The Fog

"But you see, I have, let's say, sixty years to live. Most of that time will be spent working. I've chosen the work I want to do. If I find no joy in it, then I'm only condemning myself to sixty years of torture. And I can find the joy only if I do my work in the best way possible to me. But the best is a matter of standards--and I set my own standards. I inherit nothing. I stand at the end of no tradition. I may, perhaps, stand at the beginning of one."
--Ayn Rand, from The Fountainhead

I just have to say it. A life in the theatre is a arduous, repetitive existence. It consumes you, it drains you like a vampire. Your life is backwards: constant measuring and metre reading of how much energy you must conserve and utilise at the end of every day. You miss the daylight. You miss office hours. You miss your friends, your family.

The rehearsals are always a positive act of creation, my favourite part really. Six weeks of bone crushing mental and physical labor. Art. Delving, thinking, creating, problem solving, risk taking. Feeling inspired and motivated and alive. Falling into the kind of deep sleep only full living can achieve. But the 8 shows a week into infinity thing... is more than numbing. At times it feels soul destroying.

And nothing prepares you for it. No amount of training could ever communicate how much focus and stamina and mental health it requires. Truly, the last thing I really remember, it was July. Where did it go? It is all a grey mush of headscarves and dancing Jews...blah.

Yet, I swear, I commit to every second of the work, at times I am moved, at times I still feel a love for it. But I've done it over 300 times. Today I sang Far From the Home I Love and I thought to myself "Self, you sang this one year ago today. You stared into Henry's eyes and wrestled with him for control and won. You did it all as you are doing it today. Well. With love. For the 300th time. And in the same costume. Save the gloves. You asked for longer gloves." (Because no one gets on a train to Siberia with gloves that don't even cover your wrists...)

The thing is this: I have worked my entire life, all twenty four and a half years, to be exactly where I am at this moment-- at the top of the profession working on Broadway (or as is the current case, the West End). And after all of the sweat and struggle and tears, I have arrived. I am here. And it is a little disappointing. Some days it's just a job like any other. And it's heartbreaking. And I can't help but admit I want more.

But perhaps this is the true gift of Fiddler has bestowed upon me. It has given me the vision and the courage to have new goals, higher standards, more specific desires. To be a creator. To voice and articulate in every way possible, my own vision of this world, of human nature.

Yes, I have awakened inside this fog. I have struggled through the mist, fought and stabbed into the invisible sky, and won. Won what, you ask? A jewel of knowledge, I shall answer you. The fog has narrowed the focus on the work I want to do. The work I do not want to do. The things I will never do again. If an artist reveals his naked soul in his work, I must strive to do nothing less. Ever. What have we but our integrity? And I will run dry, I will run out of fuel if I continue to give cheaply to others that which I do not have; that which has not yet been created by me. Creation comes before distribution- or there will be nothing to distribute. The need of the creator comes before the need of any possible beneficiary.

And so to The Fog. Again.
For another day.
Fight the Fog Silber!
Fight it Reader!
Fight.

"In the name of the best within you, do not sacrifice this world to those who are its worst. In the name of the values that keep you alive, do not let your vision of man be distorted by the ugly, the cowardly, the mindless in those who have never achieved his title. Do not lose your knowledge that man's proper estate is an upright posture, an intransigent mind and a step that travels unlimited roads. Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it's yours."

January Appreciation

Welcome New Year.

Jean-Paul Sartre said, "To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June." I like January. I like the garnet birthstone, the flowers (carnations, snowdrops, and in China, the plum blossom). I even like that January is National Soup Month in the United States.

But mostly, I appreciate January's symbolism. Named after Janus, the Roman god of doorways, and of beginnings and endings, Janus was considered the spirit of 'opening'. He is represented with a two sided head, one looking ahead and the other always looking behind. He also symbolically represented the city of Rome: looking back at the primitive cultures before them, and forward as the first real civilization, (some Roman coins show him with, and some without, beards...which I find amusing...)

Sure, it leaves something to be desired in the holiday area (without any offense intended to Martin Luther King Jr. Day on the the third Monday, [Robert] Burns Night on the 25th, or Australia Day on the 26th-- I mean, I love the 'I have a dream speech,' haggis and Anzak biccies as much as the next guy!), but I see a beauty in an official time to start fresh, to move forward with courage, dignity and clear knowledge (having hopefully learned from our past errors). All of this, cultivated in the dead of winter (again with no offense intended to my Southern Hemisphere readers), is poetry to me. One of those thoughts that makes you breathe deeply.

So.
Enjoy January. Breathe it in!

"O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire
The streams than under ice. June could not hire
Her roses to forego the strength they learn
In sleeping on thy breast."
-- Helen Hunt Jackson, A Calendar of Sonnets: January

Auld Lang Syne

May 2008 bring you every possible happiness. Contentment, refreshing walks, warmth, comfort, laughter, meaningful conversation, and lots of fresh fruit.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Happy 2008.

Pride & Prejudice

All 6 episodes.
With Tash. (i.e, Chava)
And a table full of gorgeous organic food.
Shamelessly indulgent!
What a way to bid farewell to 2007.

We had to rewind a few times so we could watch Colin sit. (He has a very special way of flaring his his coattails elegantly and gliding into a chair...mmm...) And Tash was very patient and appreciative with the audio-commentary (I love to add little "somethings" to every televisual viewing: subtext, inner monologue, witty quips, etc. I'm sure it's an acquired taste in viewing, but we had a grand ol' time). I highly recommend the marathon.

Mr. Darcy: Do you talk by rule, then, when you're dancing?

Elizabeth Bennet: Yes, sometimes it is best. Then we may enjoy the advantage of saying as little as possible.

Mr. Darcy: Do you consult your own feelings in this case, or seek to gratify mine?

Elizabeth Bennet: Both, I imagine. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room.

Mr. Darcy: [drily] This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I'm sure.

PS) In case you were wondering, yes, D's similarity to Darcy has already been noted...

Linus Says it Best.

"That's what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown..."

Domestic Happenings, Episode 2: Christmas Tree Debacle

[At rise: Al and Damian at Wilkinson, a local home goods shop, to purchase this year's Christmas tree.]



A: What?! 3 feet or 6 feet. Those are the only options?
D: Looks like it.
A: 3 feet is dinky and stupid. 6 feet is ridiculous.
D: Yes.
A: What do we do?
D: I don't know.
A: Let's get a real one!
D: I've never had a real tree before!
A: That settles it then.
A & D: Excellent!

[They march out of the store with newfound Christmas Purpose]

***

[A street market on Wood Green High Road. Make no mistake, Wood Green is dodgy. Questionable in too many ways to articulate. But it's Christmas and this corner is selling pine trees. They smell beautiful. Like Michigan.]

Dodgy Wood Green Tree Seller: Right. You 'ave the 3 foot ones in the pots for £14, or the 6 foot ones 'ere for £18. The needles won't fall off either [pronounced "ee-vuh"].

[??!! Fantastic.]

A: Right. That's helpful. [Square One. My favourite place.]
D: Well... I mean, at least it will be real. And we can replant it afterwards.
A: [to Tree Seller] Can we LOOK at the small trees without the net?
TS: No.
A: Really?
TS: 'fraid not.
A: Uh huh...
D: Real trees love the earth...?
A: ... and we're supporting our local community by buying from this woman on the street...?
D: and we can replant it in January...?
A: ...but we can't LOOK at it.
D: Right.
A: Right.
D: Let's just get this one. [indicated to dinky potted tree.]
A: Okay.

[Money exchanged. Awkward journey home with ethical potted mystery tree.]

* * *

[At home. The Spot selected. Arrangements made. Mystery Tree is placed on a small side table, the one it will majestically stand on for the next few weeks. String net is removed, branches flattened. A pause.]

A & D: [Silence]

[They stand there side by side. Arms crossed. Examining the tree. It looks like a mangled stray dog. It looks worse than a Charlie Brown tree. It looks like they bought it from a dodgy street market. It looks awful. But can they say it? What is the other thinking? Do we love it anyway or tell the truth? If we tell the truth will we crush the others' hopes?!]

A: Wow.
D: Mmmm.
A: It will be great.
D: Mmmm.



* * *

[Lying in bed later that night. The darkness brings out the truth...]

A: Damian...?
D: Yes Al.
A: Damian, I-- I--
D: --hate the tree?
A: I HATE THE TREE!!!
D: I ALSO HATE THE TREE!!!

* * *

Today we bought the socially unethical, environmentally unfriendly, highly dependable, fake tree.

The real one it outside, waiting to be planted. Our mitzvah.

Sometimes I say stupid things...

This is one of those unfortunate situations where I cannot name names really. The names would MAKE the stories in many ways, but suffice it to say that these people I have made myself an idiot in front of, are important. At least in my particular line of work. So a few names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Scene 1:

At rise: Swanky London Theatre Do. Very loud. Very crowded. Very posh. Cameras, canapes and drinks.

Exchange between myself and an eccentric, but very swanky member of a Theatrical Royal Family. I have made an idiot of myself in front of this man on many occasions, including one where I was singing 'Matchmaker' with a very free spirit indeed, and wearing an outfit that did very little to salvage my dignity. Another time I accidentally caught him out misquoting Shakespeare. Needless to say, many of my interactions with this person, ever go over well. Anyway.

Him: Hello there Alexaaaaaandra.
Al: Hello.

[Al notices this man is dressed head to toe in velvet, including his shoes. Takes a moment to process this...]

Him: Did you phone me a few weeks ago? I erased it by accident, I am utter crap.
Al: I did, about my UK Visa. It's fine. I didn't really expect--
Him: How are you dahling?
Al: Fine. Things are fine. [Insert Snow Day story here] Looking forward to the holidays.

Him: You look gooooorgeous my love, really fierce. It's always lovely to see you at these "DOs"
Al: Ah, thank you, uh, likewise. How are you doing?
Him: [Hands to forehead] Oh... well you know how it is. Busy busy busy as usual. Never any time for frivolities.
Al: Uh, indeed.

[Al doesn't know what to say at this point, not much has been said thus far. Do you engage in more small talk or launch in to an artistic dialogue that could lead to dangerous paths of Bard misquotation and possible humiliation? Or does one just gracefully leave? In a panic, Al decides on none of these, and instead, blunders. A messy and gruesome few seconds ensue. She places her hand awkwardly on the jacket lapel of Royalty Man, and says the following:]

Well here we are! And look at you! Well, well. Huh. YOU... Just.... well somebody sure loves velvet!
Him: ... Well... Yes ...I do in fact...

[HORRIFIC. SICKENING. PATHETIC. FAILURE. ]

Scene 2:

TV Interviewer: Mind if we interview you for XYZ TV?
Al: Not at all.

[Al is thinking 'Oh God.']

TV Interviewer: Just look straight at me, and relax.
Al: Alright.

[Now Al is thinking 'WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T USE THE PHRASE "AMAZING JOURNEY." Only idiotic, lame scrambling artsy types say that. Only people that have nothing to say. DON'T SAY "AMAZING JOURNEY!" DON'T SAY IT... SAY ANYTHING, EVEN "F*%k" BUT NOT "AMAZING JOURNEY"...']

Al: ...Well it's just been such an amazing journey...

[Whist continuing to speak utter rubbish, Al is thinking: 'Fantastic.']

Homemade Marshmallows...

Homemade marshmallows are an exquisite delicate candy. With a full vanilla flavour and a melt-in-your-mouth texture to die for; they like little clouds of sweetness that are easy to eat, go perfectly with coffee, flavored coffee drinks and of course hot chocolate; as well as being crucial for the creation of the glorious S'MORE. They are also surprisingly easy to make, and very impressive when you bring them out to serve your guests.

The only real drawback is that you really need a stand mixer to make them (it has a very large whisk--as opposed to the slightly less efficient beaters of a hand-held mixer). I recommend using vanilla bean paste or vanilla bean crush instead of plain vanilla extract because the tiny bean specks really look fantastic in the finished candy, as well as tasting gorgeous.

Homemade Marshmallows

.75-oz unflavored gelatin (3 envelopes of Knox gelatin)
1/2 cup cold water
2 cups granulated sugar
2/3 cups light corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Line 9 x 9-inch pan with plastic wrap and lightly oil it. Set aside.

• In the bowl of an electric mixer, sprinkle gelatin over 1/2 cup cold water. Soak for about 10 minutes.


• Meanwhile, combine sugar, corn syrup and 1/4 cup water in a small saucepan. Bring the mixture to a rapid boil and boil hard for 1 minute.


• Pour the boiling syrup into soaked gelatin and turn on the mixer, using the whisk attachment, to high speed. Add the salt and beat for 12 minutes. After 12 minutes, add in the vanilla extract beat to incorporate.


• Scrape marshmallow into the prepared pan and spread evenly (Lightly greasing your hands and the spatula helps a lot here).


• Take another piece of lightly oiled plastic wrap and press lightly on top of the marshmallow, creating a seal. Let mixture sit for a few hours, or overnight, until cooled and firmly set.


• In a shallow dish, combine equal parts cornstarch and confectioners' sugar. Remove marshmallow from pan and cut into equal pieces with scissors (the best tool for the job) or a chef's knife. Dredge each piece of marshmallow in confectioners' sugar mixture.


• Store in an airtight container.

Makes about 40 large marshmallows, depending on the size you choose to cut them.

Enjoy... mmm....

Snow Day!

The revolve broke. So they cancelled the matinee.
And the screaming in celebration was phenomenal. It shook the building. The boys upstairs in 18 pounded the floors until the ceiling cracked. I think I hit a note that nearly broke the mirror. Frances danced on the spot. Tash simply fell to her knees and genuflected. Tomm and Damian blasted in to our room and we all jumped up and down in a group embrace. It was delirious, exaltative insanity.
The break from the routine.
The knowledge that something is greater than the power of the show, and it ruling our every breath and heartbeat. It was a good moment. Like a Snow Day.

'The Quiet World' by Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it in to my ear
Without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

-- Jeffrey McDaniel

A bad night in the theatre...

What DOES a bad night consist of?

A ticket to a West End show costs £55-60, well over a hundred dollars. I think for that amount of money, you should be guaranteed a flawless performance with the entire original company. (In fact, I think for that amount of money, you should get to go home with the ensemble member of your choice, but that's ... not up for discussion...) The fact is, however, that you're not guaranteed much, other than a hopefully-not-too-uncomfortable amount of legroom, and in London, you don't even get a free program. 

The Leading Man might be off, a piece of scenery might get stuck, lighting cues might get missed, Fruma Sarah may not fly, the principal (or in our case, ONLY) violinist might get stuck in a scooter accident on his way to the theater. You still spent over 50 quid, but you are not getting what you paid for.

That being said, most of the shows that I do, and most of the shows I attend, go off without a hitch (or at least, without a hitch that I notice), but this post is about the inevitable night when things go very, very wrong.

* * *

In the run of Fiddler the following things have gone terribly wrong:

1. horrendous lighting cue mic ups, resulting in the wedding being lit by the the dream lighting state. Bad.

2. The revolve BROKE. No plan B. Show cancelled.

3. As a result of there only being ONE understudy for the three leading daughters, we had to cancel two saturday performances due to myself and Tzeitel being unable to perform (Franny was bedridden, I had an allergic reaction to a face lotion I put on my eyes: see picture, above...)

4. Fyedka (the new kid on the block, 21-year-old Welschman Michael) responds to Chava
Fyedka: Would you like to borrow this book? It's very good.
Chava: No, thank you.
Fyedka: Why? because I am JEWISH? [stunned horror on everyone's face. Michael has just ruined this entire plotline in one foul swoop.] Um... do you feel about...[scrambles] non-jews, they way... they feel about YOU?
Chava: [Exhasperated Natasha voice] I don't think we should be talking this way.
Fyedka: You're quite right. [totally humiliated expression.]

5. Chava basically forgot to put her microphone on... it was funny...

6. We had to begin a performance without THE FIDDLER (who, if you do not know, plays the very first line of the show as an unaccompanied solo... so that was great...). We had to put a capo on the cello and press on. It was already 7:45.

7. Understudy Tevye and 3rd conductor both on for the first time... it was a real low.

8. Another beautiful Fyedka Foil was the following:
Fyedka: We cannot stay amound people who do such things to others.
Chava: We wanted you to know that. Goodbye Papa.... mama....
Fyedka: Yes we are also leaving. [Michael TOTALLY BLANKS... and then makes it up...badly...] Some go.... because of others.... Us.... [points dramatically... perhaps to make up for the severity of the blunder] by...you....

I mean, Oh my God.

But nothing quite compared to WiW; the five magical times the electronic background video stalled, and eventually turned into a Microsoft™ screen, with moving mouse arrow and eeeeeeverything... Fantastic.

* * *

As I said, most of the time, it all goes smoothly. Actors are amazing at covering themselves; even when things are completely insane, most actors won't show it, they'll just start instinctively modifying what they're doing to solve the problems. Musicians are equally brilliant at adjusting on the spot; jumping, or adding beats, or transposing on a dime if something starts to go off. AND, if I may say so, it is to all-of-those-people-exposed-on-the-stage-every-night's credit, that most audiences have no idea how much goes wrong during even an unexceptional, normal performance. Enjoy.

PS) Any other good stories out there?

Condensed Film Scripts: Catwoman

Ostensibly based on the DC Comics character and starring Halle Berry, the film resembles next to nothing of its source material ("Catwoman In Name Only"), which is most definitely not for the best.

In this "piece," Catwoman has super duper cat-person powers, (which she lacks in the comics), and her lycra catsuit is replaced (though sparingly) with slashed leather trousers, a bra, and a mask-cap---thingy. She leaps from rooftop to rooftop in stiletto heels, and we watch on (in simultaneous wonder and disgust) as her costumes get skimpier as the movie progresses.

One of the choice fighting scenes makes use of a face beauty cream that when applied gives the wearer invincibility.

There are so few words, but the most apt would be: “ Me-ouch! ”

* * *

Part One

Patience: Hi, I'm Patience Phillips-- a shy, sensitive artist woman who can't seem to stop apologizing for my own existence. I work as a graphic designer for a mammoth cosmetics company on the verge of releasing a revolutionary anti-aging product run by two evil people. Sorry if that was long. Sorry. Really sorry.

Part Two

(Later, at THE MAKEUP FACTORY, Patience is delivering her artwork. She stops suddenly! Accidentally overhearing the following...)

Health Inspector: this anti-aging product is UNSAFE!

Sharon Stone Evil Makeup Corporate Person: What do you mean?

Her Evil Husband: This is a very very dark secret indeed Health Inspector. No one must know! WAIT!! WHO IS THAT LURKING IN THE CORNER?!! PATIENCE PHILLIPS?! That shy, sensitive artist woman who can't seem to stop apologizing for her own existence? GET HER!

Sharon Stone Evil Makeup Corporate Person: PATIENCE PHILLIPS MUST DIE.

Patience: Oh no! I am in the middle of a corporate conspiracy!

(Patience runs into a large waste water pipe, where she is trapped, and they flush her into the river, where she drowns. This is where we all hope the movie is over but then...)

Part Three

Egyptian Mau Cat: I have been watching you for DAYS Patience Phillips, and for some unexplained reason, I coincidentally knew that you were about to die and luckily made it here just in the nick. I have "special" powers that are given only to a few deserving potentially sexy women after they die... most of these woman are more confident and successful that you, but you will look great in the outfit.

(Patience is reborn with new sexy catlike powers.)

Part Four

Catwoman: What a mystical twist of fate! I now have the strength, speed, agility and ultra-keen sexy senses of a cat.

Egyptian Mau Cat: Yes. That is the idea. You see, I am a cat... so... hence, the powers... right.

Catwoman: Patience and Catwoman are two completely different people, yet WE ARE ONE.

Egyptian Mau Cat: How confusing...

Catwoman: I seek sexy sexy REVENGE for those who murdered Patience. Meow! Hiss!

Egyptian Mau Cat: Steady there.

(With her newfound prowess and feline intuition, Patience becomes Catwoman, a sleek and stealthy creature balancing on the thin SEXY and yet again SEXYTHIN line between good and bad...very bad...)

Part Five

(Her adventures are temporarily and shallowly complicated by a burgeoning relationship with Tom Lone (Benjamin Bratt), a police detective who has fallen for Patience but cannot shake his fascination with the mysterious (and highly sexy) Catwoman, who appears to be responsible for a string of crime sprees plaguing the city.)

Patience: Catwoman's wild side is beginning to have more influence over me!
Catwoman: Now I will begin to follow my own sexy rules.

(Look out world, sexiness has never acted so badly.)