May 5, 2009
KILL DEVIL HILLS (working title, rough cut)
PROLOGUE - A street corner
ROLF (to audience)
Hey, hey, you. Got a dollar? s’all I’m askin for. Just a lousy, stinkin’ dollar. That’s all I’m askin for. What’s that? You don’t got a dollar?
(beat)
Okay, a quarter. Got a quarter? I just need a quarter. A lousy, stinkin’…
I hate you. I hate you all, you know that? You got it.. You got it so lucky. You with them fancy hats and fancy coats. You got them fancy carriages and fancy horses. You got them big ol’ homes and servants that wait on you hand an’ foot. You got it all, you does. Me? I’m just sittin’ here, doin’ my best to survive. Tryin’ to make it through this hellhole you call life. I call it shit. Complete, utter shit. You hear me? You don’t hear me. Of course you don’t. I’m just a bum.
Well let me tell you my story, mister, and maybe then you’ll feel something for me and give me that lousy stinkin’ dollar you got hangin’ out of your back pocket.
Me name’s Rolf. R-O-L-F. Rolf. I used to be somebody in this town. I used to be somebody good. I had a wife. Kids. One beautiful girl and a strong, charming son. I had a house. Not a run-down shack, you know, but a house. A real house with real rooms and real beds and sheets. I had it all.
Until one day… One awful, terrible, no-good, very bad day. God.. Fate.. whatever you think it might be.. took my wife. My kids. My precious babies. All gone in the blink of an eye.
The blink of an eye, mister. They’re gone, because of.. because of a goddamn idiot. Because of foolish pride.
How do you deal with that? How do you push on when the awesome powers of the universe have proven you to be weak, helpless? How do you live with yourself, mister, when you can’t protect your family from harm?
Well… Now you know, mister. Now you fuckin’ know. You don’t live with it. You just don’t.
(blackout)
July 23, 2008
Storytelling
Sorry I haven’t updated lately. I haven’t had much to say lately, especially with regards to theatre. I’m feeling a bit disconnected.
I’m trying to jump back on track in a slightly different route: storytelling.
I mentioned this before in another blog, but sometimes I feel like I’m not very creative. Well, as far as originality is concerned. I know that many people consider all the great stories to have already been told, and everything we write today is basically just a variation or more complex (or simpler) version of what has already been told, but still…
After I watched Dr. Horrible (you can get it on iTunes), I was inspired to write my own musical story. I’ve always wanted to, but I’m musically retarded. On top of that, my work skews towards the epic and dramatic rather than the short and funny. I’m hoping to change that.
So I got this idea for a story for a short film a la Dr. Horrible. I’m not going to give it away here just yet — I’d rather get it written and at least in the preliminary stages of production and then blog the process.
I’ve been developing my concepts and storylines, coming up with variations and such to give me some options and directions as to where to go. I asked open ended questions of friends (e.g. Who is Everyman’s nemesis?, etc), brainstormed backstories and character profiles, and hummed tunes to myself.
I finally settled on a character and situation. At a certain point in the story, there comes a point where I could take two different paths to two completely different stories. Actually, it just occurred to me that I could use both — one could be the sequel of the other.
At any rate, I told one of the plot lines to someone else, and they said “That sounds like [insert favorite movie here] except with a different ending.”
Does that matter?
Should it matter?
Am I any less creative because my idea had already been thought of?
Sometimes I wonder.
June 8, 2008
First Contact
I stroll into the lobby of the Nameless Theatre and look around. There’s a girl in the box office window. She’s on the phone as I approach, so I wait patiently. On the wall there are pictures of various shows: The Music Man, Carousel, A Chorus Line, West Side Story, and High School Musical. The pictures look pretty good. I’m hopeful.
I’m here to introduce myself to the theatre management and hopefully become involved in their productions. I plan to offer my services as a director and actor. Hopefully, they’re in need of help.
“Can I, like, help you?” The girl in the box office is looking at me. She’s chewing gum and twirling her hair. I wonder if she actually enjoys theatre or if this is just a minimum wage gig for her.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’m looking for the producer or person in charge of this place.”
“Oh,” exclaims the box office girl. “You, like, need Mrs. Jones!” I nod in agreement. This Mrs. Jones seems to be the person in charge.
“Where can I see her?”
“You can, like, go through those doors, and around the corner there’s this huge hallway, and there’s, like, six doors, and one of them - i think it’s the last one - is her office. I never go back there. She can be, like, scary sometimes, man.” I nod thoughtfully.
“Like, for sure.” There’s a reason I’ve never really surfed. “Hang ten, dudette.” I wave my hand with the surfer sign thing — whatever that’s called. The girl rolls her eyes and goes back to reading The Globe sleaze magazine. The cover reads “Oprah gives birth to alien child!”.
I snicker and exclaim, “Whoa! Oprah had an alien baby!” The girl looks up at me, all excited.
“Yeah! Isn’t that, like, totally awesome!?! Aliens!” Poor girl honestly believes this crap.
“….Yeah. I’m gonna go, like, find Mrs. Jones now.” I wave again and walk off.
Scary, eh? I’ve dealt with scary before. I can handle this.
I hope.
April 6, 2008
Good things come to those who wait
“Okay, class,” Professor McPsycho chimes. She puts her fingers to her temples and rubs them, as if she has a migraine. Her eyes are closed. “On Monday, I want you to come in here, and…” She flings her right hand out, pointing towards the back of the room. Her eyes are still closed. She finishes, “…and wait.” She turns around and strolls out of the room.
I look at my neighbor. He looks back at me with the most puzzled expression I’ve ever seen. I glance at the rest of my classmates, and they’re equally dumbfounded. After several moments of silence, the class finally begins to start the process of leaving the studio theatre and moving on to our next class or whatever it is that we have to do. In my case, lunch.
The weekend flies by, as weekends tend to do in my town. Monday morning quickly arrives, and I stroll off to class. I sit down off to the side, so I can watch my classmates’ reactions to the lesson. I like to watch people, to see if they understand as well (or as poorly) as I do what is being taught. McPsycho strolls into the room, her presence dominating everyone’s mind. She spins around, looks at the class, and smiles.
“Good morning, everyone,” she chimes. She looks around. “Who would like to perform their homework assignment first?”
I had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. Nobody moves. Nobody knows what the homework assignment actually is. A very bad feeling.
“How about you?” McPsycho is staring at me.
Shit.
I shake my head and shrug as if to say, “Sorry, didn’t do it.” She shakes her head at me and makes a mark in her book.
“Should’ve been prepared. Tsk tsk.” She looks around.
“Fluffy!” McPsycho calls out to a short guy with curly red hair. He awkwardly walks up to the front of the room. He clearly has no clue what he’s supposed to be doing. McPsycho smiles broadly and sits down and watches. Fluffy just sits there, doing nothing.
“Bravo!” McPsycho exclaims.
The entire class looks bewildered, Fluffy included.
“Now, class,” she says in her sing-song voice. “Who wants to wait next?”
I nearly fall out of my chair. She had wanted us to act like we were waiting for something. The rest of the class went up there, one by one, and pretended to wait for a bus or for a friend or for whatever. I sat off to the side, frustrated and flustered. I got a zero for the assignment.
Go figure.
March 30, 2008
Right On Red: A Short Play (4 pages)
Written by The Director
Setting: A car
A: I hate this light.
B: Me too.
A: It has GOT to be the longest light in the world.
B: Yeah.
A: No joke, man. The longest light in the whole damn world.
B: Yeah.
A: I mean, seriously. One time, I pulled up to this light and I think I sat here for ten minutes. No joke.
B: That’s crazy.
A: No joke!
B: Yeah, I got that.
A: I’m serious. Ten minutes. What a waste of time.
B: It’s not like you have anywhere else to be, ya know?
A: Anywhere else to be…. Anywhere else to be! I could be at home, that’s where I could be!
B: I guess.
A: What if there was an emergency? What if I had forgotten to turn the oven off, and as we speak, my house is burning down. What then? I can’t do anything, I’m stuck at this stupid light.
B: That’s rough.
A: Maybe I should call my wife and make sure I turned that oven off.
B: Maybe.
A: I will. (picks up the phone, dials it.) Honey? Is the house on fire? (pause) Oh, okay. Good. No, no reason. Just curious. Love you, bye. (hangs up) (pause) No fire.
B: That’s good.
A: But it could have happened!
B: I’m sure.
A: It could have. It’s seriously plausible.
B: I’m sure it is, man.
A: Maybe we should get show where they bust myths on this. What’s that called? Doesn’t matter. Test out the scenario. Put a guy at a stop light and set his house on fire. See what happens.
B: I love that show, dude.
A: I’m sure they’d confirm it. It’s totally plausible.
B: Yeah.
A: This damn light won’t turn green. There’s not even anyone around for miles.
B: Wonder how it knows when to change.
A: That’s easy. They have these little metal grids that go under the road. When a car stops on top of it, it changes the magnetic field, which tells the lights that it’s time to change. Some lights are timed, though, so maybe this one’s timed. That’s why it’s TAKING IT’S DAMN TIME! HURRY THE HELL UP YOU STUPID LIGHT!
B: Geez, dude, calm down. Maybe it’s got one of those metal doohickeys under it. Back up and stuff, maybe, and see if it changes.
A: Fine, fine, I’ll do that. I’ll back the car up in the opposite direction and see if it changes. Meanwhile, my house is burning down.
B: It’s not burning down, man. You just called and it’s not burning down.
A: It could be burning down! It could be burning down!
B: Just move the car. (turns on the radio)
A: I’m telling you, it could be burning down.
(Radio plays “The Roof Is On Fire” by The Bloodhound Gang. Awkward pause.)
A: Turn that damn thing off. (B shuts off radio) This light will never change. Maybe I should just run the light.
B: You can’t, man. There’s a cop over in that gas station parking lot. He might see you.
A: Damn. (pause) You know, I need to go right anyway. I should just turn right.
B: Why didn’t you do that in the first place?
A: Cause the right turn is like… 20 feet past the light.
B: Is that a turn lane?
A: I dunno, looks kinda like a shoulder to me.
B: At least it’s not a leg.
A: …You’re fired.
B: Well, you can’t turn right at the light, cause there’s no road going right. Maybe it’s okay to go right on red, even if the road is 20 feet up.
A: Maybe. But I don’t wanna get a ticket.
B: But your house is burning down, man.
A: No it’s not. I just called home, remember?
B: But it could be.
A: But it’s not!
B: But it could be!
A: Just shut up already. God. This damn light is gonna make me kill you.
(beat)
B: (softly) The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire…
A: (smacks B) I said, shut up.
(Pause)
A: There! It’s green! FINALLY! WOOHOO!
B: Are we gonna go, or are you just gonna do your cheerleading routine?
A: I’m goin’, I’m goin’!
B: We should ask that cop if we coulda gone right there.
A: But my house is burning down.
B: No it’s not.
A: It could be!
B: Just ask him, dude!
A: Fine, fine. (drives closer to cop) Excuse me, officer! Hey! Officer!
(enter Officer)
OFFICER: Can I help you, sir?
A: Yeah, yeah, I got a question. Sir.
OFFICER: Uh huh.
A: That light over there. Can I turn right on red, even though the turn isn’t for, like, another 20 feet?
OFFICER: Uh, well, that shoulder used to be a turn lane til they changed it. Uh.. I don’t really know.
A: Well, would you give me a ticket if I did that?
OFFICER: Uh, probably not. It’s pretty safe to turn there, I think. Even if I did pull you over, I’d probably just let you off with, uh.. with a warning.
B: Sweet.
A: Okay, just checking. I’ve always wondered.
OFFICER: You have to stop first, uh, before you turn.
A: Always do, officer. Always do.
B: For twenty minutes.
A: At least. (beat) Well, thanks, Officer. I gotta run. My house is burning down.
OFFICER: What?!
A: Uhh.. nothing.
B: Later, officer dude.
OFFICER: Have a good evening. (exit)
A: So you can turn right there.
B: Wish we had known that before. Would’ve saved us some time, dude.
A: Well, now we know.
B: Yeah. now we know.
(A’s phone rings)
A: Hello? (beat) WHAT? I’ll be right there!
B: What, dude? What’s going on?
A: I gotta get home. The roof is on fire!
(Curtain.)
February 15, 2008
A Brief History of Theatre (or, Theatre as Culture)
“I can’t wait til four o’clock,” Kyle said, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. “Football!” I groaned. Russ hollered,
“I HATE FOOTBALL!” Everyone stared at him. “Well, I do!” He has that comical high-pitched voice when he gets excited.
“Don’t worry, Russ,” I said. “I hate football, too.” Everyone else stared at me, too. We glared back. Russ looks at me and grumbles.
“You can go anywhere and say ‘I hate theatre’ and be uncultured,” he said. “But if you say ‘I hate football,’ you get burned at the stake.”
It’s true. Here in the South, in the Bible Belt, football comes a very close second to beer in terms of recreational activities. In fact, it may even be first, considering that nobody in their right mind goes to a football game without a beer or six.
Russ makes an excellent point. People are perfectly fine with branding theatre as boring and not worth their time. They would rather watch two teams of 12 people in tights wrestling over a ball on a field. There are, naturally, some appealing aspects to football, but by and large, Russ and I would rather be stimulated in the ways that live theatre moves us.
Live theatre is more than just a movie on a stage — it’s an experience. It’s more than people walking around reciting lines or poetry, it’s a mirror to life. Theatre shows us the facts of life — the ups, the downs, the middles — and amplifies them. Theatre hails from the earliest, most primitive forms of entertainment — rituals.
Way back in the day, back before iPods and Coca-Cola, before cars and debit cards, before Broadway, before Shakespeare, and even before King Tut’s personal ball-scrubber was born, there were cavemen. Kinda like the Geico cavemen, but not quite. They didn’t have insurance back then, either.
The tribes in prehistoric times lived from day-to-day. They didn’t have much time to think about the future. The furthest ahead they thought was probably when they were predicting when the weather would be favorable enough to move from camp to camp. They were nomads. They hunted and gathered, and they traveled across the lands, following the herds for food. The tribes were scattered about, generally living as an autonomous unit. There was no Medicare, there was no FEMA, there was no government to help in times of trouble. The tribe was on its own.
A single storm could flood their cave and drown them all.
A single earthquake could open up the ground beneath their feet and swallow them whole.
A single hunt gone wrong could cause them to starve through the winter.
A single screw-up, and the whole tribe could potentially die.
So, in order to take precautions against those kinds of disasters, they did what most people do today — they prayed. The tribe shaman would dress up like a lion, a tiger, or a bear (oh my!), or whatever their totem spirit or target prey was. The shaman-turned-beast would dance and chant, while the hunters staged a mock fight against him. When the shaman-beast had been “killed,” the tribe understood that the hunt was blessed by the totem spirit.
The first theatrical productions were these rituals — matters of life or death. They were deadly serious. They didn’t have time to play games — they were trying to survive. This was the beginning of the form of tragedy.
Fast forward thousands of years to the ancient Egyptians and Greeks. These peoples had settled down, formed farming communities, and allowed for specialization of craftsmen. These civilizations were no longer on the brink of destruction. They could survive an earthquake, a failed hunt, or a flood. They were secure. The rituals didn’t go away, but a new form of ritual was developed — comedy.
Finally, people had the ability, to borrow a cliche, to stop and smell the roses. They could have fun. So theatre developed into an entertainment exercise, rather than a survival-based one. Comedy eventually followed tragedy, and so on and so forth.
So, to the dear savages of the Bible Belt, I say this to you: theatre wins. Theatre is more culturally important than football. It was here first, it is far more enduring, and it actually means something. Football, on the other hand, is… boring.
“So,” I say to Russ. “How bout them crazy Danes?”
February 6, 2008
No Day But Today
If you haven’t heard already, RENT is closing on Broadway after a 12 year run. For those of you who haven’t heard of or seen RENT, it is one of the most controversial and successful musicals of the 90s. With over 5,000 performances, it is the 8th longest running musical on Broadway. Jonathan Larson’s sardonic comment, “I am the future of Broadway musicals” is more true than he could even imagine.
RENT is a modern adaptation of Puccini’s La Boheme. It takes place in New York City, following a rag-tag band of down-on-their-luck Bohemians, struggling to pay rent and deal with the deeper issues of life: love, happiness, and community. As if that weren’t enough, the underlying issue plaguing the group of friends is the haunting fear and threat of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Half the group has HIV or AIDS, and the other half is forced to learn how to deal with it.
During the course of the play, one of the members dies, providing the theme song for the play “Seasons of Love.”
I consider RENT to be one of the best musicals ever written. Despite ludicrous lyrics (a dog committing suicide), characters that stretch the imagination (does EVERYONE have AIDS!?), and heart-wrenching lyrics (Goodbye, Love?), RENT resonates deeply within me. I’ll quote Gordon, from Life Support and Mimi from Another Day:
“If I find some of what you teach suspect,
It’s because I’m used to relying on intellect,
But I try to open up to what I don’t know
Because reason says I should’ve died three years ago…”
“The heart can freeze, or it can burn,
The pain will ease, if I can learn,
There is no future, there is no past,
I live each moment as my last,
There’s only us, there’s only this,
Forget regret, or life is yours to miss
No other road, no other way,
No day but today.”
You see, that section in particular resonates with me for a very good reason: I’m living on borrowed time. You see, true to Gordon’s song, I should’ve died three years ago. A little over three years ago, I had a liver transplant. It is unlikely that I would have lived to see January, had I not had the transplant. As it is, my donor’s gift saved my life. Today, I live a normal, healthy life. I live each day as my last. I live for myself, for my friends. No day but today.
May RENT live on in the memory of RENT-heads for years to come.
To you, Jonathan Larson.
January 18, 2008
How to Prove to a Costume Designer that You’re a Fool in Five Minutes Flat
“Hey.”
“Hey, Director,” Randall says, measuring some fabric. “What can I do for ya?”
“Is Clem around?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
“Can I help you instead?” he asks.
I am skeptical. While he’s a nice guy and definitely knows what he’s talking about, I just don’t ever find that I have much in common with Randall. I prefer talking with Clem about these sorts of things. I shrug and decide to go for broke.
“Sure,” I say, pulling out my director concepts for A Raisin in the Sun, Mother Courage, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “I’m working on my concepts for the upcoming conference.” He nods, knowing full well what kind of preparations I’m making for the conference.
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, I wanted to show you my concepts and see if you could give me any advice.” He nods and I hand him the papers. I keep going. “For A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for example, I’m a little confused. I don’t want to go with pure Elizabethan style costumes, but I don’t want to go modern either. Both are overdone. So I figured I’d go with French Baroque. I like the time period, and it’s different and… well… I don’t know if that’s a good enough reason.”
I pause, waiting for him to respond. He doesn’t.
“Is it?” He looks up.
“Well, do you think it is?” I shake my head. “Then you need to find a reason. Read through the script again, see if you can find some parallels between the French Baroque period and A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” I nod. I point to the A Raisin in the Sun concept.
“My idea here was–” I begin. He cuts me off.
“Where are the acting concepts?” He shuffles the papers. I stare at him. He looks up at me. “The actor concepts?” I’m dumb-struck.
“Uhh…” I’m speechless. Of course. What’s the whole point of directors? To direct the actors! I had forgotten to include actor concepts!
I had conferred with my friend William regarding the concepts in the first place, and since he’s first and foremost a lighting designer, naturally the discussion centered around technical design aspects. I’d completely forgotten about the acting side of things. How stupid can I be?
By this time next week, I assure you, my faithful readers, that my full director concepts will be posted. Somewhere.
God, I’m a fool.
January 16, 2008
How to Crush My Dreams in a Single Word
In my last blog, Got To Be Good Looking Cause I’m So Hard To See, I told the story of how my director flipped out when I sang the Beatles’ Come Together. So I went into the first rehearsal for Fiddler a little more confident than normal. I walked in, sat down, and he pretty much ignored me.
We sang four songs. I sang softly, since I’m not terribly confident (just more confident than before). I was trying to figure out where I fit in the score.
You see, I tend to sing high, but I should sing low, but I hear higher pitches better than lower pitches. It’s all rather complicated and confusing, but essentially, I hear higher pitches than I should be singing. All this boils down to is: I shouldn’t sing.
Anyway, I tried to fit in as best I could, but I couldn’t hear myself over everyone else, nor could I pick out a single voice near me to compare my pitches. I know a few people around me were in my range, and I was trying to match their pitches. Unfortunately, I kept going high because that’s what I could hear.
I basically sang falsetto all night. Not good.
So I go up to ET after rehearsal.
“Hey,” I say.
“What can I do for ya?” he asks.
“Where do you want me to sing? High? Low? Middle?”
“Whatever.” He smiled and turned around to talk to someone else.
Oh. That helped. Thanks.
January 14, 2008
Got to be good looking, cause I’m so hard to see
For the next six weeks, I’m performing in a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Yeah.
So, a couple of days ago, I went out to a bar with one of my friends, who happens to be directing Fiddler. I don’t drink, but I enjoy the company. At this particular bar, there’s a karaoke night every Thursday night, which just happened to be which night we were there. During the break between one of the karaoke sets, the DJ played the Beatles “Come Together”. Good! One of my favorites! My half-deaf ass tried to sing along.
Here come ol’ flat-top, he come groovin’ up slowly
He got joo-joo eyeball, he one holy roller,
He’s got hair down to his knees,
Got to be a joker he just do what he please…
I’m sorta staring off into space, singing along. My friend turns around and looks at me for a second, then he turns back to talk to someone else. I keep singing.
He wear no shoeshine, he got toe-jam football,
He got monkey finger, he shoot coca-cola,
He turns to me again and looks at me. I looked back and did a little twist of my head and my shoulders in a sorta “Hey, I’m being a moron and trying to sing when I really can’t!” move.
He say “I know you, you know me”
One thing I can tell you is you got to be free!
Come together! Right now! Over me…
ET is freaking out, eyes wide open, mouth moving, all spastic.
“You sang!” he said, loudly. “You were spot on those notes! All of them!” I just kinda stared at him for a second. The music kept playing, and I just looked at him and he looked at me.
He bag production, he got walrus gumboot,
He got Ono sideboard, he one spinal cracker,
He got feet down below his knees
Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease
Come together! right now! Over me..
ET is spazzing out again. “Cody! Listen! He’s singing! Like, RIGHT ON, man! Right on pitch!” I’m still not sure if he’s just drunk or trying to make me feel bette or what.
He roller coaster, he got early warning,
He got muddy water, he one mojo filter,
He say “One and one and one is three”
I do a little jig.
Got to be good looking cause he’s so hard to see
Come together! Right now! Over me…
And the song ends. ET’s just beside himself. I still can’t figure out why. I mean, I know I can’t sing consistently, but I can sing occasionally.
“No, no,” he says. “This is good. You sing high. You can hear the high notes, so you can hit the high notes. Here, here sing this song!” Garth Brooks Friends in Low Places came on.
“What?” I exclaimed. “Are you crazy? You can’t put me on the spot like that and expect me to sing.”
“Do it!”
“No!”
“C’mon, man!”
Fine. Fine, then. I’ll embarrass myself once again in front of ET and all these other drunk people.
I guess I was wrong
I just don’t belong
But then, I’ve been there before
If everything’s all right
I’ll just say goodnight,
And I’ll show myself to the door
Hey I didn’t mean
To cause a big scene
Just give me an hour and then
I’ll be as high as that ivory tower
That you’re living in!
Once again, ET is beside himself. “YOU MISSED EVERY SINGLE NOTE EXCEPT FOR THE HIGHEST ONE!” he exclaimed.
Great. Way to make me feel like a rock star. I missed every note except the highest. That makes me feel better. Really, it does.
“No, no,” he says again. “This is good. Real good. As your director, I need to know these things. You’re hearing higher pitches, so you sing higher pitches. That’s good. That means I can put you in a certain range in the show. I’ll know you can sing these songs, and these songs, and not these songs or those songs. This is good, real good.”
I shrug.
This time, I’m going to chalk it up to the alcohol. Although I have become a little obsessed with “Come Together” lately…