Many years ago I had an argument about Norman Mailer at a party. I was pro, the long-forgotten partygoer was con. She let rip a long litany of the stupid, vainglorious things Mailer had done (they are legion). When she rested her case, she was smug, satisfied that she had won the argument.
My philosophy professor once told me about an essay he had
to write in grad school. He was asked to ponder the question, “If you are
continually darning a sock, at what point does it become a new sock?”
The question is about essence. What makes each individual thing unique? Is the sock new after a single patch? After 51% of it is patched? Or is it still the same sock as long as a single thread remains from the original?
The same question can be asked of people. What gives each person their own identity? Is it their body? Their memories? If a person has their memory wiped clean, as happens more and more now as we live longer, are they still the same person?
Put another way, what constitutes a human soul?
So when I usually post these things, I write them out and edit them first. I've never really gotten into the whole blogging thing of just pouring it out and letting the chips fall where they may. Without editing (getting it how you want it before anyone sees it), what's the point of even writing?
Now that I've written that, I will contradict myself by pouring this thought out and sending it on basically unedited. What can I say? A riddle wrapped in an enigma am I.
Last week I had a private first reading of my new play, Another Girl. It was wonderful, just talented friends and pizza and beer and a couple of invitees to keep us all honest. Again I was struck by something that continually strikes me in my chosen profession: actors are amazing creatures.
I've never been a big fan of hippies. Humorlessness is one of the unforgivable sins in my book, and most hippies I've known are drearily earnest. Put another way, if you honestly don't know why we can't all just get along and make love not war, you're probably not someone I want to spend a lot of time talking to.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for peace, love, and harmony. But I don't think sentimental ideas about human nature, aided by large quantities of drugs, are likely to help the cause.
My wife and I saw the Broadway revival of Hair last week. I took her for her birthday. My wife loves musicals the way few people love anything. At some point in virtually every musical, she weeps from an overload of joy. It is one of her loevliest characteristics.
ANYWAY...
When I watch Project Runway on demand, I have to click through this rather labyrinthine set of topics and subtopics until I come to a folder marked "Women."
(Thanks for that, Verizon Fios.) But it's all worth it.
I arrived in Brooklyn when I was 22. It was the presidency of George Bush the Elder (remember him?). I was as naïve and frightened as any boy who has spent his entire life in school would be.
For me, it all happened there. I became an actor. I unbecame an actor. I found my calling as a playwright. I married twice - once badly, once well. My son was born there. Hell, I was practically born there. And now I was leaving. For NEW JERSEY (Rolo, please add ominous organ sound).People with children often try to explain to people without them what parenting is like, but it’s basically impossible. It’s not that there’s any one thing about it that is inexplicable, but the enormity of the change is resistant to metaphor. You want to know what having kids is like? It’s like having kids.
There was a time, not too many years ago, when playwriting was the primary focus of my life. If I were to order and name my priorities, it would have looked something like this: 1) Playwright 2) Friend 3) Buddhist 4) Worker/Wage Earner. Now it would look something like this: 1) Father 2) Worker 3) Husband 4) Playwright. Friend and Buddhist are now somewhere back there, but I am usually too tired to get that far down the list.
Continue reading ""Bye!" - Some Thoughts on Parenting and Playwriting" »
My writing here at Extra Criticum has been almost exclusively about movies. This is because my little buddy Hank makes it very difficult to get to the theatre. In fact, until last week I had only seen one play in a year. It starred my wife (she was great).
Two weeks ago I saw Joe Turner’s Come and Gone. August Wilson is one of my favorite playwrights, so when a Tony-voting friend offered me a free ticket there was no way I was going to miss it. So I saw it. And while the production is not quite the wall-to-wall success it has been claimed to be (a few scenes were poorly directed, a couple performances were a little off), it’s pretty damn good.
And the play?
Continue reading "Unbearably Intimate: Some Thoughts on Joe Turner's Come and Gone" »
I’m sure when Rolando came up with the idea for Extra Criticum, he wasn’t doing it to bust open the world of children’s television. But he invited me to be a contributing writer, and unfortunately for him (and me!) most of what I watch is television aimed at very small children. So I’ve developed a few opinions on some stalwarts of kids tv, and here they are:
Continue reading "Children's TV - The Good, The Bad, and the Barney" »
SPOILER ALERT - The end of The Reader is revealed below.
“One must have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing.”
-Oscar Wilde
During the last scene of Stephen Daldry’s The Reader, I felt a rush of cathartic emotion. I’m not sure what exactly caused it: the autumnal setting, the mournful music, Ralph Fiennes’ wet eyes. But when the emotion came, it came strong.
First, I chuckled. Chuckles quickly turned to laughter. Then guffaws. Soon I was helpless. I held my sides, tears running down my face.
It was so great.
...can continue today! She is on Fresh Air at 3 o'clock. She will be talking about the HBO movie of Grey Gardens. We can add our voices to the din!
Hardcore fans? Sell out movie? Let's get this thing going again! Work is really boring today...
Awards are stupid. We all know it. The idea that it is quantifiable that one book is better than another, that one performance is greater than another, is ridiculous.
That said, I really like them. I follow awards assiduously. I root for people I like (Philip Roth) and against people I don’t (Hilary Swank). It’s fun. I’ve even won a couple small awards myself, and been really happy when I did.
So now, long past the point when it would have been even mildly relevant, I’m going to make a case that someone should have won an award. I fully realize that, in doing so, I’m contradicting myself. Graham Greene said it was an artist’s responsibility to contradict themselves, to see things from all sides. But that’s kind of a highfalutin’ sentiment in this case. Because all I really want to do here is talk about Mickey Rourke.
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