We are sick of Hallmark trumping Valentine's Day, so this February 14th, come join us for an inexpensive celebration of love!
What to Bring: A tale of love, true or not, in any form.
We'll be sitting around in the morning, enjoying some form of a warm beverage, and sharing these tales with one another.
We will be disclosing the location privately, so if you want to join, make sure to contact us via email!
Monday, January 19, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Kaitlyn Recommends a Book
Two years ago, I read A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah. It’s an autobiographical account of a boy who spent his childhood fleeing from the atrocities of the civil war in Sierra Leone. Eventually, he was recruited into the army to fight on the front lines. It doesn’t take much for me to shed a tear when I read, but this remains the only book I’d ever had to put down for sobbing breaks.
This Christmas, I picked up a copy of it for my friend Mack. I thought he’d like it because he’s always reflecting that "This is real life,” at appropriate moments, like when he helped Collin and I move in together or when we met our godchild for the first time. I also thought that he’d be interested in Beah’s childhood affinity for Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, as he’s cast in an adaptation of the piece to be performed in May. I wanted to reread it before I gave it to him, but I was busy making sure that Haruki Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes wasn’t too sexy to give to my grandmother for her Christmas present.
I inhaled some more fiction before I finally pulled A Long Way Gone off of the shelf this week. It hit me just as hard this time around. I mention it here because I’ve noticed in this business there is often a healthy and perpetual emotional kindling. We like to feel things, both negative and positive. We embrace a good tug on our heartstrings now and then. We’re not afraid to cry, because we believe in some abstract, halfway-defined concept called catharsis. If you’re up for reading this real account, brace yourself for what it may awaken inside of you. The truth, inspiration, and hope it will return makes it worthwhile.
Here's the unusually quiet Daily Show clip that made me run out and buy the book almost two years ago:
This Christmas, I picked up a copy of it for my friend Mack. I thought he’d like it because he’s always reflecting that "This is real life,” at appropriate moments, like when he helped Collin and I move in together or when we met our godchild for the first time. I also thought that he’d be interested in Beah’s childhood affinity for Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, as he’s cast in an adaptation of the piece to be performed in May. I wanted to reread it before I gave it to him, but I was busy making sure that Haruki Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes wasn’t too sexy to give to my grandmother for her Christmas present.
I inhaled some more fiction before I finally pulled A Long Way Gone off of the shelf this week. It hit me just as hard this time around. I mention it here because I’ve noticed in this business there is often a healthy and perpetual emotional kindling. We like to feel things, both negative and positive. We embrace a good tug on our heartstrings now and then. We’re not afraid to cry, because we believe in some abstract, halfway-defined concept called catharsis. If you’re up for reading this real account, brace yourself for what it may awaken inside of you. The truth, inspiration, and hope it will return makes it worthwhile.
Here's the unusually quiet Daily Show clip that made me run out and buy the book almost two years ago:
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Two outta Three Ain't Bad
Because of our conflicting work schedules and insufficient funds, we don't get to go out and see plays as much as we'd like to. This past week, however, we had a couple of evenings off, and we took full advantage of them. We broke our rut of catching bad shows recently by hitting the mark with two out of the three.
EQUUS
“A wizard and a muggle in the parallel universe of Harry Potter, Daniel Radcliffe and Richard Griffiths reunite in Peter Shaffer's classic play about the effort to heal a troubled young man” was the first thing I read on playbill.com in discovery that there would be a revival of Equus on Broadway. I am quite a big fan of both Equus and Harry Potter, but being also a fan of artistic morality, I was very concerned.
Then I started seeing an irritated Peter Shaffer being quoted all over the Internet: “I was irritated that people talked on and on about it. It was so infantile. In the papers, I was always reading about how Harry Potter is 'waving his other wand,” “There is a great deal more going on in the play, you know. I'm not writing porn, for God's sake!”
But then, and quite to my surprise, I must admit, I started seeing Daniel Radcliffe all over the Internet – defending himself and the play in a rather articulate manner: “Offended mothers were calling up and saying I shouldn't be doing this, that they weren't going to go see it. OK, don't see it,” “They're treating it like it's pornography and it's not. It's only seven minutes at the end of the play when I'm naked, and I'm 19 now.”
I was impressed, and started searching out more interviews with Mr. Radcliffe, hoping for more insight on submerging himself into both the play and Broadway. And I was pleasantly surprised at what I found (which mostly has, strangely and sadly enough, disappeared from the internet – oh what a fickle little thing it is!). Daniel was excited about the play, and the theater, and so took to practicing the Alexander Technique, working on his voice, doing scene study…
Obviously, by this point, I had to see it.
His hard work and dedication to the craft certainly showed. This was no Harry Potter. This was no British teenage millionaire. This was a working actor. This was Alan Strang, the boy who I believed blinded six horses out of a lustful fear.
Perhaps the best part for me was watching when Dan would catch himself in a bad habit, take a moment, breathe, and drop right back in to keep churning through the mental labyrinth that is Alan Strang. I was proud of him – proud to be watching another actor taking his work so seriously and loving every minute of it. And he has yet to miss a performance.
This is a production, and more importantly a performance, no one else should miss, either.
Congratulations, Daniel Radcliffe.
- Collin
WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN
If there was one play I definitely wanted to catch this month, it was Women Beware Women. Even though the only Red Bull project I have seen was a dynamic reading of The Cenci, I've always been attracted to their ambitious mission statement and I adore the charming space they occupy at St. Clements. I could go on indefinitely about the successes of this production: the song and dance spectacles, the colorful characters, the sexy classic-contemporary combinations...but that's what the reviews are for, and unfortunately, it closes on Friday anyway. Still, there's something else about this piece that I have my mind on, which is...
Thank you, Jesse Berger, for including an intimate and informative director's note in the program. One that took care not to reveal plot points, but to give just enough information about the characters that the reader was drooling with anticipation. I mention this with such excitement because it is so often that I leave a play highly satisfied, but lacking any knowledge of why that play was chosen to be produced. Of course, the derived meaning or relevance of a play is often subjective, but it's nice to be able to use the director's thoughts to compare with, elaborate on, and enhance my own reactions.
Berger's note was a welcomed introduction into a world that the profound but empty scenery was beckoning me towards. In reading the note before the show began, I was able to see very clearly that Berger had a great understanding of the piece and made very specific and conscious decisions with his production. He celebrates the idiosyncrasies of the play, but presents an extremely cohesive piece. Also, it was refreshing to find the excitement and pride between the lines of his note. Berger truly loves each and every character in Women and it is evident that he had the time of his life adapting and directing it. Finally, he reminded us to be aware of the human qualities of the characters, no matter how theatrical the performance got, and regard the staged society in the light of our own. Here's to directors who know what they want, why they want it, and tell us about it.
- Kaitlyn
EQUUS
“A wizard and a muggle in the parallel universe of Harry Potter, Daniel Radcliffe and Richard Griffiths reunite in Peter Shaffer's classic play about the effort to heal a troubled young man” was the first thing I read on playbill.com in discovery that there would be a revival of Equus on Broadway. I am quite a big fan of both Equus and Harry Potter, but being also a fan of artistic morality, I was very concerned.
Then I started seeing an irritated Peter Shaffer being quoted all over the Internet: “I was irritated that people talked on and on about it. It was so infantile. In the papers, I was always reading about how Harry Potter is 'waving his other wand,” “There is a great deal more going on in the play, you know. I'm not writing porn, for God's sake!”
But then, and quite to my surprise, I must admit, I started seeing Daniel Radcliffe all over the Internet – defending himself and the play in a rather articulate manner: “Offended mothers were calling up and saying I shouldn't be doing this, that they weren't going to go see it. OK, don't see it,” “They're treating it like it's pornography and it's not. It's only seven minutes at the end of the play when I'm naked, and I'm 19 now.”
I was impressed, and started searching out more interviews with Mr. Radcliffe, hoping for more insight on submerging himself into both the play and Broadway. And I was pleasantly surprised at what I found (which mostly has, strangely and sadly enough, disappeared from the internet – oh what a fickle little thing it is!). Daniel was excited about the play, and the theater, and so took to practicing the Alexander Technique, working on his voice, doing scene study…
Obviously, by this point, I had to see it.
His hard work and dedication to the craft certainly showed. This was no Harry Potter. This was no British teenage millionaire. This was a working actor. This was Alan Strang, the boy who I believed blinded six horses out of a lustful fear.
Perhaps the best part for me was watching when Dan would catch himself in a bad habit, take a moment, breathe, and drop right back in to keep churning through the mental labyrinth that is Alan Strang. I was proud of him – proud to be watching another actor taking his work so seriously and loving every minute of it. And he has yet to miss a performance.
This is a production, and more importantly a performance, no one else should miss, either.
Congratulations, Daniel Radcliffe.
- Collin
WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN
If there was one play I definitely wanted to catch this month, it was Women Beware Women. Even though the only Red Bull project I have seen was a dynamic reading of The Cenci, I've always been attracted to their ambitious mission statement and I adore the charming space they occupy at St. Clements. I could go on indefinitely about the successes of this production: the song and dance spectacles, the colorful characters, the sexy classic-contemporary combinations...but that's what the reviews are for, and unfortunately, it closes on Friday anyway. Still, there's something else about this piece that I have my mind on, which is...
Thank you, Jesse Berger, for including an intimate and informative director's note in the program. One that took care not to reveal plot points, but to give just enough information about the characters that the reader was drooling with anticipation. I mention this with such excitement because it is so often that I leave a play highly satisfied, but lacking any knowledge of why that play was chosen to be produced. Of course, the derived meaning or relevance of a play is often subjective, but it's nice to be able to use the director's thoughts to compare with, elaborate on, and enhance my own reactions.
Berger's note was a welcomed introduction into a world that the profound but empty scenery was beckoning me towards. In reading the note before the show began, I was able to see very clearly that Berger had a great understanding of the piece and made very specific and conscious decisions with his production. He celebrates the idiosyncrasies of the play, but presents an extremely cohesive piece. Also, it was refreshing to find the excitement and pride between the lines of his note. Berger truly loves each and every character in Women and it is evident that he had the time of his life adapting and directing it. Finally, he reminded us to be aware of the human qualities of the characters, no matter how theatrical the performance got, and regard the staged society in the light of our own. Here's to directors who know what they want, why they want it, and tell us about it.
- Kaitlyn
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Word From Captain Kirk; or What You Will
Good evening ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. My name is Kirk. I was previousomely the captain of an intergalactic, time traveling pirate ship, when, foolishly, I crossed the NeoClassical Kingsmen. An epic battle ensued, and on the climactic twelfth night (in the midst of a torrential storm of space debris) I was overtaken and punishéd via transformation from the unsung predecessor of the now infamous Oscar into a New York City Theatre. I fulfill my indefinite chastisement on 410 West 42nd Street. I now break my some-odd forty earth-years of silencement, with illimitable gratitude to the Monthly Manifesto, to transport news of a recent unsettlement within the confines of my bowels, brought on undoubtedly by the spirit that first captured me.
It all began as my entrails bubbled with the noisome feeling that I could only imagine were the earthly equivalent to the Galactically (and tragically) Renowned Nebulousossitisissus Yuppyoureverence Ubuntus (which, due to the extensive appellation and incredulous omnipresents, I shall thusforwardly refer to them as N.Y.U.’s): a cast of characters, an emetic PostClassical group of awkwardly immobile Minstrels, and the handy-work of a pre-non-post-structuralist that I first thought (and somewhat still think) was somesorta neonically-glowing parasite, eating away at the Artistry that beist myself (trapped, again, in Midtown Manhattan) and excreting chalk-lines, paint-tape, and frilly-laced PVC pipe. To my consternation, my seats slowly swelled with other, non-theatrically committed N.Y.U.’s. O, the Horror!
Inevitably, there be instances that I must now account to you posthaste. As the poor usher maladroitly held back the portal gates to my cavern reserved (once respectably) for performative acts, the tumoric audience proliferated prolifically. So much, as my luck would have it, that the eldliest of them all (surely once a part of, and now supporting and perpetuating the N.Y.U.’s) found there way to the front of the cluster, claustrophobing both themselves and my smallest of arteries - only to then fall fast asleep as soon as they plodded and deposited their bodies upon the seatation devices. Those who remained conscious (the younger, surlier folk that were in their ripest age to be members of that gang) showed their respect for the players in a most startling manner: heaping personal belongings, including appendages, atop my apron, committing overzealous salutations, and allotting intergalactic communication devices to remain on, and sing, during performance. In the front row, no less. Which then brings me to the palavormance.
The performing N.Y.U.’s (who were ironically costumed to look like N.Y.U.’s) cosmetically used the basest of physical gestures to aid their peers in an understanding of Shakespeare’s blatant and abundant sexual references, opposed to aiming their mission towards greater (though certainly pre-Postmodern), intergalactic importance. And the few chanteys interrupting all the sex jokes sounded not unlike any popular tune one could find broadcasted on even iAmbicPods of the gigliest bites - the actors thrusted, and the audience throbbed.
The production was intergalactically worshipped, by audience and actor alike. And my regurgitation of them all could not have been more anticipated.
I choose to run the risk of furtherworse punishment through my breech of silence because I can take it no longer. “It” being this incessant self-indulgence that the N.Y.U.’s here in this production, deep in the recesses of my digestive tract, have used to conquer the indefensible value of that whicheth theater can create. Why let this go on? Why insist on perturbing us immortals?
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to consider yourselves, thou peers, and those unforeseen spectators (those non-participants of these gangly actions) next time thou mountest a production. And please, in such a symbiotic relationship, consider the health and well-beingness of your host performance space.
... The Monthly Manifesto would like to thank the genre of Satire for being so apposite to the playful fictionalization of a night out, as well as our reader's ability to recognize when we make a flagrant generalization for the purpose of both humor and (we hope) poignancy. We would also like to thank the production team and performers of Twelfth Night for an evening of entertainment - no matter the form we took it in. This is an exaggeration of behavior we have, with sincere sorrow and frustration, come to expect. Being witness to an evening such as this, we couldn’t resist making light of what is a very real concern to us. That being said, there were a handful of engaging, spectacular, and truthful moments in a whole which otherwise fell short of its ambitious possibilities.
It all began as my entrails bubbled with the noisome feeling that I could only imagine were the earthly equivalent to the Galactically (and tragically) Renowned Nebulousossitisissus Yuppyoureverence Ubuntus (which, due to the extensive appellation and incredulous omnipresents, I shall thusforwardly refer to them as N.Y.U.’s): a cast of characters, an emetic PostClassical group of awkwardly immobile Minstrels, and the handy-work of a pre-non-post-structuralist that I first thought (and somewhat still think) was somesorta neonically-glowing parasite, eating away at the Artistry that beist myself (trapped, again, in Midtown Manhattan) and excreting chalk-lines, paint-tape, and frilly-laced PVC pipe. To my consternation, my seats slowly swelled with other, non-theatrically committed N.Y.U.’s. O, the Horror!
Inevitably, there be instances that I must now account to you posthaste. As the poor usher maladroitly held back the portal gates to my cavern reserved (once respectably) for performative acts, the tumoric audience proliferated prolifically. So much, as my luck would have it, that the eldliest of them all (surely once a part of, and now supporting and perpetuating the N.Y.U.’s) found there way to the front of the cluster, claustrophobing both themselves and my smallest of arteries - only to then fall fast asleep as soon as they plodded and deposited their bodies upon the seatation devices. Those who remained conscious (the younger, surlier folk that were in their ripest age to be members of that gang) showed their respect for the players in a most startling manner: heaping personal belongings, including appendages, atop my apron, committing overzealous salutations, and allotting intergalactic communication devices to remain on, and sing, during performance. In the front row, no less. Which then brings me to the palavormance.
The performing N.Y.U.’s (who were ironically costumed to look like N.Y.U.’s) cosmetically used the basest of physical gestures to aid their peers in an understanding of Shakespeare’s blatant and abundant sexual references, opposed to aiming their mission towards greater (though certainly pre-Postmodern), intergalactic importance. And the few chanteys interrupting all the sex jokes sounded not unlike any popular tune one could find broadcasted on even iAmbicPods of the gigliest bites - the actors thrusted, and the audience throbbed.
The production was intergalactically worshipped, by audience and actor alike. And my regurgitation of them all could not have been more anticipated.
I choose to run the risk of furtherworse punishment through my breech of silence because I can take it no longer. “It” being this incessant self-indulgence that the N.Y.U.’s here in this production, deep in the recesses of my digestive tract, have used to conquer the indefensible value of that whicheth theater can create. Why let this go on? Why insist on perturbing us immortals?
Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to consider yourselves, thou peers, and those unforeseen spectators (those non-participants of these gangly actions) next time thou mountest a production. And please, in such a symbiotic relationship, consider the health and well-beingness of your host performance space.
... The Monthly Manifesto would like to thank the genre of Satire for being so apposite to the playful fictionalization of a night out, as well as our reader's ability to recognize when we make a flagrant generalization for the purpose of both humor and (we hope) poignancy. We would also like to thank the production team and performers of Twelfth Night for an evening of entertainment - no matter the form we took it in. This is an exaggeration of behavior we have, with sincere sorrow and frustration, come to expect. Being witness to an evening such as this, we couldn’t resist making light of what is a very real concern to us. That being said, there were a handful of engaging, spectacular, and truthful moments in a whole which otherwise fell short of its ambitious possibilities.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
What I think about at Jury Duty...
I had to postpone my initial summons to serve jury duty, as it fell on the single day I was given to paint the floor for my last show (coincidentally, it was a play about a man on trial for murder and a lawyer suborning perjury). I had rescheduled my civic duty for yesterday and was looking forward to taking complete advantage of my free time with Guare's House of Blue Leaves and a collection of Kafka's fiction that Collin bought for me.
The morning began with a 20 minute orientation video on the process a juror undergoes. It opened with a hilariously low-budget historical reenactment of the medieval concept trial by ordeal, where an accused man was bound and thrown into a river. I actually giggled audibly when the film over-dramatically quoted Aristotle as the man was pulled from the water and declared innocent. Next came a brief history of judicial systems and the establishment of the jury, some clips from Perry Mason (no joke) and then an explanation of how our present day court system works. At first, I was proud when the concept of a trial was likened to a piece of "dramatic theatre," due to the high level of conflict between two parties and a final resolution. Yet as the metaphor was extended to describe the people of the court as a "cast of characters," I began to feel a little uneasy. After all, a trial is serious business. Its purpose is to decide if a person is innocent or guilty, not to entertain and enlighten the spectators. Should a civil event of this magnitude be so lightly compared to theatre?
But informative-film-narrator-extraordinaire Diane Sawyer is right. A trial is theatrical. It revolves around the conflict of two opposing parties. Lawyers are playing characters because often times they don't personally believe in who or what they are defending. Their tactics are highly skilled speech and manipulation of emotion. Those on trial may be acting too, trying to portray a specific character that the jury will sympathize with. They even rehearse. The action is live and immediate, and those present are being asked to pass judgment on the characters. A good play will ask that you involve yourself as well as the elements of the play in this final judgment. But in a courtroom, the theatricality comes from trying to keep our true selves out. The accused should be judged solely on the evidence and on the interpretation of the law. Personal beliefs are not to be imposed on the situation. Therefore, a trial is one step removed from reality, perilously balancing between theatre and life. Passion and emotion are stripped from the courtroom in the attempt to collect a perfectly impartial group of people, which logistically produces a fairer trial, rendering the theatricality absolutely necessary.
Is this resemblance to be celebrated or feared? Should it make us proud or uneasy? I can’t help thinking maybe it should be a little bit of both. What do you guys think?
Still, it’s something interesting to mull over when I go see Equus tonight, a play that questions whether or not we have the right to judge another human being, and what the consequences of those judgments are.
The morning began with a 20 minute orientation video on the process a juror undergoes. It opened with a hilariously low-budget historical reenactment of the medieval concept trial by ordeal, where an accused man was bound and thrown into a river. I actually giggled audibly when the film over-dramatically quoted Aristotle as the man was pulled from the water and declared innocent. Next came a brief history of judicial systems and the establishment of the jury, some clips from Perry Mason (no joke) and then an explanation of how our present day court system works. At first, I was proud when the concept of a trial was likened to a piece of "dramatic theatre," due to the high level of conflict between two parties and a final resolution. Yet as the metaphor was extended to describe the people of the court as a "cast of characters," I began to feel a little uneasy. After all, a trial is serious business. Its purpose is to decide if a person is innocent or guilty, not to entertain and enlighten the spectators. Should a civil event of this magnitude be so lightly compared to theatre?
But informative-film-narrator-extraordinaire Diane Sawyer is right. A trial is theatrical. It revolves around the conflict of two opposing parties. Lawyers are playing characters because often times they don't personally believe in who or what they are defending. Their tactics are highly skilled speech and manipulation of emotion. Those on trial may be acting too, trying to portray a specific character that the jury will sympathize with. They even rehearse. The action is live and immediate, and those present are being asked to pass judgment on the characters. A good play will ask that you involve yourself as well as the elements of the play in this final judgment. But in a courtroom, the theatricality comes from trying to keep our true selves out. The accused should be judged solely on the evidence and on the interpretation of the law. Personal beliefs are not to be imposed on the situation. Therefore, a trial is one step removed from reality, perilously balancing between theatre and life. Passion and emotion are stripped from the courtroom in the attempt to collect a perfectly impartial group of people, which logistically produces a fairer trial, rendering the theatricality absolutely necessary.
Is this resemblance to be celebrated or feared? Should it make us proud or uneasy? I can’t help thinking maybe it should be a little bit of both. What do you guys think?
Still, it’s something interesting to mull over when I go see Equus tonight, a play that questions whether or not we have the right to judge another human being, and what the consequences of those judgments are.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Collaborative Theater - PART ONE: The Battlefield
It is a muddy field we battle in. The rain falls hard and fast, the soil unearths and unsteadies itself, and the slop of the field mars our true colors. So much so, in fact, that we may easily sometimes find ourselves facing off with another whom we are unsure of what side they fall on. Are they Red? Blue? Yellow? Green?
Or rather, are they an Artist? Or an Indolent Imposture with lack of knowledge and ideas claiming to be just about anything?
The trouble with art is that anyone can call themselves an Artist, unlike how, for example, not just anyone can call themselves a Doctor. To be a Doctor, you must have studied certain medicines, received certain degrees and credentials. To be an Artist, one only needs to claim to have ideas. But Artistic Merit is garnered by the reaction of peers and audience. Anyone can say they are an Actor, but it is those watching who will ultimately decide, if only for themselves.
Some say this is very bad, and that the artistry of the Theater, the noble profession of Acting, is being degraded by all of those that think they can jump right on in. I, however, think this a cause for celebration. Actors, myself included, should revel in this destruction of (oh god, dare I say it?) a Master Narrative. Those that are clouding our field of work only force those among us with true artistry to reevaluate ourselves and forge ahead with vigilant specificity – a specificity that slowly slunk away as Postmodernism slammed its way on in (which is all a part of the living nature of the theater; when it trudged its alien self upon our banks, the water fogged strange and new shades of grey. But having now settled, it is easy to think critically and objectively of what is superciliously splayed for consumption, and the time has come to embrace the challenges it has brought, finding the glory of what our overcoming of this obstacle can bring). And this is not a specificity waiting to be bought and consumed. This specificity comes from deep inside each unique individual that allows one’s true self to be present when working (auditioning, rehearsing, or performing). And the battle to move forward – the filling of that vacuity brought on by the Postmodern anomaly – happens when an actor refuses to give up this unique self for some façad that the vagueness surrounding them encourages one to think might be better than who they truly are.
Great thing about that Battlefield, those attempting to be something they’re not are easily spotted and will not last long (though occasionally convincing enough in an audition to get themselves into a show. That, and there are of course corporations perpetuating personality types that defy the true complexity of the human psyche, such as MTV). The hope then is that these individuals will come to love the Art: rather than wipe mud on their faces in the hope their idling is perceived as work, they will crave the battle, diving head-first into the tussle, unaware of the grim in their hair, the raw earth marring their once silky, teenage idol skin – they will discover the immense depth they hold within themselves, and take joy in the vulnerable demands of the field, thus transforming from Imposture to Artist. (An excellent example would be Mr. Daniel Radcliffe; lacking knowledge of the Art as he embarked on Harry Potter, the love of the Art persevered and inspired a maturity, as he has now challenged himself with the study and practice of the craft in Equus).
And all should be welcome to the Arts. Maybe I’m an Idealist, but I believe it a place meant to be devoid of Elitism.
Or rather, are they an Artist? Or an Indolent Imposture with lack of knowledge and ideas claiming to be just about anything?
The trouble with art is that anyone can call themselves an Artist, unlike how, for example, not just anyone can call themselves a Doctor. To be a Doctor, you must have studied certain medicines, received certain degrees and credentials. To be an Artist, one only needs to claim to have ideas. But Artistic Merit is garnered by the reaction of peers and audience. Anyone can say they are an Actor, but it is those watching who will ultimately decide, if only for themselves.
Some say this is very bad, and that the artistry of the Theater, the noble profession of Acting, is being degraded by all of those that think they can jump right on in. I, however, think this a cause for celebration. Actors, myself included, should revel in this destruction of (oh god, dare I say it?) a Master Narrative. Those that are clouding our field of work only force those among us with true artistry to reevaluate ourselves and forge ahead with vigilant specificity – a specificity that slowly slunk away as Postmodernism slammed its way on in (which is all a part of the living nature of the theater; when it trudged its alien self upon our banks, the water fogged strange and new shades of grey. But having now settled, it is easy to think critically and objectively of what is superciliously splayed for consumption, and the time has come to embrace the challenges it has brought, finding the glory of what our overcoming of this obstacle can bring). And this is not a specificity waiting to be bought and consumed. This specificity comes from deep inside each unique individual that allows one’s true self to be present when working (auditioning, rehearsing, or performing). And the battle to move forward – the filling of that vacuity brought on by the Postmodern anomaly – happens when an actor refuses to give up this unique self for some façad that the vagueness surrounding them encourages one to think might be better than who they truly are.
Great thing about that Battlefield, those attempting to be something they’re not are easily spotted and will not last long (though occasionally convincing enough in an audition to get themselves into a show. That, and there are of course corporations perpetuating personality types that defy the true complexity of the human psyche, such as MTV). The hope then is that these individuals will come to love the Art: rather than wipe mud on their faces in the hope their idling is perceived as work, they will crave the battle, diving head-first into the tussle, unaware of the grim in their hair, the raw earth marring their once silky, teenage idol skin – they will discover the immense depth they hold within themselves, and take joy in the vulnerable demands of the field, thus transforming from Imposture to Artist. (An excellent example would be Mr. Daniel Radcliffe; lacking knowledge of the Art as he embarked on Harry Potter, the love of the Art persevered and inspired a maturity, as he has now challenged himself with the study and practice of the craft in Equus).
And all should be welcome to the Arts. Maybe I’m an Idealist, but I believe it a place meant to be devoid of Elitism.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
To make the New Year a little happier...
I probably don’t enjoy this time of the year as much as I should. For me, the holidays are more stressful than happy, and I end up with just enough time off of work and school to evaluate the past year while I clean my house and brace myself for the next one. I was in some desperate need of cheering up this evening, and it came in the surprising form of a Facebook invitation. It was politely asking me to attend No Pants 2k9, an event planned by Improv Everywhere, a NYC based group that has been organizing and performing guerilla theatre since 2001.
Contemporary improvisational comedy is a type of performance that is drastically different than the theatre I am interested in pursuing, but I’ve had a soft spot for the art form ever since I ran tech for an improv troupe during my first couple years of college. But this isn’t your average improv routine that eventually deteriorates to sex jokes. Instead, Improv Everywhere pre-determines and plans a situation they would like to act out in public. The Improv Everywhere website catalogs video footage of each performance or “mission” they embark on. Tonight I watched every single one, and between my laughs, I couldn’t help thinking that the performances embody some of the qualities I value very much in theatre. For starters:
1. They are not elitist. In fact, they don’t even play to theatre-goers, but rather tourists, shoppers, dog walkers, joggers, students, or anyone else who was lucky enough to be hanging around the performance site. The most intimate mission was a romantic comedy-esque coincidence staged for a single cab driver, who was able to play the hero by uniting two of his passengers after realizing they were trying to find each other.
2. They use their resources wisely. Thousands of people come to New York City to pursue theatre and performance because of the obvious hub of spaces, theatre companies, training facilities and networking capabilities. The people behind Improv Everywhere, however, use the city itself as their playing space. Everything from the Washington Square Park fountain to the 6 train becomes their stage. The most brilliant space they utilized was the six-story open storefront window in Union Square, where they positioned one person per slot, each enacting a routine for the people below.
3. There is a high level of energy for all involved. The performers are all psyched to be involved, even if their only job is to dial a cell phone number at a specific time a block away from the event. Although some of the missions lean more towards performance art than drama, they usually draw a huge crowd that screams, claps, and cheers. One of the most sentimental missions was to research a little-known band playing in a crappy venue and show up as die hard fans. They brought over thirty audience members to an otherwise three person house. They had memorized the songs, made t-shirts, and even sported fake tattoos of the band. In response, the band pumped up their energy and took on the part of real rock stars, including rushing back to the stage after their set to play the encore that was being demanded by the crowd.
If you have a little bit of free time now that the holidays are over, watch a video or two. They’re hilarious, and many of them are heart-warming. More importantly, they’re an inspiring reminder of the capability of our creativity and the value of theatre: A celebration of action, reaction and interaction.
Contemporary improvisational comedy is a type of performance that is drastically different than the theatre I am interested in pursuing, but I’ve had a soft spot for the art form ever since I ran tech for an improv troupe during my first couple years of college. But this isn’t your average improv routine that eventually deteriorates to sex jokes. Instead, Improv Everywhere pre-determines and plans a situation they would like to act out in public. The Improv Everywhere website catalogs video footage of each performance or “mission” they embark on. Tonight I watched every single one, and between my laughs, I couldn’t help thinking that the performances embody some of the qualities I value very much in theatre. For starters:
1. They are not elitist. In fact, they don’t even play to theatre-goers, but rather tourists, shoppers, dog walkers, joggers, students, or anyone else who was lucky enough to be hanging around the performance site. The most intimate mission was a romantic comedy-esque coincidence staged for a single cab driver, who was able to play the hero by uniting two of his passengers after realizing they were trying to find each other.
2. They use their resources wisely. Thousands of people come to New York City to pursue theatre and performance because of the obvious hub of spaces, theatre companies, training facilities and networking capabilities. The people behind Improv Everywhere, however, use the city itself as their playing space. Everything from the Washington Square Park fountain to the 6 train becomes their stage. The most brilliant space they utilized was the six-story open storefront window in Union Square, where they positioned one person per slot, each enacting a routine for the people below.
3. There is a high level of energy for all involved. The performers are all psyched to be involved, even if their only job is to dial a cell phone number at a specific time a block away from the event. Although some of the missions lean more towards performance art than drama, they usually draw a huge crowd that screams, claps, and cheers. One of the most sentimental missions was to research a little-known band playing in a crappy venue and show up as die hard fans. They brought over thirty audience members to an otherwise three person house. They had memorized the songs, made t-shirts, and even sported fake tattoos of the band. In response, the band pumped up their energy and took on the part of real rock stars, including rushing back to the stage after their set to play the encore that was being demanded by the crowd.
If you have a little bit of free time now that the holidays are over, watch a video or two. They’re hilarious, and many of them are heart-warming. More importantly, they’re an inspiring reminder of the capability of our creativity and the value of theatre: A celebration of action, reaction and interaction.
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