending on who you've got in your cast and to support you with lights, costumes and sets at the local level, results are always variable. I've directed good stuff and not so good stuff, so I am thankful that the blows are soft when something doesn't land quite the way I hoped. So, even though my sentiments about this topic are strong, I feel a little guilty about coming clean.
The birthplace of this most recent disappointment is the Wildhorse Theatre at Ft. Steele. Years ago, Ft.Steele had some caché as a professional summer theatre gig for young emerging artists. Some seriously good people (with hefty training and chops) came out and spent their summers there, giving solid crowd-pleasing work. Though the "Fort Steele Follies" as they were called weren't my favourite style of theatre, I was always pleasantly entertained and appreciated the level of execution and I was always impressed. For details on the kinds of theatre offerings currently available at Ft. Steele, check it out here.
I went to the evening play last night, along with 9 other folks (no, that was not the number of people in my party, that was the sum total of the audience), one of whom is my good friend, Eve. I'll let you read about the play (title, synopsis, etc.) yourself, but the first half can be summed up thus: Talk. Talk. Talk. Irrelevant backstories galore. Two characters play a multitude of caricatures (oops, I meant characters) placed in a fictitious historical situation I could not care less about. One of the actors (that's 50% of the cast!) stifled a yawn on two occasions. Right up there in front of everyone. One of them was right before he told the audience (there was a lot of "telling the audience" in this play) how much he adored the girl he was sitting in the boat with. Oy.
After the polite but scattered applause at intermission, I looked over at Eve. She confessed that she was falling asleep and was bored as fuck (okay, she didn't quite say that, but that was her sentiment). Since we were two of ten people in the audience, and since I was pretty sure I was spotted by one of the actors (whom I know - he is a former student - God, I am such a bitch), I was reluctant to leave (but I wanted to leave). We knew a couple of the other audience members - a mother and daughter combo - and we went to the foyer to suss out whether they were going to deke so Eve could catch a ride back to Cranbrook with them. They looked like they were staying put, so I acted on my "I'm leaving and they can just suck it" impulse (a true rarity - I felt so rebellious!). Eve and I bolted. Before we got to the car, we joked, "Will the two leads (whose names escaped us because the plot was so confusing) succeed in convincing the town that there really should be a radio station where young girls can sing mildly jazzy songs?" Who the fuck cares? Not us.
You see, babies are being born. Wombs are closing. The earth is turning on its axis. So many things are happening in this world that if we want people to go to the theatre, we have to give them a reason. The play's the thing. It really, really is. The best acting, the flashiest lighting design and the most fly set in the world cannot cover over the multitude of sins inherent in a bad script. Much of the faults of last night's travesty were due to the horrible, horrible script. It is my prayer that Ft. Steele (and the local theatre community in general) can raise their game at choosing scripts. Aristotle provides a means of determining what's important in that endeavour.
Let me close with this. I, as an audience member do not owe any given production company (should I choose to attend one of their shows) anything more than my money and polite attention. It is I who am owed. I am owed a reason for being there and I am owed engagement. I hereby declare a moratorium on sitting through execrable plays from beginning to end in the interest of being seen supportive. No one needs to be rude, but neither does anyone need to miss out on the glories of laughing and joking with friends or enjoying a night summer breeze (or having pubic hair pulled out one by one, for that matter) because they felt obligated to stay in a dark room with a handful of other people suffering through a terrible theatre production.
Step it up, Ft. Steele. You can do it.
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