EXTRA CRITICUM

Rest in Peace Burt Bacharach

Burt Bacharach has left the planet. Upon hearing the news this morning, my breath caught in my throat and I found it hard to move. I've never met the man. I know very little about him as a person. But I'd be hard pressed to name a composer in my lifetime who approaches his reach and there's something else about Burt Bacharach's music that ensures his legacy will be felt for generations. Bacharach is like the 20th C. Mozart. His craft was impeccable. His compositions all held together so beautifully without any need of duct tape or super glue. Like the finest furniture maker whose tongue and groove construction just holds together on its own, his songs were the closest thing to perfect construction since Mozart. 

And he was almost as prolific as Mozart. 

Here for your listening pleasure is one of my faves, which I remember singing along to in my pajamas at age 7.

 

This one's personal. Some1Speaking tonight.

In November 2020 one of the most important people in my life finally lost what had been an incredible 11-year battle with Stage IV Ovarian Cancer. At the time of her initial diagnosis one of the docs she consulted urged her to "get your affairs in order. I give you six weeks."

And so I've been remembering things I either overheard or that she confided in me about various battles she fought and have been turning them into monologues. Jenny Bacon read one of the first ones at a Some1Speaking last year and I must admit that sometimes when I miss my friend just a little too much I head on over to Hear Me Out YouTube just to spend a few minutes with her words, her energy, her fire. 

I don't think I've ever quite had this kind of intense umbilical connection to a script of my own. The only thing that sort of comes close was when my play The Wreck Behind Us filled the upstairs space at the Duplex for a summer. The play explores the impact of the sudden death of actress wife and mother, a family I grew up with, the mother of my best friend growing up. I guess it felt like it was a tragedy I knew in my bones. I'll never forget how David's older brother came up to me at the end of a performance, shook my hand and suggested that I had given him an extra 30 minutes with his late mother. 

It's a strange thing for me now. In a way I feel I'm still having a relationship with her, although unfortunately her ability to surprise me has suddenly vanished.

If you're free tonight, please come by and check it out. The fabulous Marnie Andrews will be breathing life into the text. And for that I am already grateful beyond my own understanding.

House opens at 5:45PM which is when ticket sales stop. Some1Speaking usually runs about one hour from 6PM to 7PM and a ticket'll set you back $5.  Click here for tickets and more info.

In Memoriam: Vincent "Vinny" Trentacosta

If you ask me what I came into this life to do, I came to live out loud.
--Emile Zola

Vinny Trentacosta died the other day. He was a doorman in my building but if you're reading this and you never met Vinny, I'm pretty sure the image that just popped up in your imagination would be way off.

Vinny broke the mold. Many NYC doormen, at least the stereotypical ones, work hard to blend into the scenery. They stand perfectly straight, speak in a low voice and say very little. They move with a unique efficiency. If they're reaching to open a door, for example, the hand moves quickly away from the hip making a direct line to the door handle and having completed the task, that hand will seem to have miraculously returned to its usual spot with little fanfare. In some of the most elegant and exclusive midtown addresses, doormen can be rather intimidating to visitors. Whenever I enter one of those buildings I immediately feel guilty. as though I'm trespassing and my own speech becomes stiff and monotone. 

Luckily, my building is not like that. In my building the doormen don't try to pretend they're not people with unique personalities, perspectives and talents. Even so, for the standards of our building, Vinny Trentacosta was considered "big." Big in stature but more importantly, big in personality. 

In fact his personality was so big that several years ago some newer tenants in the building complained and even tried  to get him fired. But those of us who loved Vinny expressed our deep feelings about the issue and in the end the board arrived at a compromise. He was moved to the overnight shift. 

The thing that made Vinny one of those you-either-love-him-or-hate-him kinda guys was what I loved about him. In the words of Emile Zola, he lived out loud.

Must-listening-viewing-reading: David Foster Wallace 2005 Commencement Speech at Kenyon College

Every now and then the opaque inner workings of the YouTube algorithms points us to something we feel so privileged to have discovered that we almost want to thank God for algorithms. This is Water is the title of this commencement speech given to the 2005 graduating class at Kenyon College by David Foster Wallace.

 

As I listened to this speech I kept wondering how it could be that the same man who's delivered this message of hope and wonder and love for a life spent looking outward is also the man who in three short years would be dead by suicide at the age of 46.

Perhaps that too might be some piece of the central message of this incredible speech. Bottom line: we may imagine we know or understand who someone is at their core but we must never forget that we are always simply engaging in speculation courtesy of our imagination. That impenetrable wall that separates us all from the rest of humanity is both unbearably painful and miraculous and everything in between. It's how we look that forms the frame.

And I suppose that's a big part of why we write.

R.I.P. Mr. Sondheim

Join in the evolving remembrance thread on the-avocado.org.

 

 

Dave Frishberg dies and I miss Blossom Dearie all over again.

Dave Frishberg (Schoolhouse Rock) died the other day. And that sent me looking for video of Blossom Dearie singing some of his great hits like, My Attorney Bernie. Here she is singing Peel Me a Grape.

 

And while we're on the Blossom Dearie train, why not enjoy this brilliant song, not by Frishberg. This one's by Francesca Blumenthal.

Dad would have been 102 today.

So my sister reminded me that our Dad would have been 102 today. 

Wow. And I still can't quite believe he's gone. I still dream about him all the time. Here in his honor is a blog post from 2011. Thanks, Dad, for showing me the way in so many ways.

Leon Tec says: Follow Your Heart

In Memoriam: August van der Becq

My friend August is dead. And it's going to be a long time before I really feel that news. 

We met 40 years ago at an outdoor concert in Connecticut. I don't recall who was playing. Two groups of friends with little overlap had gathered together. She from one group, I from the other. We'd grown up in the same town but had attended different schools and so our paths had not crossed until that warm summer night when, as we both preferred to describe it, we met over a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. 

It's funny. It never dawned on me before but Kentucky Fried Chicken really did loom large in my childhood. The earliest recording I've ever heard of my own voice was, I think recorded when I was two or three years old. Certainly pre-nursery school because in the recording I can be heard saying (with great glee and enthusiasm) "Can we get Kentucky Fried Chicken?" And we're sure the recording was made before I crossed the threshold of any school or daycare because I am asking for this chicken in a decidedly Polish accent. 

But I digress. August and I were both legendary eaters. And so, naturally, when confronted with a bucket of KFC, we lingered. And so, naturally, we started talking. 

Turned out she'd heard a bit about me from one of the older boys who apparently had his eye on me as his next conquest. And, well, it was clear to me even then as the seduction was unfolding, that my new gal pal was meticulously orchestrating the entire affair. She thought I was unaware. But I was rarely unaware. Especially when it came to her machinations.

In Memoriam: Alvin Epstein was my friend, mentor, collaborator and inspiration.

Alvin Epstein, friend, mentor, collaborator, died the other day. I feel so fortunate to have had him in my creative life since I was a precocious 13-yr-old eager to learn all I could from this master actor, director and philosopher. I'm re-posting this tribute to Alvin below. And I include for your viewing pleasure an excerpt from his performance in my 2009 film, We Pedal Uphill. Alvin was the best kind of teacher. He never shied away from making clear choices and was always open and eager to put them to the test in rehearsal. I'm so grateful to my sister, Leora, for her having helped to facilitate my own last visit with him in October. I will miss him as long as I live.

Lessons from Actors: Alvin Epstein

Alvin Epstein, actor and director, has been one of my mentors. Over the 40+ years I've known him he's taught me many lessons. I'd like to briefly describe three of them here.

1. The Sign of a True Professional = More Rehearsal.

Alvin appeared in my film, We Pedal Uphill, which we rehearsed in New York but shot in various locales all across the country. It's a tapestry film, composed of thirteen short slices of life, each with a specific point of view set in a specific context chosen as a reflection of some aspect of the culture of fear that permeated the landscape in post-911 America. Alvin and Molly Powell's scene was all about the commercial railroads, their decay, graft, neglect and we shot this portion of the film in Omaha. We spent a few weeks rehearsing in New York, then our tiny crew flew to Omaha for about 4 days of shooting, most of which involved Alvin driving a Ford F-150 pickup truck with Molly in the passenger seat and Yours Truly in the backseat shooting. Although I had known Alvin for years and had even written one stage role with him in mind I had never had the pleasure of directing him in a performance. I quickly noticed something kind of wonderful about him.

Alvin could never get enough rehearsal. 

The Playwright Has Left The Planet (And Who Do I Want By My Side?)

So a cool pal of mine who will not want to be named here (because she is genetically predisposed to modesty and discretion) managed to snag me a "plus one" invite to today's memorial for the greatest playwright of our time, Edward Albee. If you occasionally visit Extra Criticum, then you know what this man meant (No, "means!") to me.

As soon as I opened the email I wondered who I might ask to go as my "plus one." Now, I'm not the type to need to cast about for a "plus one" for anything, certainly not a funeral, but these past few months have been some of the loneliest on record, due in large part to a severe back injury which still threatens to put me under the knife, something I am trying desperately to avoid at all costs. The result has been days of isolation. And so I find myself feeling hopeful that my slowly healing lumbar vertebrae might show some restraint this afternoon, at least long enough to make it up to Times Square for the memorial. Incidentally, although my invite guarantees me a seat the memorial is technically open to the public so if you're an Albee fan, try your luck in the line. Doors at the August Wilson Theatre (245 W. 52nd Street) open at 12:30PM for the 1PM "show." (And yes, I do feel safe in my assumption that Mr. Albee would have enthusiastically endorsed use of the word "show" in this context.)

I am also keenly aware of an unmistakeable emotional pull to skip today's "show." If it only manages to touch on one or two of his unique character traits, today's memorial is sure to bring up all sorts of unresolved feelings, existential questions, doubts, fears, regrets in me. Put simply, Edward Albee looms large in my psyche. I once heard him say that if we're asked to drop upwards of a hundred bucks on a Broadway show, then surely it ought to shake us to our very core. I do feel on some level that every time I sit down to write a new play, I'm chasing Albee's example. Hoping my characters might each speak with their own clear voice rooted in an intuitive honest faithful devotion to human nature. Also hoping to bite off something larger than an "issue of the moment" but reach for something universal, something deeply human by delving bravely into the darkest corners of the individual, the specific. And finally, hoping to make something memorable, arresting, and defiantly unafraid. And so, of course, I want the person seated beside me to share a deep appreciation of at least some of the ways his work was hands-down in a category all its own.

The Death of Edward Albee and Possibly Some Part of Me

When the news broke that our greatest living playwright was no longer living, my social media filled with people sharing it. And as I watched the comment threads on facebook unfurl I did not add one word.

Why not? Hard to say. Certainly anyone who knows me knows that I adored both the man and his art. Anything he ever had playing I had to see at least once. On the face of it, one could say I barely knew Mr. Albee... so much so that whenever I addressed him directly that was how I chose to do it. And yet, the two times he spoke to me and/or about me elevated him to unique status for me as so much more than the brilliant artist I admired, but as a champion for bravery in the face of cowardice with an unwavering dedication to telling it like it is, consequences be damned.

I first met Mr. Albee at the theatre conference that was named The Edward Albee Theatre Conference for about a minute until he protested and it was renamed Last Frontier. Held each June in Valdez, Alaska, this strange and wonderful gathering brought together 50 playwrights and countless actors for about 10 days of what felt like theatre summer camp in one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places on Earth. My play, BODILY FUNCTION, took the top prize that summer but before that happy surprise, I had the pleasure of sitting through two readings of the play. It was back to back readings all day every day and the odds of Edward Albee himself actually attending my own seemed slim. Yet, there he was seated conspicuously in the front row for my first reading and that is how about 90 minutes later I found myself scarfing down a sandwich in the hallway eyeing him from a distance of about 30 feet and wondering what he thought.

Christine Robinson: My First Unimpressed Teacher

The news this week of the death of Christine Robinson, brought tears to my eyes. And yet, truth be told, I hardly knew her. So, why then, would the death of this eccentric English teacher at a prestigious East Coast prep school have left me spinning in a kind of hazy grief?

Close friends of mine may not recall her name but they'd certainly recognize her anecdote for hers is one of the most colorful in my bag.

I had the privilege of having her as my 11th grade English teacher, fall semester. I may have started that sentence differently, swapping out "pleasure" for "privilege" but the truth is, sitting through an 8AM class with Miss Robinson (as she was then called) who was decidedly not a morning person was anything but pleasurable.

Most mornings she'd skulk into the classroom, find a place at the Harkness table and immediately rest her weary head on the wood surface until she was absolutely certain that all 12 of us had taken our seats and any remaining excuse for delay had evaporated.

Then, slowly, she'd lift her head, glance around and begin with a question about the reading. I remember little of what we read that semester. But I do remember this.

The Artistic Souls: Robin Williams, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and the list goes on.

The death of Robin Williams has left me in a state of suspended animation. I didn't know the man. But I knew the artist. And I was so often deeply moved and shaken to my core by elements of his creative output, that he was one artist I was not hesitant to call a genius.

But whenever a creative person dies of an apparerent suicide or overdose, I feel my body tense, as though in some important way, the deaths of these sensitive souls might be some kind of reflection of an ever expanding courseness in our society, one in which profit is valued over talent and little space is made to accomodate the big mushy egos that often come with bold achiements in a creative sphere.

What do Whitney Houston, Phillip Seymour Hoffman, Michael Jackson and Robin Williams all have in common?

Neighbors Say He Kept to Himself

A lot of the facts pouring in from Aurora, CO sound familiar. Neighbors say he kept to himself. Wasn't this true of the Virginia Tech gunman? And the Columbine gun-boys?

It's ironic that a group of total strangers gathered in a public space to share an entertainment experience were gunned down by a young man whose mental illness was most-likely amplified by his social isolation and subsequent alienation from others.

CARRIE closes (again) demonstrating the power of conventional wisdom -- always conventional, seldom wise

The New York Times attempts to explain the recent closing of CARRIE by interviewing producers not connected to the show. That's sort of like asking executives at Sprint, Verizon and T-Mobile what the devil's wrong with AT&T. Here's a sampling of the imaginative conjecture that now qualifies for Arts-related news on the pages of the Times.

Several theater producers contacted recently said that “Carrie,” no matter how well acted and sung, presented far more than the usual share of difficulties, the most insurmountable being that nearly every character is dead at the end.