Thoughtful and candid discussion and commentary on the performing arts by "those who do." This is a forum meant to reflect what's currently on the minds of working actors, directors, designers, producers and writers.
For at least two years before the birth of Extra Criticum, it seems that my old pal Robert Sullivan had been prodding me to start blogging. “You need a blog. Every writer should have a blog. Have you thought about starting a blog yet? I really think you ought to consider it.” I don’t know why I resisted. Well, actually, I do. I resisted the idea of starting my own blog because it struck me then as somewhat narcissistic. A journal of my thoughts, feelings and opinions—not to mention mundane actions—posted online for all the world to see? Why bother? What a bore!
So I told Robert the only way I would consider blogging was if it was a group undertaking. I didn’t want to create a space where all the musings of one Roland Tec would be posted ad nauseum. I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I could do so in the company of good friends and colleagues.
If we can agree that most playwrights are mediocre, I sort
of feel like they fall into two giant pools at opposite ends of a continuum. At
one end there are those with great ears for the music of dialogue, for how we
sound when we speak but without much of any depth fueling their desire to write.
At the other end of the spectrum are the theme builders who load their plays with
big issues but maybe lack some of the finesse in terms of crafting dialogue.
And then in the middle, between these two extremes are the really great
playwrights, the ones who have a subtle ear for dialogue but also have
something devastating to say about the human condition
Two such writers have plays up in 99-seat houses right now.
And I was lucky enough to enjoy them both virtually back to back.
There are people in this business (You know who you are) who love nothing more than to infantilize the artists they deal with. Sometimes these people are lawyers. Sometimes they're agents or producers or executives. Sometimes they're even D-girls, if you can imagine.
And there are artists who slip into the role of helpless child with such ease and frequency that slowly over time, imperceptibly at first, they get sort of glued in stuck into the costume. And they end up prisoners of a sort... ambling through life like helpless innocents looking for guidance to all the adults in the room. I don't have a lot to say about this syndrome, save this:
Shortly after my father died, I had lunch with my friend John Yearley and I asked him if he wouldn't mind emailing me a copy of his one-act, HATING BECKETT.
I thought re-reading the play might be comforting because of a vivid memory I'd attached to its premiere many years ago at Long Wharf. I'd brought my parents to the see the play and as the lights came down at the end of it, in that quiet space between END OF PLAY and applause, my father blurted out quite loudly and with a kind of gusto that was emblematic of him, just one word:
I'm in Berlin for this year's Berlinale. An ocean away from New York City, my home base, the city I love. My aunt, an attorney, invites me to watch her tap dance lesson.
She is an attorney. An excellent one, I'm told. An attorney with a passion. A passion for tap dancing. And a nose for talent. Somehow, she seems to have found one of Berlin's most gifted tap dancers. (I am not qualified to judge really, but so he seems to be as I sit and watch.)
It never ceases to shock (and sadden) me how prevalent in the film world this is. Film directors who have zero regard for the craft of acting, so much so that they believe they have to trick their actors into delivering honest performances. The most famous example of this distorted view, of course, was Hitchcock. No one can dispute his cinematic genius but his methods were not only cruel, they were also entirely unnecessary.
This just crossed my desk and I couldn't resist sharing it. It's from an email advert promoting a class taught by a young auteur of some note who believes he has invented a more reliable "method" for wringing realism from flesh. I've removed any names to protect the innocent.
There's a billboard outside my office window. It invites anyone to share their "underdog" story on the facebook page of a tire company.
I can only conclude that the tire company is willing to splurge for a Times Square billboard because there is conclusive evidence to suggest our collective need to be heard shows no signs of waning anytime soon. Also then, I imagine someone has figured out that after posting a personal story on a facebook page, people might feel more connected to a tire brand. (And buy those tires?)
The question of theft came up for me again recently when my longtime friend and collaborator John Tilley pointed me to a pirated version of my first feature film, ALL THE RAGE, online. Of course, the truth is, pirating is a form of stealing. The person who uploads an entire feature film onto YouTube without permission is theoretically depriving my distributor (and by extension, the filmmaker) from any potential revenue that may or may not have come from those viewers actually buying a DVD or ordering up the title on Netflix.
So, full of righteous indignation, I dutifully followed the link to the YouTube page. I wasn't sure what visiting the link would tell me but I clicked on it anyway.
My time at MacDowell taught me a lot about myself and how I work and live. Every few days I'll post a simple lesson I learned in the woods outside Peterborough, NH.
When you have every hour of every day to do with as you will, you give yourself permission to try things without needing to offer yourself a convincing rationale. David Licata illustrated this in his blog post, Get Thee to an Artist Residency in his discussion of playing the guitar, something he ordinarily would not have done publicly, but which he found himself sharing with his fellow colonists at MacDowell.
My time at MacDowell taught me a lot about myself and how I work and live. Every few days I'll post a simple lesson I learned in the woods outside Peterborough, NH.
Nature
can be an endless reservoir for the imagination if we take the time to look and
listen. Let nature in and she will reward you.
My time at MacDowell taught me a lot about myself and how I work and live. Every few days I'll post a simple lesson I learned in the woods outside Peterborough, NH.
I used to spend a few minutes at the end of a work day, returning my notes into some sort of coherent logical order. Now I've come to believe that may not have been the wisest use of my time.
My time at MacDowell taught me a lot about myself and how I work and live. Every few days I'll post a simple lesson I learned in the woods outside Peterborough, NH.
Walking is unlike any other form of meditation or any other form exercise. It belongs in its own category.
My time at MacDowell taught me a lot about myself and how I work and live. Every few days I'll post a simple lesson I learned in the woods outside Peterborough, NH.
Reading is of greater value to the imagination than is watching a movie,
television, or even listening to the radio. I may be preaching to the choir
with this one but I think it’s worth reminding ourselves from time to time.
Unlike any other form of entertainment, reading is active. It activates the
mind. And reading fiction rewards the soul with pleasure and empathy.
My time at MacDowell taught me a lot about myself and how I work and live. Every few days I'll post a simple lesson I learned in the woods outside Peterborough, NH.
The first thing I noticed was the powerful impact of silence.
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