Some gripes and then...STEVEN SONDHEIM
I don’t know if my mind can write a decent entry tonight but I feel that if I wait much longer to update, I won’t. This may be a bit fragmented as my brain feels like it’s been beaten by about fifty or so hammer yielding smurfs. Here goes:
I’m on the train past midnight heading back from tech. I’m staring at my reflection in the window of the passing train, unblinking and halfway catatonic. An hour later I’m still on the train and I can’t even tell if it’s moving even though it’s shaking side from side and I start questioning whether or not I’m even alive. There’s a lady who’s been on the train for an hour too (the train hasn’t stopped once) and she’s speaking some language that sounds like a cross between French, German and Russian and I wonder if the two foreign ladies are having a real conversation or just speaking gibberish. From 42nd street to 72nd street express- it could only have been ten minutes-but I guess I was in a state where time stopped. This wasn’t a dream. This was tonight.
Tonight confirmed that my biggest fear is in fact not “being alone” but standing in a room screaming while nobody listens to me. This of course, is a feeling probably shared by many playwrights in tech. As John MacNamara (a former YPI winner and major Hollywood player) worded so beautifully at the benefit “having your play produced is both a prize and a prison sentence.” And people keep saying “the best playwright is a dead playwright.” It’s harsh. It’s probably true- but not in the context that one would assume. The playwright is better off dead not for the director’s sake but for their own. In my opinion, at least. Imagine being chained to a wall as your vision is slowly torn away from you and ripped into pieces until it’s something else. Okay. So, not that extreme. Ix that. Not nearly that extreme. Not remotely. But there is a battle. There is constant friction and you have to learn to fight for your vision.
You walk into the performing arts space and the entire set is wrong for your show because the communication barrier failed to break down and has instead walled it’s miserable way around all the members of the production team and the set designer. And you’re not the only person freaking out- the entire creative team is. So, you adjust. But not before seething through the streets of NY and all the way to the YPI office.
You're sending hate-rays at your actors and it takes all the strength in the world not to throw something.
One of your actresses is playing your character like a six year old. So, you write her a seven page letter from the perspective of the character explaining herself. “Welcome to the inbetween state of my life. Do me justice.”
Another actress hasn’t tapped into the key of the character which is very present in the script but cryptic enough to miss. So, you sit her down at a lovely Turkish restaurant and you ask her a million questions until she gets it. And she gets it. She does.
So, there is underscoring choices that scare the shit out of you and one of your characters is dressed like an anime whore and the climax of the play which was totally cool and worked so beautifully was worked on for an entire hour and is now in your opinion completely lame (and the director’s happy but you’re not)-you mention a short note to the sound designer who then looks at you and basically says “I’m actually not supposed to listen to what you say.” And you see how it is. And naturally it should be-you’re just in that state where your creation is sitting in front of you being twisted by the hands of collaboration. You’re too far into that state of absolutes to reason with yourself. Instead you decide to never talk to the sound designer again. Ever. End of story. In short, you become a third grader.
Playing with silly putty fails to kill the stress. Reading your little book of standards and guidelines fails as well. You have to leave the room. And you stare out the window at the NY skyline for fifteen minutes. You promise yourself that you’re not going to have a panic attack but as soon as you return to the room your breathing changes. There’s a pillow over your face all over again. And it’s a matter of layers- thing building up. You’ve spent all day (maybe six or so hours) sending e-mails out to theatres and people you know and agents and trying to put together a schedule for summer term as your registration timeslot steadily approaches. You ran out of time to send out the press releases- that must be done tomorrow. You have to figure out where you’re going to live come September 1st and you don’t want to live in the ghetto in Philly so you better grab at whatever good housing is left in whatever way you can while trying to keep it relatively inexpensive. Everything is dependent on something else and can easily fall through. And you just got this haircut at Astor place on NYU’s campus and it’s fine. It’s probably adorable but it’s angled so there’s hair in your face in places that there never was before and you lent out your hair scrunchy to so that the actor can construct the tent using the tripod and the big black sheet and the chair. You’re just grateful that the mannequins and the bong have finally arrived. And at the same time your ear is trying to pierce itself from the inside out in a really bizarre stress reaction or something you must be allergic to in NY. You don’t sleep well at night. Sometimes you miss Austin. Sometimes you miss Philly. Layers build up and you realize that nearly everything is arbitrary but everything nearly has a purpose. A completely irrelevant thought that suddenly grips at you and maybe you’ve discoveredthe meaning of life and it’s a paradox. And then maybe you haven’t discovered anything at all but writing in this perspective must be weirding people out- but then again- most people probably shut this out when you started talking about silly putty or even at the pollypocket elf bit.
And you come to the conclusion that no, this isn’t a prize and a prison sentence so much as it is going to the dentist at Disneyland.
The evening ends and previews was supposed to start tomorrow but we’ve never done a run through of the show with tech so instead tomorrow will be an invited dress rehearsal but you don’t even feel ready for that.
But there are positive things. Many positive things:
Example: Even though you can’t see anything throughout the second half of the show- the lighting designer has made some brilliant choices otherwise and seems really enthused about the play which is always encouraging.
Press is coming my way:
http://www.drexel.edu/dateline/default.pl?p=releaseview&of=1&f=20060503-01
http://www.broadwayworld.com/viewcolumn.cfm?colid=9395
http://www.newyorktheatreguide.com/whatson/otheropening.htm (under May 17th)
http://www.dailyrecord.com/blogs/kshwiff/
(there was an article in Variety on May 3rd but it requires a subscription to access it)
I spent a gorgeous day with some great gals (my friend Emily’s friend’s from NYU) and we went to the botanical gardens in Brooklyn and walked through prospect park.
I checked out Chinatown and had gelato in little Italy with my friend Dave.
I discovered the ghetto miscreants and the many babies that are drawn like magnets to the Imagine tile in central park. That’s a place to find characters- that’s for certain.
Oh…and…
STEVEN SONDHEIM. I should have spent an entire update talking about that experience but I guess a part of me is still processing it. I dolled up and attended the YPI benefit featuring a cocktail party at a really Ritzy manhattan house (yes, a house in Manhattan-dappled with art and about three stories near the Metropolitan museum.) I was given the serious task, along with Kit Steinkillner (one of the other playwrights) to introduce Steven Sondheim. So after some schmoozing, Kit and I came up with a spiel which was later very well received. Sondheim even teared up a bit. And I did get to meet him at a dinner following the event. The cocktail party ended with Sondheim playing piano and Bernadette Peter’s singing followed by a Q & A. For dinner we moved to another really fancy home and that’s where I met John McNamara who is really an incredibly enjoyable individual to talk to. And I did get to talk with Sondheim and Bernadette and get their autographs and a picture with them. This was not out of line as I was a guest of honor and a young playwright. Everybody else paid 1,000 for the cocktail party and 5,000 dollars for the dinner. It was a highly enviable event and apparently there were multitudes of theatre message boards offering up their mother’s to white slavery to be there.
So, apparently going to the dentist at Disneyland doesn’t mean you don’t get to ride some crazy awesome rides even if it does mean getting a few teeth pulled here and there.
Even if tonight is rough, I know it’ll all be pulled together and a lot of my creative tiffs are probably superficial against the entire picture.
I’m on the train past midnight heading back from tech. I’m staring at my reflection in the window of the passing train, unblinking and halfway catatonic. An hour later I’m still on the train and I can’t even tell if it’s moving even though it’s shaking side from side and I start questioning whether or not I’m even alive. There’s a lady who’s been on the train for an hour too (the train hasn’t stopped once) and she’s speaking some language that sounds like a cross between French, German and Russian and I wonder if the two foreign ladies are having a real conversation or just speaking gibberish. From 42nd street to 72nd street express- it could only have been ten minutes-but I guess I was in a state where time stopped. This wasn’t a dream. This was tonight.
Tonight confirmed that my biggest fear is in fact not “being alone” but standing in a room screaming while nobody listens to me. This of course, is a feeling probably shared by many playwrights in tech. As John MacNamara (a former YPI winner and major Hollywood player) worded so beautifully at the benefit “having your play produced is both a prize and a prison sentence.” And people keep saying “the best playwright is a dead playwright.” It’s harsh. It’s probably true- but not in the context that one would assume. The playwright is better off dead not for the director’s sake but for their own. In my opinion, at least. Imagine being chained to a wall as your vision is slowly torn away from you and ripped into pieces until it’s something else. Okay. So, not that extreme. Ix that. Not nearly that extreme. Not remotely. But there is a battle. There is constant friction and you have to learn to fight for your vision.
You walk into the performing arts space and the entire set is wrong for your show because the communication barrier failed to break down and has instead walled it’s miserable way around all the members of the production team and the set designer. And you’re not the only person freaking out- the entire creative team is. So, you adjust. But not before seething through the streets of NY and all the way to the YPI office.
You're sending hate-rays at your actors and it takes all the strength in the world not to throw something.
One of your actresses is playing your character like a six year old. So, you write her a seven page letter from the perspective of the character explaining herself. “Welcome to the inbetween state of my life. Do me justice.”
Another actress hasn’t tapped into the key of the character which is very present in the script but cryptic enough to miss. So, you sit her down at a lovely Turkish restaurant and you ask her a million questions until she gets it. And she gets it. She does.
So, there is underscoring choices that scare the shit out of you and one of your characters is dressed like an anime whore and the climax of the play which was totally cool and worked so beautifully was worked on for an entire hour and is now in your opinion completely lame (and the director’s happy but you’re not)-you mention a short note to the sound designer who then looks at you and basically says “I’m actually not supposed to listen to what you say.” And you see how it is. And naturally it should be-you’re just in that state where your creation is sitting in front of you being twisted by the hands of collaboration. You’re too far into that state of absolutes to reason with yourself. Instead you decide to never talk to the sound designer again. Ever. End of story. In short, you become a third grader.
Playing with silly putty fails to kill the stress. Reading your little book of standards and guidelines fails as well. You have to leave the room. And you stare out the window at the NY skyline for fifteen minutes. You promise yourself that you’re not going to have a panic attack but as soon as you return to the room your breathing changes. There’s a pillow over your face all over again. And it’s a matter of layers- thing building up. You’ve spent all day (maybe six or so hours) sending e-mails out to theatres and people you know and agents and trying to put together a schedule for summer term as your registration timeslot steadily approaches. You ran out of time to send out the press releases- that must be done tomorrow. You have to figure out where you’re going to live come September 1st and you don’t want to live in the ghetto in Philly so you better grab at whatever good housing is left in whatever way you can while trying to keep it relatively inexpensive. Everything is dependent on something else and can easily fall through. And you just got this haircut at Astor place on NYU’s campus and it’s fine. It’s probably adorable but it’s angled so there’s hair in your face in places that there never was before and you lent out your hair scrunchy to so that the actor can construct the tent using the tripod and the big black sheet and the chair. You’re just grateful that the mannequins and the bong have finally arrived. And at the same time your ear is trying to pierce itself from the inside out in a really bizarre stress reaction or something you must be allergic to in NY. You don’t sleep well at night. Sometimes you miss Austin. Sometimes you miss Philly. Layers build up and you realize that nearly everything is arbitrary but everything nearly has a purpose. A completely irrelevant thought that suddenly grips at you and maybe you’ve discoveredthe meaning of life and it’s a paradox. And then maybe you haven’t discovered anything at all but writing in this perspective must be weirding people out- but then again- most people probably shut this out when you started talking about silly putty or even at the pollypocket elf bit.
And you come to the conclusion that no, this isn’t a prize and a prison sentence so much as it is going to the dentist at Disneyland.
The evening ends and previews was supposed to start tomorrow but we’ve never done a run through of the show with tech so instead tomorrow will be an invited dress rehearsal but you don’t even feel ready for that.
But there are positive things. Many positive things:
Example: Even though you can’t see anything throughout the second half of the show- the lighting designer has made some brilliant choices otherwise and seems really enthused about the play which is always encouraging.
Press is coming my way:
http://www.drexel.edu/dateline/default.pl?p=releaseview&of=1&f=20060503-01
http://www.broadwayworld.com/viewcolumn.cfm?colid=9395
http://www.newyorktheatreguide.com/whatson/otheropening.htm (under May 17th)
http://www.dailyrecord.com/blogs/kshwiff/
(there was an article in Variety on May 3rd but it requires a subscription to access it)
I spent a gorgeous day with some great gals (my friend Emily’s friend’s from NYU) and we went to the botanical gardens in Brooklyn and walked through prospect park.
I checked out Chinatown and had gelato in little Italy with my friend Dave.
I discovered the ghetto miscreants and the many babies that are drawn like magnets to the Imagine tile in central park. That’s a place to find characters- that’s for certain.
Oh…and…
STEVEN SONDHEIM. I should have spent an entire update talking about that experience but I guess a part of me is still processing it. I dolled up and attended the YPI benefit featuring a cocktail party at a really Ritzy manhattan house (yes, a house in Manhattan-dappled with art and about three stories near the Metropolitan museum.) I was given the serious task, along with Kit Steinkillner (one of the other playwrights) to introduce Steven Sondheim. So after some schmoozing, Kit and I came up with a spiel which was later very well received. Sondheim even teared up a bit. And I did get to meet him at a dinner following the event. The cocktail party ended with Sondheim playing piano and Bernadette Peter’s singing followed by a Q & A. For dinner we moved to another really fancy home and that’s where I met John McNamara who is really an incredibly enjoyable individual to talk to. And I did get to talk with Sondheim and Bernadette and get their autographs and a picture with them. This was not out of line as I was a guest of honor and a young playwright. Everybody else paid 1,000 for the cocktail party and 5,000 dollars for the dinner. It was a highly enviable event and apparently there were multitudes of theatre message boards offering up their mother’s to white slavery to be there.
So, apparently going to the dentist at Disneyland doesn’t mean you don’t get to ride some crazy awesome rides even if it does mean getting a few teeth pulled here and there.
Even if tonight is rough, I know it’ll all be pulled together and a lot of my creative tiffs are probably superficial against the entire picture.