Line learning is a drag, one of those things that you’ll do anything to put off. You’ll clear up, you’ll wash up and you’ll make deals with yourself to find time for it tomorrow. The irony is once you sit down and start the process, crowbar-ing all those words into your head actually brings the play to life. More to the point, it being the self-centred, egocentric, world of acting, it brings your character to life.
Today has been productive; I’ve learnt about fourteen pages of script and in the process my director’s notes are beginning to make sense. The last rehearsal was a bit of an ego-boost although I was receiving criticism at the time. I wasn’t getting the character because I wasn’t overcoming my innate Alpha male-ness; this was exacerbated by my naturally seductive voice. I’ve never felt so flattered while being told I was shit.
My status as an Alpha was mentioned during the last production; if I’m not careful I’m going to start believing it. All ego-massaging aside this is a personality trait I’m going to have to overcome and suppress in playing Stuart. Stuart is the antithesis of Alpha-ness.
The boy is a moron, a word that has faded from everyday use but in its literal meaning describes many people eloquently. It’s simply the Greek word mo-ron (accent on the ‘ron’), it means child and Stuart is most definitely a child.
He is a stock comedy character, the idiot whose workings are played out on his face. He’s immediate and in the moment; he does think but only after the words have left his mouth and he’s forced to back peddle his way out of trouble. He’s comic, and my task as an actor is to capture his endearing innocence than some how steer it through the darkness of Act Two.
It’s possible to play him for laughs all the way through but I’m starting to grasp one of the themes of the play; he’s a likeable character, a clown and my job is to get the audience onside in Act One before he starts to do highly questionable things in Act Two. You have to like him at the beginning because as the play progresses you are asked to take sides and question your allegiances. Is it possible for nice people to do bad things and even if those things are bad do they deserve their fate? Who is innocent and who is guilty and who is just plain fucked up?
I think I’m bringing down his status quite well now. I need to formulate some physical characteristics, I feel he’s a mover, a twitcher and like I said before his subtext is there for everyone to see; like in all good comedy characters. So slowly, slowly I’m going to try and get all of Act One down by Monday night. I won’t be word perfect but I’ll have the freedom to explore the physicality and look my fellow actors in the eyes.
No play starts to work before you can do this. It might sound ok but it certainly doesn’t ‘live’. And you aren’t likely to discover anything new in the text while reading it out-loud no matter how counterintuitive that statement sounds.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
Masculinity
Alcohol dissolves the body and leaves only the mind intact. It floats around the room musing at itself, grinning and gurning with a smug look on its face; filled with self- importance.
Lately the urge to write has only welled up in me when I’ve been inebriated. Actually to be fair to myself the only times I’ve have had the opportunity or inclination to write has been in the wee dark hours of the morning and whisky just happens to be the catalyst.
Tonight my musing is on man-hood. A lot of my intellectualising is often spent on documentaries of times long past, Romans and Greeks and what-not. I am something of a geek. My geekiness only stretches to a few subjects. Generally these are physics, astronomy and of course ancient history. Although my mind can be pulled in different directions inadvertently I find myself returning to these disciplines. I’m lured back to the cradle of civilization or the quantum world or the glorious magnitude of the universe.
These glories capture my imagination. I wonder at the philosophies that are inspired by the laws of thermodynamics or special relativity. I’m humbled by the concept of infinity and the modern theories of physics that elevate maths into the stratosphere; giving it the un-attainability of a religion, demanding a faith in the numbers, knowing that a tangible proof would be impossible.
But more often than not I return to the classical world; the Roman emperors, the Greek generals and the Hebrew leaders of Biblical legend. These times are shrouded in myth and third generation hearsay. Story-telling, finally put down on paper after being passed on, word of mouth, for decades or sometimes centuries. Exaggerated self-interest and in later times retrospective politicising. These tales are our histories, these people are our forebears and more importantly these people are us; stripped of our sensibilities and good manners, they show us ourselves in simpler times. They show us ourselves in times when people knew themselves. Their place in the world, the limits of their aspirations; what they could hope to achieve within the confines of their particular reality.
The Roman emperor was a God and could be worshiped as such; the lowly slave had to content himself with his life of servitude. He lived on his wits and the philanthropy of others for his success. Winning one's freedom was possible. You could buy your way out of servitude or in some cases fight your way out of it.
The Gladiators of old were slaves. Bought and traded but within the arena they could become Gods earning more than a soldier yearly salary for a single fight. Scarcely more than animals, vermin in civil society, they were lusted after by noble women. A bit of rough yet idolised for their bravery but more to the point their masculinity; their manliness, their man-ness.
We have nothing to compare nowadays. Fighting in the street is shameful, chavy. Nowadays we are above that. We should know better but we are still weighed down with the concept of being a real man. How now do we prove our worth?
In days gone by we could have fought in the arena or on the battle field; sword to sword, nose to nose and claimed our honour. Today the battles are mired in political controversy, hindered by rules and concepts of humanity. We can fight but we become political pawns or charity cases when the worse comes to the worse. Sob stories cast down at the feet of politicians. The art of war, of manly pursuits reduced to apologetic sound-bites of respect and regrets.
What have we left? We can still fuck. We can be that guy, the conqueror of innocence and chastity. We can dominate the pussy if we so choose. We can be the cock, the romantic hero, the lover. Or we can strut and barge and brag; blast the world with our confidence and alienate others that way if that is our preference. Bluster our way through, clinging to our manhood by our fingertips.
How, in this complex feminised world, can we re-establish ourselves; regain our status as protector and pillar, breadwinner and foundation.
The question really is... are we really needed anymore?
Have we just become a shoulder to lean on? Have we become merely an ear to listen silently to our women’s fears and needs? Are we only sounding boards as they talk themselves into a decision or play out their psycho-babble? What is our role now? No more are we the hunters or protectors; brow beaten and chastised we question ourselves; question our man-ness. We dismiss it as macho bullshit.
From beneath my weights I don’t want to dismiss it. We are men, we are man! This world is built on our shoulders and our legacy has brought us to this sanitised, feminised, moment in history. Our success is in danger of rendering us obsolete and bringing us to the brink of extinction. We’ve managed to fashion a world that scarcely needs us and now we have the daunting task of finding our place in it.
Yes, I can fuck. Yes, I can fight if need be. My muscles are strong and in them is a cultural memory of toil and hardship. My DNA has fought to be here today. Countless generations of battles and victories have preserved my essence. The blood that flows through my veins, in times gone by, has soaked the earth as it’s wrestled for its survival. These victories aren’t forgotten; they pulse inside of me. They fuel me. They wait for the moment when they will be called upon again. Ready, as history turns, and we, once again, can rise to our birth rite.
Lately the urge to write has only welled up in me when I’ve been inebriated. Actually to be fair to myself the only times I’ve have had the opportunity or inclination to write has been in the wee dark hours of the morning and whisky just happens to be the catalyst.
Tonight my musing is on man-hood. A lot of my intellectualising is often spent on documentaries of times long past, Romans and Greeks and what-not. I am something of a geek. My geekiness only stretches to a few subjects. Generally these are physics, astronomy and of course ancient history. Although my mind can be pulled in different directions inadvertently I find myself returning to these disciplines. I’m lured back to the cradle of civilization or the quantum world or the glorious magnitude of the universe.
These glories capture my imagination. I wonder at the philosophies that are inspired by the laws of thermodynamics or special relativity. I’m humbled by the concept of infinity and the modern theories of physics that elevate maths into the stratosphere; giving it the un-attainability of a religion, demanding a faith in the numbers, knowing that a tangible proof would be impossible.
But more often than not I return to the classical world; the Roman emperors, the Greek generals and the Hebrew leaders of Biblical legend. These times are shrouded in myth and third generation hearsay. Story-telling, finally put down on paper after being passed on, word of mouth, for decades or sometimes centuries. Exaggerated self-interest and in later times retrospective politicising. These tales are our histories, these people are our forebears and more importantly these people are us; stripped of our sensibilities and good manners, they show us ourselves in simpler times. They show us ourselves in times when people knew themselves. Their place in the world, the limits of their aspirations; what they could hope to achieve within the confines of their particular reality.
The Roman emperor was a God and could be worshiped as such; the lowly slave had to content himself with his life of servitude. He lived on his wits and the philanthropy of others for his success. Winning one's freedom was possible. You could buy your way out of servitude or in some cases fight your way out of it.
The Gladiators of old were slaves. Bought and traded but within the arena they could become Gods earning more than a soldier yearly salary for a single fight. Scarcely more than animals, vermin in civil society, they were lusted after by noble women. A bit of rough yet idolised for their bravery but more to the point their masculinity; their manliness, their man-ness.
We have nothing to compare nowadays. Fighting in the street is shameful, chavy. Nowadays we are above that. We should know better but we are still weighed down with the concept of being a real man. How now do we prove our worth?
In days gone by we could have fought in the arena or on the battle field; sword to sword, nose to nose and claimed our honour. Today the battles are mired in political controversy, hindered by rules and concepts of humanity. We can fight but we become political pawns or charity cases when the worse comes to the worse. Sob stories cast down at the feet of politicians. The art of war, of manly pursuits reduced to apologetic sound-bites of respect and regrets.
What have we left? We can still fuck. We can be that guy, the conqueror of innocence and chastity. We can dominate the pussy if we so choose. We can be the cock, the romantic hero, the lover. Or we can strut and barge and brag; blast the world with our confidence and alienate others that way if that is our preference. Bluster our way through, clinging to our manhood by our fingertips.
How, in this complex feminised world, can we re-establish ourselves; regain our status as protector and pillar, breadwinner and foundation.
The question really is... are we really needed anymore?
Have we just become a shoulder to lean on? Have we become merely an ear to listen silently to our women’s fears and needs? Are we only sounding boards as they talk themselves into a decision or play out their psycho-babble? What is our role now? No more are we the hunters or protectors; brow beaten and chastised we question ourselves; question our man-ness. We dismiss it as macho bullshit.
From beneath my weights I don’t want to dismiss it. We are men, we are man! This world is built on our shoulders and our legacy has brought us to this sanitised, feminised, moment in history. Our success is in danger of rendering us obsolete and bringing us to the brink of extinction. We’ve managed to fashion a world that scarcely needs us and now we have the daunting task of finding our place in it.
Yes, I can fuck. Yes, I can fight if need be. My muscles are strong and in them is a cultural memory of toil and hardship. My DNA has fought to be here today. Countless generations of battles and victories have preserved my essence. The blood that flows through my veins, in times gone by, has soaked the earth as it’s wrestled for its survival. These victories aren’t forgotten; they pulse inside of me. They fuel me. They wait for the moment when they will be called upon again. Ready, as history turns, and we, once again, can rise to our birth rite.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Hound of the Baskervilles and the rest of the world
It’s business as usual in the household. The Girlf’s wisdom teeth are playing up, the Eldest is distraught and stressing over a boy and the Youngest is still immensely gay. The house is tidy, clean and cozy so my day off is exactly that, a day off. The weights have been pumped, the body throbs and I am having dinner cooked for me tonight so I’ve absolutely nothing to do, which suits me nicely.
This is a stark contrast to the last few weeks. We’ve had the insanity of Christmas, a heavy workload and of course Hound of the Baskervilles. My return to the stage is complete and finally I can sit down, relax and take stock.
With hindsight I went straight back in at the deep end. As parts go the stage time of Sir Henry was huge, pretty much up there with Holmes and Watson. I suppose his lines were concise by comparison but as per-usual I didn’t consider any of this and just said yes to everything. How hard could it be eh?
Something I realized eventually was I hadn’t worked hard enough on the character. Learning the lines isn’t the be-all and end-all, merely the first step. This didn’t really dawn on me until after the first night, a mixture of tension, stuttering and corpseing that the Girlf pointed out in no uncertain terms afterwards.
The accent was certainly a distraction, but a poor excuse if I’m honest. I totally overlooked the physicality in rehearsal, for a character to not merely be you standing on stage and reciting you have to imbue him with habits and physical characteristics that set him apart from you. At the very least this gives the actor the sense that he’s working harder on stage and this settles the nerves and increases the confidence.
My Thursday night notes were dually absorbed and Friday and Saturday were a great improvement. Work I’m genuinely proud of. All in all I couldn’t have hoped for a better group to work with, easy going and talented they helped ease my re-introduction to theatre. It’s still hard work but it’s nice to feel all those old synapses firing again after a decade long sabbatical. Still a work in progress, I’m looking forward to the next project, totally modern, funny and dark it will be a completely different experience. Hound as been a gentle route back into acting and now I can use all I’ve learnt from it on the next thing. I’ve still got to do a bloody accent though.
The world has continued to turn during my intellectual absence. The depressive cloud of reality still hangs over humanity; it’s getting to the point that I don’t bother watching the news anymore. It’s becoming evident that soon none of us will be able to afford to eat, drive or generally do anything. I’m sick of hearing about austerity, the lack of growth and cuts. We’ve gone from a prosperous country to a third world state in under three years. This perplexes me because nothing has actually changed. We have the same amount of people and the same amount of stuff yet because a few naughts have fallen off some-ones computer screen we’re all fucked.
We now think are houses are worth half what we thought they were worth. They’re still there, still keeping us dry and warm yet they have less value. It doesn’t matter anyway, the banks aren’t lending to anyone so even though your house is nice and cheap no one’s going to buy it. The horror is we’ll just have to content ourselves with living in them. Shocking.
What does interest me is that the Middle East is currently over-brimming with optimism, dictators are being over-thrown or in the process of being over-thrown. On the brink of real change endorphin levels in North Africa and Arabia must going through the roof. Providing one survives all the turmoil this could be the best few weeks for these people in living memory.
Of course this excellent news can’t pierce the fog of our depression. It is in fact yet another reason to be pissed off. With the prospect of change imminent we’ve latched on to the possibility that it will be a change we don’t like. Those nasty Muslims could take over… in Muslim countries. Our favorable status quo is teetering and we’re coming over all Daily Mail at the prospect. This has a lot to do with that fact that these horrible dictators were installed by us in the first place. Totalitarian partners with our interests at heart, mutual back-scratching with Satan himself, we struggle with democracy at home let alone in far flung, oil rich areas abroad.
The big fear is whoever gets control in the end won’t like us very much and make life awkward, democratic or not, what might be good for them could possibly be very shit for us. It’s not a surprise that any fledgling ‘democracies’ in the region are being set up in the wake of our armed forced blitzkrieg. Who’s going to get overly stroppy with an invading army sat in their living room?
Certainly, as Libya smolders, there is a real threat of another war. Our special forces are over there right now trying to get British nationals out. Kaddafi is being investigated over any possible crimes against humanity and that in its self posses the question, what do you do if he has committed these crimes?
Saddam Hussein and Iraq have set a precedent.
This is a stark contrast to the last few weeks. We’ve had the insanity of Christmas, a heavy workload and of course Hound of the Baskervilles. My return to the stage is complete and finally I can sit down, relax and take stock.
With hindsight I went straight back in at the deep end. As parts go the stage time of Sir Henry was huge, pretty much up there with Holmes and Watson. I suppose his lines were concise by comparison but as per-usual I didn’t consider any of this and just said yes to everything. How hard could it be eh?
Something I realized eventually was I hadn’t worked hard enough on the character. Learning the lines isn’t the be-all and end-all, merely the first step. This didn’t really dawn on me until after the first night, a mixture of tension, stuttering and corpseing that the Girlf pointed out in no uncertain terms afterwards.
The accent was certainly a distraction, but a poor excuse if I’m honest. I totally overlooked the physicality in rehearsal, for a character to not merely be you standing on stage and reciting you have to imbue him with habits and physical characteristics that set him apart from you. At the very least this gives the actor the sense that he’s working harder on stage and this settles the nerves and increases the confidence.
My Thursday night notes were dually absorbed and Friday and Saturday were a great improvement. Work I’m genuinely proud of. All in all I couldn’t have hoped for a better group to work with, easy going and talented they helped ease my re-introduction to theatre. It’s still hard work but it’s nice to feel all those old synapses firing again after a decade long sabbatical. Still a work in progress, I’m looking forward to the next project, totally modern, funny and dark it will be a completely different experience. Hound as been a gentle route back into acting and now I can use all I’ve learnt from it on the next thing. I’ve still got to do a bloody accent though.
The world has continued to turn during my intellectual absence. The depressive cloud of reality still hangs over humanity; it’s getting to the point that I don’t bother watching the news anymore. It’s becoming evident that soon none of us will be able to afford to eat, drive or generally do anything. I’m sick of hearing about austerity, the lack of growth and cuts. We’ve gone from a prosperous country to a third world state in under three years. This perplexes me because nothing has actually changed. We have the same amount of people and the same amount of stuff yet because a few naughts have fallen off some-ones computer screen we’re all fucked.
We now think are houses are worth half what we thought they were worth. They’re still there, still keeping us dry and warm yet they have less value. It doesn’t matter anyway, the banks aren’t lending to anyone so even though your house is nice and cheap no one’s going to buy it. The horror is we’ll just have to content ourselves with living in them. Shocking.
What does interest me is that the Middle East is currently over-brimming with optimism, dictators are being over-thrown or in the process of being over-thrown. On the brink of real change endorphin levels in North Africa and Arabia must going through the roof. Providing one survives all the turmoil this could be the best few weeks for these people in living memory.
Of course this excellent news can’t pierce the fog of our depression. It is in fact yet another reason to be pissed off. With the prospect of change imminent we’ve latched on to the possibility that it will be a change we don’t like. Those nasty Muslims could take over… in Muslim countries. Our favorable status quo is teetering and we’re coming over all Daily Mail at the prospect. This has a lot to do with that fact that these horrible dictators were installed by us in the first place. Totalitarian partners with our interests at heart, mutual back-scratching with Satan himself, we struggle with democracy at home let alone in far flung, oil rich areas abroad.
The big fear is whoever gets control in the end won’t like us very much and make life awkward, democratic or not, what might be good for them could possibly be very shit for us. It’s not a surprise that any fledgling ‘democracies’ in the region are being set up in the wake of our armed forced blitzkrieg. Who’s going to get overly stroppy with an invading army sat in their living room?
Certainly, as Libya smolders, there is a real threat of another war. Our special forces are over there right now trying to get British nationals out. Kaddafi is being investigated over any possible crimes against humanity and that in its self posses the question, what do you do if he has committed these crimes?
Saddam Hussein and Iraq have set a precedent.
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