...stupid furniture

I love classic American theatre.  Don't you?  I mean there is something unique and amazing about the words of our friends Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller and...

OK pause.

I need to get something off my chest here.  I love me some Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, and Eugene O'Neill, but I've got a bone to pick with Clifford Odets. Waiting for Lefty was the single most frustrating work I've ever done.  Why?  Given circumstances.

Given circumstances are just that; the reality dictated by the playwright.  They are the clues given in the text which create the world of the play.  An actor's job is to discover these circumstances within the text and base their choices on the information they provide.  As actors, we cannot change the givens but we can make choices that violate them, which is never pretty.  You and I can both tell horror stories of that kid who came to the audition with a monologue from a play he's never read.  Really?  You're gonna use your angry voice for Puck's closing monologue?  You sure?  You do know this is in verse right? Oh a southern accent huh?  Can't help that can you?  I suppose that's...wait, why are you throwing your chair across the room?!

We know drama

It's Monday morning.  I've just rolled out of bed, put on pants (always important), brushed my teeth (debatably more or less important), and am walking to class.  At various places around the city, 15 or so other people are converging on the same location as I am.  Upon our arrival, there is a nervous energy of expectation. A slight eagerness. Anticipation.

Check-in.

If you didn't wince a little when you read those words...you've never checked-in.  It seems the words themselves could easily be followed by the TNT splash with the movie announcer voice proclaiming "we know drama."  It's that serious.  You walk into the rehearsal space, see all the chairs are in a circle, and a little voice in your head goes "welcome to Tear Fest 2011 where if you aren't crying you aren't trying." I'm exaggerating...a little.

Actor Psychological Trench Warfare

I was assigned a best friend during my first semester of the Music Theatre program of Florida State.

No joke.  I was assigned a best friend.

Now this isn't like your mom putting together amazing goody bags so kids would come to your birthday party (although...you put together a nice goody bag and miracles do happen).  After a few weeks of observation and analysis, my professors paired every student with another from class as "best friends".  We were to build a relationship with said best friend over the course of the semester and complete all scene work together until Christmas.  I realize now that my best friend was also a pillar of consistency in a class designed to make you feel like a complete failure by finals week, thereby enabling you to start from scratch, without any preconceived notions, in January.  My best friend, of course, was Mike the hockey player.  You might remember him from The Glass of Death.  But before my public humiliation in our aquatic death match, Mike and I first took on the task of an "open scene" or, as I like to call it, "actor psychological trench warfare."

The Glass

One of my favorite memories of acting class was with my friend Mike.  I will call this moment "the glass of death."  Jean, our glamorous diva of an acting professor explained the exercise "Tim, go to the sink and get a drink of water.  If you don't, you will die.  Mike, if Tim manages to take one sip of water from the glass, you will die. Ready? Go."

At this point, I should tell you that, not only was Mike 3 times stronger than me, but he was also a former hockey player.  Now I'm scrappy, but there was no chance this skinny underdog was gonna beat the Goliath of a man that was Mike the hockey player, especially since I forgot to take my metabolic steroids that morning.  I tried to run past him, he body checked me.  I attempted to bribe him with money...nothing. And then it happened; in a miraculous moment of opportunity, Mike either gave up or got tired of manhandling me.  I darted for the sink, put a splash of water in the cup, and raised my hand to my mouth, basking in the glory of my victory.  The clouds were parting.  Rays of sunshine were pouring onto my face.  I'm pretty sure a flash mob of the Hallelujah Chorus was in full swing.  Before I knew it, my cup was five feet to my right and I was wet.  Mike had slapped it out of my hand, spraying water everywhere! Clearly, he took this "you will die" thing seriously.  I mean dang.  But, in knocking my cup away, Mike opened my path to the sink again.  I ran.  Mike sprinted.  I reached for the faucet.  Mike, like a frikin gazelle, leapt over my hand and into the sink!  No kidding!  A full-grown man's backside was now wedged in the sink in an attempt to win this life and death struggle.

Follow? Really?

Everyone and their mother is blogging these days. Now, I'm quite stubborn so I've adamantly refused for some time.  I am not a frikin follower!  Why would I want to blog?!  Yet, here I am…ya know…blogging.  The tension isn't gone, I'm just learning to navigate it (more on that later).  I ask only this: read this post in its entirety before deciding on me.  Can ya do that?  It's short I promise.

As I've said, I hate being a follower.  Don't you?  Even when I'm "following" someone, I'm doing it consciously and for a purpose.  Let me explain.  In theatre (I'm an actor) you may have to follow someone while crossing downstage right; fine, that's one thing.  But it's quite another to mindlessly take your cues from Cowboy #3 out of the corner of your eye during Moonshine Lullaby because you were too lazy to get your crap together before tech week.  Guess what?  You've officially pissed off the entire cast and you look like an idiot.  We've all met this guy.  Don't be him.  Please.