One thing I’ve always wanted from my friends and co-workers that I never receive is honest-to-God constructive criticism.  It’s just so hard to get people to tell you what they think of the shows that I’ve done.  No one will give a straight answer when all is said and done.

Your parents will always love your performance, no matter what. And even if they didn’t, they’d never tell you.
Your friends and castmates don’t want to hurt your feelings (or ruin future networking ops).
Your director doesn’t want to lower morale and/or admit that he/she screwed up in casting you.
Any random audience member is going to say SOMETHING positive to your face.
Critics’ reviews, if any, are generally going to focus on the show as a whole rather than individual things you can do to improve your own performance.

When I took my first Directing class and had to direct a one-act, one thing that Doc told us was that we were not allowed to perform in our own show.  His reasoning was simple:  you can’t see yourself on-stage

In film and TV, you often have directors making cameos or even starring in their own shows.  This works because of the simple fact that they can see themselves on screen and see if it works or not.  An actor on stage can’t do that.

As an actor, I rely on someone else to tell me what I can do to better my performance.  Not a show has gone by where I haven’t asked the director on multiple occasions what I could do better — ESPECIALLY on nights when he doesn’t give me notes at all.  It’s imperative to me that each performance be better than the last, and there’s no note that I hate worse than “You’re fine”.

Fine? That doesn’t help me at all.  First of all, the entire performance can’t be “fine”.  There’s always, always room for improvement.  So what parts are “fine”, what parts are “good” and what parts are “not-so-good”?  Help me out here, man.

As a director, I strive to provide as much honest criticism to my cast and crew as possible.  If I’m not happy with the way something is going, I speak up.  If someone is talking too fast, I slow them down.  If someone keeps changing the blocking, I put them back on track.  If someone is seriously misinterpreting a character or doesn’t understand a punch line or is simply reciting his lines or seems to stumble over her lines, I’ll speak up.  I’m not going to be rude about it, but I’m going to be firm.

“Matt, you need to slow down.”
“Okay.”

(later)

“Matt, you need to slow down.”
“Okay.”
“No, listen.  Your character is setting up all of Zoe and Adam’s punch lines, so the audience needs to be able to understand you.  You’re speaking so fast that nobody will get the punch lines, because they didn’t understand the joke.  Make sense?”
“Ohhhh, i see.”
“Yeah.  Slow down.”

The above example is a true story from my last show.  I had to tell his one guy to slow down every five minutes.  It was insane.  Opening night, he was still a little fast, but he had slowed down considerably — enough for the audience members who paid attention to get almost all of the jokes.  He often came to me after rehearsals and said “How am I doing?”

I refused to answer with just “You’re fine.”  On the nights when he did well, I told him so.  “You were a lot slower tonight, which is good.  You didn’t miss very many lines at all, which is good.  You’ve got the personality of the character down pat, although he’s a little more sarcastic and a little less nice.  Overall, good job.  I have some specific notes that i”ll give you tomorrow.”

I’m pretty sure he appreciated my candor.

I want YOU to be the best actors you can be.  I’m going to do everything in my power to make that happen.

So why doesn’t anyone else do the same for me?

Friend of mine emailed me this. Thought I’d share it with you guys. The theatrical structure. I dedicate this to Sandy.
Theatrical Structure:

Producer-
Leaps tall buildings in a single bound.
Is more powerful than a locomotive.
Is faster than a speeding bullet.
Walks on water.
Gives policy to God.

Director-
Leaps short buildings in a single bound.
Is more powerful than a switch engine.
Is just as fast as a speeding bullet.
Walks on water if the sea is calm.
Talks with God.

Playwright-
Leaps short buildings with a running start.
Is almost as powerful as a switch engine.
Is faster than a speeding BB.
Swims well.
Is occasionally addressed by God.

Actor-
Makes high marks on the wall when trying to leap
buildings.
Is run over by locomotives.
Can sometimes handle a gun without inflicting
self-injury.
Dog paddles.
Talks to animals.

Chorus Member-
Falls over doorsteps when trying to enter
buildings.
Says “Look at the choo-choo.”
Wets himself with a water pistol.
Plays in mud puddles.
Mumbles to himself.

Stage Manager-
Lifts buildings and walks under them.
Kicks locomotives off the track.
Catches speeding bullets in his teeth and eats
them.
Freezes water with a single glance.
*IS* God.

“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.

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…

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I try to keep myself informed on what other people in the industry are doing, and I have recently subscribed to Joe Harmston’s blog (you can find it here). Mr. Harmston has some pretty good articles. Specifically, he wrote about the role of a director. One thing in his article struck me as absolutely brilliant.

According to Frank Hauser, a director, there are only three phrases that a director needs to know:

1) “That thing you were doing in scene two, do it more.”

2) “That thing you were doing in scene two, do it less.”

3) “That thing you were doing in scene two, don’t.”

Brilliant. Brilliant! It accomplishes one of my biggest difficulties as a director (although this is not on my Top 7 List of annoyances) . You see, I have acted for several years, and it takes very little effort for me to begin to crawl into the minds of the characters. I certainly don’t do it as in depth as the actors should (but probably more than some famous ones do), but I do attempt that process. Therefore, it is easy for me to come up with specific reactions that I would do if I were playing that particular role. The problem with this is that the director is not the actor! The director’s job is not to micromanage the actors, but to allow them to creatively explore their characters within the guidelines set by the director.

These phrases effectively eliminate such directorial intrusions. It basically says “I don’t care how you got that, but I want more/less/none of that in the future.”

Brilliant.

Stumble It!

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Ask any director you know. There’s always one of those people. You know, one of those people who can’t seem to do anything right. One of those people who can’t seem to focus for one iota of a millisecond. One of those people who have never heard the phrase: “the show must go on.”

But I’ll not harp on the stupidity of these imbeciles, nor shall I belabor the point that they haven’t an ounce of talent to their name, nor shall I beat you over the head with their empty skulls. No, I shan’t.

…

But, if you were to, perhaps, portray one of these unfortunate souls in a play about, oh, I don’t know, bad actors, then I have a guide for you to follow. It is aptly titled “How To Annoy Your Director.”

Here we go!

1. Be late. Be late to every rehearsal. Directors, and everyone else for that matter, are here simply for your convenience. We’re not under a deadline, we’re not under any pressure, and we certainly don’t have anything better to do with our time than wait for you to finish getting that phone number from the girl behind the counter at the local gas station. If you truly want to annoy your director, have an excellent excuse each time.

2. Be lazy. I once performed in a Christmas play at church. I played one of the Apostles. The guy playing our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, showed up to our final dress rehearsal and still didn’t know any of his lines. Our Almighty Director was furious. I’ve never seen anyone so angry or so devoid of hope (except for maybe the time when my costume designer discovered his Armani suit on the floor with footprints all over it — you’d think his parents had just died). So if you truly want to annoy your director, don’t even look at your script.

3. Ignore blocking direction. When the director says “Go over here, face downstage and deliver this line to the audience,” ignore him. Yes, you read that — ignore him. Ignore your director, face across the stage, stare directly into the face of your co-star, and deliver your line to them. Directors almost never have good reasons to block you in certain ways. They probably haven’t even read the play as many times as you have. Yes, let’s annoy the director and ignore the blocking.

4. Be dull. Don’t show any enthusiasm or have any energy whatsoever. Why use up all that valuable energy? You’re going to need it to go out partying all night! Why waste all that energy when there’s no one to appreciate it? That director fellow is just going to tell you how badly you screwed up that scene. The best idea here is to just do the bare minimum needed to get through the scene. After all, that director can see what you’re really capable of on opening night. That is, if you can be bothered to care.

5. Be loud backstage. Never, ever whisper backstage. After all, you’re an actor! The audience came here to see and hear you! Nobody cares about those other actors on stage (besides, to be quite honest, they suck anyway!). Just keep on talking even though you have been reprimanded quite often by the director (who doesn’t appreciate your talent, anyway). Eventually, everyone will realize that you’re the only person that matters.

–

If you follow my four-step guide, you will wind up being the most annoying actor in the history of actors! Break a leg!

Stumble It!

“You know,” David says. “At the school where I used to work, auditioning for performers and working in the shop for techs were mandatory.” I look at him and sit down on the sawhorse in the scene shop. All around us are the technicians working on the set for the next mainstage show. All three of them. The work-study students never show up, and the students taking the shop classes don’t show up either. Needless to say, David’s not a happy camper.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at me with a sideways glance. He scratches his balls. He does that a lot. “Of course, the program there’s a lot bigger. The students there actually have to apply to get into the program, and if you don’t participate, you’re out.”

“That’d be so nice,” I say. “It’d be great to have an actual choice when casting.” This is true. Whenever we hold auditions for a play with, say, twelve roles, only about fifteen people will show up. Often, the director is forced to cast everybody who showed up. Having mandatory auditions would allow the director to actually have a choice in who is cast.

“You could sign a waiver that said you weren’t interested in a part,” David continues. “But you still had to audition.” Of course. Auditioning should be mandatory. It’s a process that you have to do if you want to be successful in the theatre world. It’s a crappy system, but nobody has managed to come up with a better one.

I nod as David keeps talking. My mind drifts off a little, as I think about the ramifications of this type of system.

In the department in which I have worked for several years, there are about fifty theatre majors. Roughly fifteen of them are techs, the rest are performance majors. That is, they’re actors. The sad thing is that only about fifteen or twenty of them are active in any capacity. The other fifteen or twenty rarely show up for strike, much less for auditions.

I mention the idea of mandatory auditions to someone I know who is a major but has never participated. She grows indignant, as if to say, “What? Me? Audition? Never!” In fact, I have yet to see her audition for anything. It blows my mind. Why major in a field in which you don’t intend to participate? Why take classes in a field that you don’t intend to pursue? Why waste your own potential and someone else’s time and money?

Here I am, a graduate stuck in this shit-hole town, struggling to stay active in the local theatre, but keeps getting pushed aside by the faculty because I’m no longer a student. Here I am, trying to further my career, and I’m getting pushed aside for people who don’t show up for auditions, don’t show up for work-study, don’t show up for set strikes. Here I am, a thespian, being denied my calling for the sake of people who would rather use their creative energy to think of new places to sing karaoke and get wasted.

“I think it’s a good idea,” I say to David. He looks back at me and scratches his balls again.

“It is a good idea,” he replies. “Too bad it’ll never happen.”

Too bad.

This why I love Hank Azaria:

“Wow. What do you enjoy most about stage acting?
It’s my favorite thing to do, on many levels. First of all, it’s an actors’ medium. In film, it’s the director and the editor who make their final cut, and pretty much the same in television. Onstage, it rests in your hands. You’re driving. Each actor entering the play is a living, breathing character; every single one has a different personality. Especially in a play like this, it’s a phenomenal experience to share that with 1,000 people every night. (Broadway.com)

That’s exactly why I love theatre. Thank you, Mr. Azaria, for articulating my thoughts as well!

The best part about theatre is that you have the potential to have a different dynamic each night. The script doesn’t change, the lines don’t change, the lights don’t change, the set doesn’t change, the people don’t change… the audience changes, the energy the actors feed from changes, and the whole experience changes. It’s like magic.

Go see a great show like, say, RENT or Jersey Boys. Then go back a week later and see it again, and it’ll blow you away just the way it did before. Nothing’s changed but the audience dynamic — the way the audience and actors interact — and it’s an entirely new experience. It’s like magic.

Mr. Azaria, my hat is off to you. Break a leg in The Farnsworth Invention.

As a relative newcomer to the directing profession, I pay a lot of attention to people auditioning these days. Too often, people think they deserve parts. They went to a small school where they got the lead roles every time, where they were always cast. They go to a bigger place, and they cry when they don’t get cast. They throw hissy fits and temper tantrums and they just want that part. They deserve that part. They deserve to be on Broadway.

What they don’t understand is that in the “real world”, there are hundreds of people who look, act, walk, talk, sing and dance just like them. Just like them. There is no difference.

Next time Hairspray holds auditions, go to NYC and you’ll see a line ten miles long of short, round girls with big 80’s style brunette hair. Each and every one of them always got the lead at their school or community theatres. Each and every one of them sings perfectly, some even have Perfect Pitch. Each one of them has had ten years of dance lessons and training. Ultimately, it comes down to which one of them makes the biggest impression on the casting directors.

So, how does one Tracy out of a million make that kind of impression? It’s simple.

Be different.
Be bold.
Be unique.

A friend of mine who has performed with me for years complained the other day that people don’t remember her on stage. The reason? She doesn’t take risks. She’s perfectly bland in every way. The only reason she gets the parts is because she looks the part of a beautiful female lead. There’s potential there, tons of it. She just needs to step outside of her comfort zone, take risks, be bold, be different and be unique. Then she’ll have dozens of fans who track her every performance.Here’s an example:

A couple of years ago, back when my hair was down to my shoulders, I took an auditioning class at school. The instructor had us all memorize one line:

“I hate you. I hate you, and I never want to see you again.”

That’s it. Memorize that line.

“Now, you have five minutes. Practice that line. In five minutes, you’re going to perform it for the rest of the class.” Each and every person threw temper tantrums, screaming those lines at the top of their lungs.

Finally, it was my turn. I sat on the table upstage, I pulled my hair down in front of my face, so you could see my eyes and mouth, but little else. I stared intently into the eyes of a girl in the class. I hated her guts, really, but that’s another story for another blog. I stared into her eyes, and I said in a deep, gravelly voice — perfectly calm — I said, “I hate you. I hate you. And I never want to see you again.”

The girl screamed, the professor’s jaw dropped, and the room was silent. He looks at me and says, “Holy shit.” He paused for a second and looked at the class. “He gets the part.”

You see, the reason I got the hypothetical part wasn’t because I was angry “correctly”, but because I delivered my lines in a way that was different from everyone else. I made a lasting impression on each and every person in that room. The rest of their performances? Very, very forgettable.

I ate lunch with my professor recently, and he brought that assignment up. It’s been four or five years since that class.

That’s what I’m talking about.

Be bold.
Be different.
Be unique.

And the part is yours.