The Hornpipe

The Hornpipe from stage right!

The Penultimate Evening Hornpipe at The Savoy Theatre, London (Sharpy's last hornpipe-- Sharpy is played by Derek Hagan in the red head scarf and this was his last show! The ensemble stepped back to let him and Victoria Hinde do their "lovey dovey" sequence as a solo!)

Enjoy!

The Salt Mines of Nerchinsk

It was political prisoners used to work the mines, which was foolish of the system, for what better place to discuss rogue political ideals with like-minded thinkers, than deep within the cavernous infinity of Siberian darkness? It would not be a foolish assumption to think the eventual Revolution began within the frozen salt mines of Nerchinsk katorga.

Katorga labor was, in those days, generally used for mining lead ore, salt and silver. Also in foundries, wine-making and salt-processing factories. This particular katorga, also known as a frozen work-camp of the Russian Empire, had been in operation since the 18th century, and was located in the Nerchinsk okrug of Transbaikalia, between the rivers Shilka and Argun near the border to Mongolia. This was the most remote prison camp in European Russia, and since the establishment of the Nerchinsk Katorga Administration, this particularly brutal base had been reserved for the tortuous vassalage of political prisoners, keeping them as far away from the major cities of Moscow and Petersburg as it was possible to get.

Prisoner 90137 wiped his brow. His face was sore and tight, his hands cracked, his lips flaked and bleeding, all from the salt in the cave’s atmosphere. Residual salt. Skin peeling, falling away. Salt in his lungs, his hair. In his eyes and filling his nose with a stinging dry, agony. He exhaled and began again.

“Mikhail!” rasped a voice from down the shaft, “Do you have a sip, brother?”

He did.
Liquid was at a premium here in the caves, as dehydration was the leading cause of death among the salt miners, and liquid that would not freeze was more valuable than gold. He rummaged through his knapsack and slid the regulation flask down the shaft where the faceless worker’s withering hand reached out from within the darkness to clutch it.

“Thank you, brother,” the voice rasped. And with that, Mikhail took up his pick and began again.

*

As he returned from the mines and stood at the entrance of their barracks, he caught a glimpse of Shura washing herself in a basin, her beautiful hair unraveled and flecked with the thawed light of the wasteland that would always be imprinted upon his mind as their first home. He bathed in the autumnal light of this hazy evening, and realized he had asked Shura to be his wife just over a year ago. Light, he thought, has a funny way of imprinting itself upon your memories. He was suddenly stung with regret. How quickly things had altered.

For all his talk, for all his rhetoric, his dreams and visions for the future of The People were minute in comparison to his dreams and visions of a future for Shura. He loved her and all that she was more than he had ever loved anything. And his commitment was not a promise to honor her throughout his life, no, it was, more than anything, a commitment to opening his unpracticed heart. To endeavor to give her, not all that he had, but all he knew she deserved.

She felt him enter and her body responded to his presence. She moved towards him with a knowing tranquility. Half dressed and hair unleashed, she wrapped herself around him. And he tasted, as he did every day, of salt. Her embrace revived his weary muscles, his cracking, knotted bones. His body felt older and more pickled every day, but her touch revived him like a cool, soothing wash of water. Every glance, every touch revived and buoyed him.

But Shura’s love was not in her glances, or her touch; her love was the palpable warmth of feeling behind these things. In the still of the bitter nights he would enfold her while they talked, and they would make plans and dream. She would lie in the circle of his arms, leaning into him while enclosing his hands.

After a day in the mines, he would come to her for a few moments of sanity, to talk long in to the night, to listen, to have his life held in her sane and discerning mind; to hold hers, to provide some semblance of helpful commentary, and to bask in a contentment that felt like the warmth and strength of a divine hand upon his chest.

She placed her cheek against his, and a flood of emotion rose within him; swollen, bursting, like the waves of an inner ocean. It was this surge of feeling that moved him to kiss the palm of her hand with a covetous thirst, as if drinking in her very essence. The salt of Nerchinsk may indeed have been slowly preserving him, but it purified him too. He was falling, dissolving into her. He relinquished himself to the ebbing pull of her tide, dissolving like a grain of salt in a body of water.

“Shura,” he whispered in to her neck, “Shura, I love you.” He held her with his crumbling fingers, and inhaled deeply the scent of her hair.

She did not need to reply, for the devotion in her eyes and her steadfast grip on his face said it for her. She kissed his mouth, tasted the salt and smiled.

“Your kiss makes me think of King David,” she said.
“King David?” he asked.
“Yes. From Scripture. The salt covenant. Every time we kiss you taste of salt and I think of it. Papa always said salt signified permanence, loyalty, fidelity. It is a symbol of unchanging, incorruptible purity.” Her face formed a small, quiet smile and she kissed him again.
“ ‘Should you not know that the Lord God gave the dominion over Israel to David forever, to him and his sons, by a covenant of salt?’ Chronicles.”
“Yes.”
“Every kiss is a salt covenant?” he asked, smiling.
She grew very serious, “For us. Yes. The unbreakable promise.”

And suddenly, he was overcome. She was in every way his equal, his partner in life. He had found a person who was a reflection of all he cherished, and it was with her sense of life, her way of living, that he had fallen in love. It was reflected in her tiniest gestures, her way of seeing the world, her distinct, irreplaceable Self. He adored her with both his spirit and his reason, and it was the greatest reward of his life. It was not, in any way, a sacrifice; it was the transmission of life. Yes, he thought, Yes. He clung to her for a lingering moment, then lifted her up, and took her to bed.

Everything he could do for her now was about love.

“Should you not know that the Lord God of Israel
gave the dominion over Israel to David forever,
to him and his sons, by a covenant of salt?”
- 2 Chronicles 13:5

Raindrops on Roses

These are a few of my favourite things.
Another list.
I like lists.
In fact, let that be number one...

1. Lists
The virtue of lists (versus a list of virtues...) is infinite. I could list them but then, it might all seem a bit too frightening. Like a vortex sucking us in on ourselves. But lists are a magical thing. Everyday parlance is littered with lists: laundry, grocery, honey-do. "Enough organization, enough lists and we think we can control the uncontrollable," observed one of the faceless unendurably attractive assistants on the TV show House. By now you would think there are enough lists, but still we keep jotting things down in an orderly fashion. So why do I love lists? Aside from the obvious virtues of helping us remember things, keep us from procrastination, relieving stress and freeing the mind; lists bring order to the chaos. "People are attracted to lists because we live in an era of over stimulation, especially in terms of information," says David Wallechinsky, a co-author of the fabulous Book of Lists. "And lists help us in organizing what is otherwise overwhelming." Moreover, lists are finite. They don't usually go on and on. And if they do, you can skip to the bottom of the list. The Internet Movie Database, for instance, lists its "bottom 100 movies as voted by users." (Incidentally, the winner —er, loser —is Zaat, a 1975 sci-fi fiasco). But most important of all? Lists can be meaningful. Who hasn't jotted down the pros and cons? Who hasn't listed the many ways we love someone? Or listed our favourite films, favourite songs, our favourite moments with a person, 25 random things about ourselves? The list, as they say, goes on...

2. The Tate Modern
While my love for what's inside sometimes waxes and wanes, my love for the building itself never dies (For love, my friends, does MANY things... it "changes everything", for example. But as ALW is about to show us in some spectacular of mind-blowing proportions, IT NEVER DIES...) It is so open and welcoming and embracing. The space (though, admittedly, difficult to get to on public transport) is a jewel inviting you to discover the treasures within, or lounge on it's lawn in the sunlight, or simply to enjoy the view in it's cafe with a glass of curiosity cola. Go Tate Modern. You are a thing of beauty unto yourself. And I don't care if I am the only one who can see it. (PS. Oh yes, and it is FREE... what is friendlier than free?)

3. Watermelon
Ahhhhh FOOD PERFECTION... Alright. I admit it: I am watermelon obsessed. I shamelessly gulp down this fruit in all forms. A storehouse of vitamins and minerals, watermelons keep your heart and nervous system in blooming health. It's juicy, sweet, and succulent. Rich in Vitamin A, Vitamin B6, Vitamin B1, Vitamin C, and healthy fibers, lycopene and antioxidants, I look forward to watermelon season every year, and have mastered (with the guidance and Shaman-esque teachings of my fellow watermelon obsessed mother) the art of selecting the perfect fruity specimen by "THWACKING" it (if you will) in the customary Silber manner and listening for the ever-magical CRACK of a "good one." Ohhhhhhh the CRACK of a "good one." How melodious. How intoxicating. The essence of summer.

(Note: Art related to the Mexican holiday Dia de los Muertos commonly depicts watermelons being eaten by the dead or shown in close conjunction with the dead. This theme appears regularly on ceramics and in other art from the holiday. Watermelons also appear as a subject in Mexican still life art. Weird. Love that.)

4. Breakfast for dinner
I could eat it EVERY. DAY. Why is all breakfast food so incredible? Brioche, oatmeal with fruit or raisins, cereal: the best food in the world, scrambled eggs with salmon, paaaaaaaancaaaaaakes, omelets, sausage, bacon, toast toast toast... the list is endless! Breakfast for dinner: nothing better.

5. Peanut Butter
[Details here.]

6. Owls
When I first met my friend R's kids, the oldest thought my name was not in fact Al, but OWL. It stuck. When I call R, OWL SILBER comes up. I love it. I love it because I have always loved owls. This winter Paperchase did an Owl design that I spent a FORTUNE on. I inwardly squealed when I passed the shop on The Strand and whilst shoveling owl merchandise into a basket, immediately phoned R who requested a set of Owl eggcups. It was a moment of madness...

But my love of the owl is not merely aesthetic or sentimental, it runs deeper. There is a sort of global reverence for the Owl. The witch's companion (famously accompanying the likes of Merlin and Harry Potter, as well as dwelling in the Hundred Acre Wood), the owl is deeply connected with magic, wisdom, intuition, education, messages, longevity and heightened senses throughout the ages. What's not to like? They are majestic as well as whimsical, and I like the hours they keep (us theatrical types share the same secret powers of the night...)

In some middle and far eastern cultures, the owl is a sacred guardian of the afterlife, ruler of the night, a seer and keeper of souls transitioning from one plane of existence to another. The ancient Greeks attributed the owl to Athena, goddess of wisdom and foresight. This symbol was used on Greek coins and therefore also became associated with wealth. Native Americans attributed owls with wisdom and sacred knowledge. The shaman would call upon Owl medicine for insight into the truth of ill-intent. Plains Indians wore owl feathers to protect against evil spirits. West African and Aboriginal Australian cultures also saw the owl as a messenger of secrets, and companions to medicine people. In the Celtic tradition, the owl (cailleach-oidhche), represents wisdom, clairvoyance, stealth, initiation, change and detachment. Always aware of its surroundings, the owl uses intuition courageously, with insight into hidden truth, and a guide between earth creatures and Underworld deities.

The owl’s gift of heightened senses enables it to see through deception, external appearances and illusion and to discover hidden truths. (Appparently, if you are drawn to owls or owl symbolism, you may have this same ability to uncover secrets. People may feel uneasy around you, as if you are able to see through pretence). The owl also teaches us to acknowledge the dark side of our personality, and in that darkness we may find a source for growth.

7. Leon (addicted to their organic brown rice and glorious coleslaw that accompany any hot dish. And of course, their low GI brownies with dark Valhrona chocolate and ground almonds and fruit sugar instead of ordinary flour and sugar. (They believe you can have your cake and eat it... and I love them for believing that...)

8. Guerrilla Poetry
Let me explain... I love to leave little poems written on snatches of napkin, say, in unexpected places for people to find. I love to think that perhaps it brightens some one's day to have found a napkin poem lying about waiting to be read.

9. Postcards
They are little magical gifts of beauty and sprightly correspondence. Send them! It takes but a moment to jot down a loving or whimsical message (perhaps a quote or piece of poetry?) I like to keep a few around with me at all times in my diary, in my bag, with postage pre-attached and ready to mail the second a burst of correspondence hits me! It is better than email, better than facebook, it is handwriting, it is "I-thought-of-you-and-sent-this-wrote-this-and-now-you-are-reading-it." Magic! Sometimes I make my own, and I also like to collect truly odd postcards and keep them in a little box with my art supplies or in a special wall-hanging thingy made for photographs. Sometimes for inspiration, at other times just for enjoyment.

10. Recycling
One of my objectives has always been green living and recycling has been a tricky one to crack. London doesn't make it easy, so I am one of those people who brings heaving, gigantic bags of tin cans, plastic bottles and heaps of paper to those vats provided outside the tube station. People stare at me on the bus. One time, someone stared while drinking a can of Fanta. When they were done drinking they threw it on the floor of the bus while making direct eye-contact with me. I picked up the can, shoved it in my giant earth-friendly bag and said "It's not madness, it's recycling. You're welcome."

Trying to stand.

She gathered her breath and tried to stand. The muscles in her legs screamed with agony and gave way beneath the weight of her soaking clothes and spiritual depletion, but she fought on. She didn’t stop to think about it, she only worked her way upward, sweating. Clinging to the stones on the wall, she fought and wrestled her way up, and though she was heavy, and staggered when she finally lifted herself, the physical burden of her body was oddly gratifying in comparison to the agonizing weight in her heart. Victory. She gathered her posture and began to walk.

Burdened so, she made her way down the backstreet. I must find a place to rest for the night, she thought. She turned one corner, then another; made her way past the back of a putrid café, a seedy depot; throngs of rodents and the cretins of society leering at her coldly as she scrambled along. When at last she stood at the gateway to a busy street, she joined the flock of pedestrians. Each inhalation froze her soft-palette with silence and savage cold. The city consumed her; and for a little while she ceased, entirely, to think.

She leaned, forlorn against a weathered wall and thought, I am not what I was. Indeed. She was nothing, and now at least she was the possibility of something. And this she would defend.

*

She returned to find him waiting by the window. How long have I been away? she thought to herself. She recounted her journey to him, a seeming stranger after all that had passed.

“But was it not rough?” he asked after a time.

“Certainly it was rough," she replied. "Certainly I was in danger of my life! The ocean of despair, as it were, reached out for me! The impatient foam required my body for its satisfaction! I believe I enraged it by continuing to exist!” she said with a rich, dark humour, “But I am inextinguishable, it seems. I am beyond the reach of temper or of climate," she uttered, "and like a flimsy scrap of cork still bobbing in quiet bays long after the ship has floundered, I have endured…” she let out a profound sob. “Why?” she cried, “What is it that gives me this… this perpetuity?”

She laughed bitterly, her face almost imperceptibly contorting with pain and amusement. Shura did not know it at the time, but she intrinsically possessed two elusive human qualities: one we call beauty, the other called identity. And although the standard notions of disfigurement were not evident, her disfigured spirit endured a terrible sense of tragedy. And it alone articulated, and would continue to articulate, that pain was a necessity. For Shura, as for us all, pain was no accident, nor was it malformation, nor malice, nor misunderstanding. It was integral to her human character, both in its inflicting and in its suffering.

This is pain's role, she thought to herself, it makes beautiful.

Behind the Scenes: Half Hour Call

Join me backstage, and follow me as I get ready to play Julie.

This is the half hour call at The Savoy Theatre, enjoy!

Domestic Happening, Episode 9: Star Trek

It went like this:

**STAR TREK SPOILERS**

D: Wanna go to bed?
A: Sure. Wanna watch something in bed?
D: Sure. What?
A: Lost?
D: The Pilot of Lost?!
A: No. Star Trek?
D: Really?!! Excellent! Which one?
A: 6?

[Horrified pause]

D: What...?
A: ...six...?
D: Um, Al.... which Star Trek did we watch yesterday?
A: 2?
D: And... what about 3 4 and 5? You wanna just miss those out?
A: But you said 6 was your favourite. [D throws a stern look A's way] ...didn't you?

[thought gathering. there has clearly been a communication breakdown here. "This is MY fault" thinks Damian, I will try again to share the importance of the sequential order thing...he speaks again, VERY. SLOWLY...]

D: ...At the end of the movie when MISTER SPOCK DIES...AND HE TOUCHES McCOY and SAYS "REMEMBER..." ... um.... you don't... ya know?... wanna.... know what happens there....?
A: [Searching for the right answer] ...not particularly.....?
D: [Sigh] Okay, Al. What is the title of Star Trek 3 [Gets Star Trek 3]?
A: "The Search for Spock"!
D: Yes. [Patiently reads the back of the DVD jacket] "IN the wake of Spock's ultimate act of sacrifice, the crew of the USS Enterprise returns to Earth from the newly formed Genesis planet. Upon arrival, the crew learns that life back home will not be easier: Scotty get reassigned, Doctor Bones McCoy appears to be going insane, and the Enterprise is to be decommissioned. It is only when Kirk is to be confronted by Spock's father that he learns his old friend may have another chance at life. If the crew can survive the Klingon interference, and return to the Genesis planet..." I mean, my GOD Al! How can you NOT want to see what happens next?
A: [Thoughtful pause] But... you said 6 was your favourite...?
D: [Hangs head in shame] You cut me deep Al.... you cut me deep...

Fin.

It takes three

What a week.

It took...

A cut pas de deux
a carnival boy crisis
The threat of a show cancel
The great Adam Cooper
The Rodgers & Hammerstein Estate
and THREE Julie Jordans

...to get through this hell of a week, but if you could have been there on Saturday night, feeling the thrill of togetherness, experiencing the rush of an entire company plunging the period, the full stop on to the end of this violent sentence of a week; well... you would know what it feels like to overcome tremendous adversity and emerge victorious. And victory it was.

Saturday was the best show we have ever done. We burst, we radiated, we trembled with the energy--like the pile of ash that remains from a fallen phoenix. Or a collective creature raging against the dying of the light. This one is for us, we thought. This one is for principle, for nothing other than the fight. We are fighting against our fire going out, "spark by irreplaceable spark." We will not let the heroes within us expire. But Saturday? We were magnificent. Because we are magnificent, and can not be spoiled.

The crowd gave full throttle cheers from the first moment, and were wiping tears off of their chins by the end. The audience was on their feet in a way they have not been since Press Night. And we, more than we ever had, had earned it.

Sometimes in this world, we get burgled. We lay our souls open and bare, like a trusting person would a front door, and people take advantage of our openness, of our extraordinary courage to be so, and burgle us. And who knows why? Jealousy, greed, shattering envy, fear, arrogance, carelessness. The list is infinite. But the terrible transparency of truth reveals these dark forces to be brittle and stooping and banal.

What I do know is this: we could not have reached this serenity without all the violence we have known. But then again, isn't that true of everything?

Coops...

...as Carnival Boy.

Adam Cooper Comes to Rescue of Carousel
Date: 14 May 2009

The audience at last night's performance of Carousel at the Savoy Theatre got a special treat when renowned dancer Adam Cooper (choreographer of the show) stepped in at the very last minute to perform in place of the injured Tom Dwyer, who plays the Carnival Boy. Dwyer's usual understudy, Leon Webster, was also off injured, and the second understudy James O'Connell was too ill to perform.

Cooper, who is currently choreographing a production of the opera Roberto Devereux at Holland Park, only agreed at the last minute to go on, with producers facing the prospect of having to cancel the show if he couldn't do it. After 30 minutes of frantic rehearsal, he went on to perform the famed 15-minute pas de deux segment with dancer Lindsey Wise, and a bouquet from co-star Leslie Garrett at the curtain call.

But Cooper, famed for his performance in Matthew Bourne's seminal 1994 all-male version of Swan Lake and appearance in 1999 film Billy Elliot – is unlikely to be called on again. Leon Webster has today been given the “all clear” by doctors and will resume in the role this evening.

All I can say is this: sitting in the wings with the entire company, stage management team, crew and theatre staff, we experienced a communion of sorts. There, bonded together in the presence of such astonishing greatness, we simultaneously glinted for a moment, and bathed in a feeling of unity that I have only ever experienced in the theatre. Tonight was what being in the theatre is all about. It was beautiful and a shattering honour.

What a day.

Ask Al: Valuable Lesons

Dear Al,

Since making your West End debut you have worked with many theatre greats.

What was the most valuable lesson you learned and from whom?

X

* * *

Great question. I don’t really believe you can learn “life experience” type lessons from anyone but yourself. However, there have been a few things I have picked up along the way from incredible people that I have found endlessly helpful.


1) Ladies. Always. Curtsy. (Sir T Nunn)

When we were first staging the curtain calls for WiW, I came out and automatically curtsy-ed (years of ballet, thankyouverymuch), and he called out from the stalls, a hearty and congratulatory "GOOD GIRL!" before giving me the little tidbit above after we were done. I'll never forget it.


2) Being gracious to everyone you work with is the most important thing about being an actor-- showing appreciation, respect, and courtesy; and above all, using good manners. Courtesy costs nothing. (A Andrews)

And believe me when I tell you that he is indeed a man who lives his life by this principle. A kinder, more gracious man in this business you would be hard pressed to find. His generosity knows no bounds, and extends from the leading lady right down to the cleaners. Everyone matters, everyone is a part of the experience, and everyone benefits from his attentions and attitude.


3) Leaving the stage door after a show is “Act 3” of your job. (R Henshall)

She's right. If you are going to be a performer, you have to accept that being gracious to those who take the time to thank you for your performance, to get your autograph, perhaps a photo; that those people are what keep you where you are, and they deserve a piece of your attention. If you don't feel like it, too bad. It is as much a part of your job as Act 1 and Act 2. It is Act 3. She's a smart woman.


4) You only have 100% of what you have today. Don’t beat yourself up , use what you have to be 100% truthful TODAY.

Oh my goodness this is the best piece of acting advice I have ever been given.
Within the given circumstances of the piece, and within the limitations of your character's breakdown, use what 100% of what you as an actor possess TODAY and your work will be constantly truthful. Feeling vulnerable today? Then, within reason, so is your character. Are you feeling strong today? Then so is your character.

To use Fiddler as an example: there were days when I was feeling very tenderhearted or exhausted, so I utilised all I had available to me that day and Hodel was therefore more broken up and outwardly moved by the events of her life that day. There were days when I was feeling strong, and thus, Hodel was better able to keep her emotions under control. See? Both situations were truthful to the way Al the actress was feeling in that moment. This prevents so much pressure to hit your "best ever 100%." Give all you have today, and that is all you can give.


5. IT'S ALL ALLOWED. (Adrian Howells)

This pearl comes from a teacher/director/performance artist/all around incredible human being whose sole philosophy in working with people, is keeping their "love tanks" full. He believe you get the best out of people when they feel great about themselves, and what they are doing. Questions, mistakes, experiments, failures, celebrations, successes; ALL of it, IS ALLOWED. And this permission, this exquisite freedom paves the way for a truly safe and beautiful creative environment indeed. There is nothing that you can do that will be wrong or incorrect, it is all a part of the process of creation, part of the journey, of the experience. It's all allowed.

6. "When you come across an onstage experience as incredible as the one we share everyday, hold on to it. Remember it. Cherish it. It doesn't happen very often. And it's GOLD-DUST GIRL." (H Goodman)

This man keeps his cards close to his chest. And not only was this one of the greatest compliments of my life from one of the most reserved (offstage!) actors I've ever worked with, but incredible advice. Those glowing moments keep us afloat when we feel defeated, deflated, uninspired, misunderstood. When we lose sight of why we do what we do. Why we love it. That moment I shared with Henry was magical, inspiring, and good every day, and he was right, when I lose track of my inner fire I remember it, and I feel heartened.

And the best part of all this advice? It's not just true of the theatre...

Skippy Vs. Jif: A Tawdry Tale

America has had it's debates over the years, it's share of very public divides.

Do we or do we not secede from the Union?
Do we or do we not get involved in WW2?
Chocolate or Vanilla?
Pepsi or Coke?
Rachel or Monica?

But. I present you now with a controversy of cosmic import. I lay before you one of the most hotly debated issues in America:

Jif or Skippy?

I know, I know. One sounds like a bathroom "cream cleaner", the other like a benevolent fictional marsupial, but it is not the end of the dilemmas. Crucially, and perhaps even more importantly,

Smooth or Crunchy?

That's right. This is about peanut butter.
(Discuss...)


Now there is Reduced Fat Jif, Skippy Super chunky, Natural Skippy (with "no need to stir" which is a categorical LIE let me tell you)... the choices may never end. Will the debate only be made more heated and vehement? Will Skippy and Jif continue to divide our nation, continue to rip apart families by now offering MORE choices?! MORE opportunities for us to deviate from the simplest of all foods?!

Has there ever been an issue more contentious? Has there ever been a food so fiercely disputed? ... What was that?! ... I'm sorry, did you just say YOU DON'T KNOW?! Well, LISTEN! This is controversial food talk people, dust off your Debate Team jackets and break open your accordian files, spruce up your hand-me-down briefcases filled with sources and o-rings and note-cards and get ready to kick some peanut buttery ass because this is serious stuff. Don't take this lightly. That's right. Take it like a man...

Some of you out there might think that the two brands both have their virtues. That they are both synthetic vats of trans-fats and hydrogenated oils. That they are, frankly, extremely similar in most ways. And you might be correct.

But. Skippy vs. Jif is a true dilemma, people! Families have been torn apart, friendships ended, and states gone to battle over this crucial issue (in fact, speculation that the civil war was on the verge of re-ignition in the late 1970's due to a peanut butter misunderstanding between visiting relatives in Georgia is still yet to be determined).

So. Let's make a list shall we?

Skippy's virtues:
- Creamier texture,
- Great spread-a-bility (even in "Crunchy" PB)
- Melts to almost liquid on toast (which is dreeeeeeamy), thus "mixable" with jams/jellys
- Very light and (i.e., not too "heavy" in the savoury sense)
- Whimsical blue lid

Jif's virtues:
- Terriffic peanut(-ier) taste
- Great "biting" texture perfect for "off-the-spoon" consumption
- Sliiiiiightly sweeter (especially their Reduced Fat Jif, which has extra sweeteners in it)
- More and larger peanut pieces (in "Crunchy" PB)
- Whimsical red lid

Tawdry Points...

Jif takes the time to print a label that blantently plays upon one's ignorance. A few years ago the label listed this: "Made with no partially hydrogenated oils!" Intrigued, since Jif is a lowest-common-denominator PB that has always contained three lousy ingredients: refines salt, refined sugar and hydrogenated fat, one thinks to themselves, "How exciting! Jif got rid of the rapeseed oil! It will be less rancid and toxic and solid—both in the can and in my blood stream! Hurrah!"

Then one picks up the product and reads the label and it says, “Contains less than 2 percent fully hydrogenated oils (rapeseed).” Unbelievable. They’re bragging that they don’t have partially hydrogenated fats, because they have fully hydrogenated fats! I guess they’re hoping the "choosy moms" who buy the peanut butter are dumb enough not to investigate.

So. Jif. Liars.... Whatever.

But. BUT... no one, NO ONE I TELL YOU, can deny the fact that as far as stories go, Skippy's conception wins it with a tale of (ongoing!) seven-decade-long lawsuits, a comic strip, and an insane asylum. I mean.... please. That is amazing...

Via Wikipedia:

“Skippy” was first used as a trademark for peanut butter by the Rosefield Packing Co., Ltd., of Alameda, California, in 1933. Percy Crosby, creator of the “Skippy” comic strip, had the trademark invalidated in 1934, but Rosefield persisted after Crosby was committed to an insane asylum, and its successor companies, most recently Unilever, have been granted rights to the trademark over the objection of Crosby’s heirs. There has been much litigation on this point over the decades, some of which remains in progress.

Oh. WOW.
and, from the Associated Press:

Monday, April 5, 2004; 4:59 PM

ANNANDALE, Va. - For nearly 40 years Joan Crosby Tibbetts has waged a one-woman campaign against the makers of Skippy peanut butter, claiming the name was stolen from her father’s popular Depression-era comic strip. The U.S. Supreme Court ultimately refused to hear her suit against Skippy’s manufacturer, a division of the multinational conglomerate Unilever. But Tibbetts, 71, said she’ll continue her battle in the court of public opinion.

“This case involves a very important principle … ‘Thou shalt not steal,’” Tibbetts said Monday. “If this case is allowed to disappear and they succeed in shutting me up, who has won? These big corporations that believe they can just wear others down.”

Tibbetts’ crusade began in 1965 when the state of New York tasked her with administering her father Percy Crosby’s estate. She had not seen her father since 1939, when Crosby’s wife divorced him and took the children. Crosby died in December 1964, after spending the last 18 years of his life in a mental hospital, his cartoon character by then largely forgotten…

Her research led her to the conclusion that the trademark for Skippy peanut butter had been improperly obtained by the Rosefield Packing Co. She has waged her campaign ever since, a few episodes of success interspersed with endless legal wrangling and frustration.

She acknowledges crusade’s toll - financially, emotionally and physically. She also has been subject to nasty e-mail comments, including one writer who hoped she drowns in a giant vat of peanut butter.

So, there you have it people, what shall it be? The Red Lid, or The Blue? I will admit here and now, that I am a connoisseur, an aesthete, if you will, of both brands, grabbing "American" peanut butter where I can and when with glee in my heart and a spring in my step (not entirely unlike a certain superheroic kangaroo...)

Now.
Some might say that the crunchy/smooth debate is a matter of not only preference, but a matter of the specific use of PB. For me, I am of the latter party. Celery? It has to be crunchy. Sandwich? Creamy (with raspberry jam). Cookies? Creamy. Off the spoon? Crunchy in summer, creamy in winter. But all of that, it must be understood, is just me. This is something that must be decided within yourself, it is like choosing a religion, it has to be a spiritual calling of sorts... and I understand that some people are die-hard creamy/crunchy fans too-the-DEATH... and while naturally I respect your (possibly radical) adherence to your party of choice, I reserve the right to play, (as they say), for both teams... (hm...)

What does this say about The Silber? Perhaps simply, that she loves her peanut butter, and appreciates it in all it's forms and brands-- like fine cheeses or wines, The Silber appreciates the subtle complexities each brand and style of peanut butter can offer. She makes a judgment about the moment at hand, then utlises an appropraite sampling catered to that moment. She is not a creature of indecision or maliable loyalties, The Silber is a gastronome in the world of the pulverised peanut... an epicure... a specialist... a buff...

One might wonder why in this time of credit crunching, real-estate collapsing, apocalyptic economic crisis, swine flu, global warming and all around pessimism, just why one should take the time to ponder the intricacies of such a subject.

I riposte with this: isn't it refreshing to dwell on the infintesimal details of peanut butter selection rather than dwelling on all the doom and gloom?

Answer: Yes.

So. Just so I don’t leave you without a peanut-y taste in your mouth, here is a (sliiiiightly sexist) Skippy peanut butter television commercial from the 1950’s. Don't let it stick to the roof of your mouth.

Enjoy.



Oh! And! Have you been here? (My friend had this to say: "I had their daily special, The Johnny Appleseed: bagel, freshly-chopped apple, peanut butter, and optional cream cheese. A bagel so life-enhancing it fueled a whole day’s working around Manhattan – but that is NOTHING to the glory of Bea’s of Bloomsbury’s new peanut butter brownie: chocolate brownie simply oozing with peanut butter AND peanuts! Genius!")

Ask Al: A Second Opinion

Here are a few second opinions on the "Acting Vs. Musical Theatre," and other general training questions. I thought it would be interesting to glean some insight from those who experienced it from the other side. A few reliable resources are listed below.

Michael Jibson (Guilford School of Acting):

Interesting... There are some better colleges than others for Musical Theatre courses - Guildford - Mountview - Arts Ed. But I think ultimately, if you are in plays and films, you are an actor. If you are in Musicals you are still and actor. You would still approach a song in the same way as a piece of text - prose or verse.

There are some really good drama schools out there, and they will all give you the best opportunities - with the best agents going along to performances and showcases. If you want to be in musicals you audition for them. If you don't want to be in them, you don't audition for them.

I think what ever course you do, Acting or Musical Theatre, you are still an actor. If you wanted to be a singer, you would go and do an Opera course.

Conclusion: Whatever course you do, you make it work for you as an actor. Just make sure you take the course you will be happy on.

Rosanna Hyland (LaSalle College of the Arts):

I acquired a BA (Hons) Musical Theatre at LaSalle College of the Arts in Singapore. I went there because the choices in my home country of Australia were limited and I heard LaSalle had a reputable faculty.

So here's my two cents:

Find a course with a selective yearly intake. We had twelve people in my class, you can imagine the kind of personal attention and intensive training we got from that! Consequently, the course tailored to our own needs (ie. more dance classes because we were crap dancers, accent workshops because we sucked at accents, etc.)

If you're specifically interested in pursuing musical theatre, I would recommend a course that encourages students to actually study music! (I am shocked that most MT students in the UK graduate without being able to read music. They struggle to prepare for auditions and rehearsals as a result.) You don't need to be a maestro but it's comforting to know you can thump out your melody on a keyboard if you need to. Musical directors love you when you can sight read and learn your part independently. (That being said, music theory is naturally something one can always study on their own).

Go to some open days. Have a look at the students. And ask questions:

- Are they performing to a professional standard?
- Compare the MT students with the Acting students. Will the MT course give you intensive enough training to hold up in a straight or classical play?
- What is the student-teacher relationship like?
- Is the curriculum up-to-date?
- Are the students encouraged to 'find themselves', to experiment without fear of failure, to question their teachers, to be independent learners?
- Or are they expected to fall in line and nail that triple pirouette?

At an open day you can ask ANYTHING, you're not a student there yet so no one is going to penalize you for asking confronting questions!

What I'm trying to say is, find a course that is less worried about it's own reputation and standards, than more focused on giving it's students what they need. My class was such a motley crew of dancers, singers and actors, we were all so different from each other, and it was great to see twelve students emerge as individual, confident performers with different strengths.

Whatever the course, you don't want it to be about conformity and obedience. They are good if you want to be a lean mean dancing machine in the chorus, but if you're want to be a creative and unique performer (ie. "leading lady material") I'd say you need a course that encourages one to wipe off the makeup and explore yourself in a greater depth.

That said, I believe in a simple equation when it comes to education: INPUT = OUTPUT. That is to say, how much you learn and develop depends largely on how much you commit and devote yourself to the course. For that reason I tend to think a person can make the most of any course they take!

Damian Humbley (West Australian Academy of Performing Arts):

In my opinion, the training question is only relevant, insofar as, you should do it. If you want to work as anything in this world you have to train and learn the skills required. I've worked with people who've trained, and people who haven't, and I've always had better professional relationships with the former.

Training teaches you a language, which makes the creative process of any piece far more efficient and enjoyable.

In regards to what sort of training:

Al writes that acting drives everything, and while I agree, I'll be more specific and state that storytelling drives everything. Understanding what skills the story needs, to be told, is what takes training. While singing is a technical skill, there is nothing so moving as hearing a proficient tenor sing the final moments of Puccini's Nessun Dorma. Watching a dancer perform unimaginable feats with the human body to express a spellbound Odette in Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake is equally as affecting as an actor delivering an inspirational speech from Shakespeare's Henry V.

My point is - What do you need to learn, to do what you want to do creatively? Because, that's why we enter the arts - to be creative. AND to earn money doing it. But in that order. If your goal is to earn money, then I suggest IT, or Accountancy (something to do with numbers). People who are trying to find the 'right' form of study as a step in plotting out a successful career, are already off to a disappointing start. The piece of paper is worth very little, sometimes it gets you in the door, but it's for absolutely nothing if you don't have the skills.

Find a course that you connect with. One that offers classes you want to take. Lesson you want to learn. It sounds obvious, I know, but we can get lost with the planning. If I study this, people will see me as this, and therefor, I'll get this... It's all a lie. Learn, Understand, and be Good at what you do. That is where true greatness lies.

* * *

Interesting, huh? Thanks to Michael, Rosie and Damian, and hopefully this will spark some more discussion. All the best to you all, and I hope this proves stimulating if not helpful.

I've been:

busy attempting to catch up with friends who I never get to see or talk with

trying to find a sliver of time to write here.

wallowing in exhaustion

loving daffodils in vases, fresh coffee and morning light in my kitchen

struggling to keep up

dreaming of northern michigan, british columbia, russia, los angeles...

operating under a psuedonym ("Daisy")

baking "Daisy & Portia's Chocolate Coconut Cupcakes" with Rosie (Portia)

ignoring the cleaning duties

singing out loud in un-theatrical places

contemplating my favourite three sisters

eating peanut butter straight out of the jar with a tiny baby spoon

making very. small. collages.

talking to strangers on public transportation (again)

anticipating pink heady blooms

reading and watching

painting

wishing for lots of magic dresses

feeling a little inadequate

waiting for a comedy

working my way through my Old Classic spring clothes (with tremendous joy)

listening for the tinkly music of the ice cream truck, hoping for the ice cream man to come through our neighborhood.

thankful for the sun...


...What have you been up to?