One of Each

It gets harder.

Had a casting director suggest once that every actor should have an audition monologue from each of the major playwrights. Prior to that, the accepted wisdom was that you should have a classical monologue and a contemporary.

At that point, classical meant Shakespeare or one of the Greeks. If you wanted to increase the odds that the actor in front of you hadn’t just done your piece, you went slightly further afield. Some other Elizabethan playwright–Marlowe and Jonson, for example–or a Restoration writer–Congreve, Wycherly, Sheridan, among them–were possibilities. There were also the French–Moliere and Racine.

Some people thought Ibsen, Strindberg and Shaw counted as classical while others considered them the first of the modern playwrights. For some of us, that meant we just didn’t do them unless they were specifically requested. Why set yourself up with a 50/50 chance the auditor would decide you didn’t know what “classical” meant?

But you see my point, right?

I’ve just listed 11 major playwrights and haven’t even gotten fully into the modern era. And the modern era keeps growing! It’s not enough to have Arthur Miller, William Saroyan, Clifford Odets, Philip Barry. You’ve got to be looking at Lanford Wilson, Wendy Wasserstein, Marsha Norman, Neil Simon, David Henry Hwang, Tony Kushner, David Rabe, David Mamet and a host of others if you really want a comprehensive set.*

So, this is one of those “rules” that is ‘more honour’d in the breach than the observance.’**

It’s not a bad goal to attempt, however. If you go searching, you will have read a lot of plays. If you find monologues you like, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy between auditions. Plus, one of the easiest ways to shoot yourself in the foot as an actor*** is to blow off auditions, and one of the easiest excuses is to not have any suitable material to perform.

So, do yourself a big favor.

Have a monologue from each of the major playwrights.

* I know I’ve left out hundreds of you. It doesn’t mean you’re not major playwrights. It just means my brain doesn’t always work all that well.

** Hamlet, Act I, Sc 4 (Flapdoodle!)

*** For other ways actors get in their own way, see my book How to Be a Failed Actor: 27 Things Actors Do to Shoot Themselves in the Foot – available soon in the bookstore.

The rain no longer raineth every day

Flapdoodle?*

When we first moved to Florida, we were in a drought. I had to buy sprinklers and remember my watering days to have any hope of getting the grass in my lawn to recover.

And then we got Tropical Storm Debbie.

Tons of rain!

The grass–it was so happy! It grew and grew. (So did the weeds, but that’s another story.)

And then it kept raining. And raining. And raining. Almost every day. It’s a good thing the grass started to grow to help keep the dirt from washing into the creek. (A lot of it did, anyway.)

It has rained so much that the split-leaf philodendron is turning yellow. The tomato plant has shriveled up. And one of the vincas has given up the ghost. (That’s a shame, because it was a pretty pink one.) The hydrangea, on the other hand, is thriving.

I know the Midwest is having a terrible time with a drought right now. The cost of everything is going up because of it.

So, I feel guilty saying this, but it seems like a miracle that we’ve had a couple of days without rain. It’s hard to do yard work when everything is soggy. Thunder and lightning interfere with my ability to use my computers. They interfere with my ability to use my treadmill! They just interfere.

It is fascinating to watch the rain over the creek. So, there’s that. It has a habit of raining over the water for a good 5 to 10 minutes before it comes on land–which is weird. Part of that weird Florida phenomenon where it can rain on one side of the street and not the other. (I once drove into rain at a red light and out of it when the light changed. That’s how localized a storm can be here.)

But I’m tired of watching walls of water move. I’m really glad it’s stopped raining–even if only temporarily.

* Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, or What You Will Act VI, Sc 1. Also, King Lear, Act II, Sc 3. (If you got both of them, you get two Flapdoodle points!)

Collections

Do you have any?

I’m of two minds about collections. On the one hand, I think if you don’t have one going, you should be assigned one. Possibly, you should be assigned one at birth for the better buying of presents. It is so much easier, when those birthdays, Christmases, Hanukkahs, etc. roll around for your relatives to be able to pick up something to add to your collection.

On the other hand, collections can be a bit of a problem. Maybe other people don’t have this issue, but there may be a borderline hoarder in me. Because, you know, one Reader’s Digest is a magazine you haven’t read yet. Three are the beginning of a collection. And then what?

Actually, I do all right disposing of magazines after one brief struggle in my teens when I had somehow amassed an inordinate number of TV Guides. I understand, though, that National Geographic has caused some people severe pangs.

Some of my collections may eventually become digital. Books and music are–with varying degrees of time and expense–convertible to a more space-saving format. Some, however, must remain physical presences in my house. And therein lies the problem.

Space!

Fortunately, my new house could have been tailor-made to house my glass menagerie. I have so many windows with wide sills and sunshine. We never thought about it when we were thinking of buying, but it has turned out to be perfect for the glass.

The music boxes…that’s a bit of a problem. I don’t have any rare or expensive music boxes, but I have enough of them that I can’t just give them away. Besides, I like music boxes. There are not a lot of moments, however, when it occurs to me to wind one up and let it play. Mostly, it occurs to me when I’m dusting them. Music box dusting, around here, creates quite a cacophony.

I was fine with the books, the records, the glass animals and the music boxes. But now, I seem to have a clown collection, and I don’t even like clowns. (As figurines, I mean. I have several friends who actually are clowns. Graduates of Ringling Bros. Clown College, no less. I like them fine.)

I now have four clowns:

One is made of glass. You can see how that happened.

One is a music box. You can see how that happened.

Two of them are recent acquisitions–mementos of a beloved aunt whose children and grandchildren have a clown phobia. (Coulrophobia, it’s called. I bet you didn’t know that.)

Anyway, I am happy to have these keepsakes to remind me of my aunt, but you can see my problem, right?

A couple of clowns are just things you have. Four are a collection, and you’re stuck with them forever. So, I hereby issue an addendum to the Collection Rule. I only have a collection when I declare I have a collection. If anybody gives me any more clowns, I’m giving them away.

The Great Dental Detective Story

Move over Agatha

The other day, we had a putative dental disaster. (Don’t you like that word ‘putative?’ I’m pretty sure I’ve never, ever used it before and will probably never use it again. You could watch out for it for the Flapdoodle game, though, if you want.)

This putative dental disaster was very mysterious–because there was no pain and there did not appear to be any pieces missing from any of my teeth.

What happened was this:

In my usual capacity of Queen of Malnutrition, I had gone scrounging for “easy” food. For once, this did not involve chips of any sort. Lo! An apple! And some cheddar cheese. A tasty and nutritious snack. (I should have known this was not meant to be.)

I cored and sliced the apple using my handy-dandy apple slicer. I sliced some cheese. All was arranged on a plate and carried over to the rocking chair by the picture window. Savoring the contrast of the sweetness of the apple and the sharpness of the cheese, I worked my way daintily through my most excellent meal.

Suddenly, I bit down on something hard!

I assumed–as one would–that I had inadvertently taken a bite that included an apple seed. This would not be unbearably surprising, although it did feel somewhat harder than my recollection of previous apple seeds. I removed the item carefully.

It was not, however, black and seedy. It was white and almost plastic-like. Not having any belief in albino apple seeds, I quickly came to the conclusion that it was not that.

I also quickly came to the conclusion that some piece of a filling had broken off. It was disturbing to think of such a thing happening as a result of an apple slice, but I once broke a tooth on a cheese doodle. Anything can happen.

However, as I said, there wasn’t any pain. Canvasing the teeth by running my tongue over them revealed no sharp edges. A closer inspection would be necessary.

Bathroom mirror–but you can’t really see the molars. Flashlight. Can’t really see the upper molars. Hand mirror.

Hmm. All molars apparently intact.

A mystery.

Now, one could leave it there. No pain, no problem. But what was this piece of something that turned up in my mouth? If I haven’t broken a tooth, how did this thing get in my apple.

All those Halloween horror stories popped into my head. Clearly, this was not a razor blade but what? Some sort of BB? Was I going to have to stop buying fruit? What kind of malevolent spirit does something like that?

And then it dawned on me.

The apple slicer.

Sure enough, right where the metal blades meet the plastic handle, a tiny little round plastic piece was gone.

The Great Dental Mystery was solved, and I am a Dental Detective.

Do you think I should open an agency?

Journeying

Structure for writers.

Today’s Friday Find is another book that is an invaluable resource for writers–and fairly interesting for readers and filmgoers who have an interest beyond passive absorption of entertainment. If you’re interested in structure, you will get a lot out of The Writers’ Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers by Christopher Vogler.

I think so highly of The Writers’ Journey that I bought it twice. Lent it to someone. Never got it back. I hate that. Sometimes, when that happens, I growl and vow never to lend that person a book again while adopting a zen-like resignation to the loss of the book.

The Writers’ Journey, though–I have to have a copy of that on my shelves.

Here’s the story behind The Writers’ Journey:

Christopher Vogler was (may still be, for all I know) a Hollywood development executive. Inspired by the work of Joseph Campbell, he created a legendary 7-page company memo for screenwriters. Expanding on that work, he developed the book, The Writers’ Journey, and continues to teach classes based on these ideas and techniques.

The basic premise is that there are archetypes and stages in every hero’s journey–and that a successful story (movie, book, play) is a hero’s journey.

As a director, I have used these principles to help me help playwrights analyze and rewrite their plays. As a writer, I’ve tried to do the same with my own work. (Always a little harder to find the objectivity there, of course.) As a movie goer, I have been fascinated to watch these archetypes and journeys play out in almost every good movie I’ve ever seen.

You can get an overview of the stages of the hero’s journey on Mr. Vogler’s website: here. Just click the link to “Hero’s Journey.” The text of the original 7 page memo is there, as well as an adaptation called the Heroine’s Journey.

It’s fascinating stuff. And the whole outline is there. All the basics. The book, however, expands on this outline and offers a wealth of examples. It’s well worth a read.

Happy journeying.

I’ve been to the zoo

This gallery contains 21 photos.

What is it with zombies?

I’m not talking about cocktails.

I’m talking about the horror movie monsters.

Now, it should be noted that I don’t know much about zombies. I have a horror of horror movies. I will only watch one if an actor I particularly like has needed a job badly enough to do a horror movie.

I know they’re called the Undead. I’ve heard they eat brains. (Really? And we like this?) I know that they are reanimated corpses. (Ugh.)

I did once see From the Dead of Night (because I like Lindsay Wagner). It didn’t shed any light on our pop culture fascination with zombies. It wasn’t even that scary. I mean, I was able to turn the light off that night and go to bed without any hesitation.

Maybe they weren’t very good zombies?

I don’t know. But I am wondering today about why zombies have become so popular. Surely, someone has done a study on this phenomenon? Is it our fear of death manifesting in another, albeit creepier, vision of an afterlife? Is it some metaphor of a civilization gone numb and “dead” and controlled by outside forces (Facebook?).

It’s undoubtedly a current craze. Witness this infographic that made the rounds in 2009, “How to Write for the American Theater.” Matt Slaybaugh’s tongue-in-cheek flow chart does give prominent place to zombies.

What is it with zombies? Does anybody know?

“A fulfiller of good intentions”

Get paving.

I told you, didn’t I, that I was reading a biography of Theodore Roosevelt? Actually, it was three biographies, all by Edmund Morris: The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, Theodore Rex, and Colonel Roosevelt. (All quite good, by the way.)

The final volume ended with a quote from a schoolboy writing a report on the former President in 1922. Thomas Maher called Theodore Roosevelt “a fulfiller of good intentions.”

There’s something wonderful about that phrase.

You know what they say about the road to Hell? Paved with good inentions. You can’t fulfill a good intention, though, unless you have them. So, Tuesday’s Tip is to get paving–and then get fulfilling.

I hope someday the same could be said of me–“a fulfiller of good intentions”–although I am absolutely certain I fall far short of Teddy

What about you?

Untidy Murder

A Maybe Miracle

I may be premature in announcing this to be a Monday Miracle, because it hasn’t actually arrived yet. However, I did get an email notification that the book has shipped.

Shipped, I tell you!

And you tell me, “We don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Explanations are in order.

Once upon a time, when I was about twelve, I discovered a series of murder mysteries written by Frances and Richard Lockridge. They featured a pair of amateur detectives, Mr. and Mrs. North. They featured them, in fact, in a series of 26 novels, a Broadway play, a film, and a couple of TV and radio shows.

I don’t remember which book I read first. I do remember I got it out of my grandmother’s library one summer. And then another and another.

They were smart books. Funny. Full of the flavor of NYC in the Forties and Fifties. Unusually for the time period, it was usually Mrs. North who figured out who the murderer was.

Over time, I read them all. And I wanted to be able to re-read them all at will. Thus, they were high on my list at used book stores and flea markets. I picked them up here and there, and then, some time ago, a number of them were re-released. I was able to find them at regular book stores.

For years now, I have had 25 of them on my shelves. Untidy Murder, written in 1947, was the lone volume missing. Twice, I have nearly had it. The internet greatly facilitates the search for ancient tomes. When I have remembered to check, copies of it have appeared to be for sale. But twice, I have ordered, had the order accepted and, subsequently, gotten a “We’re sorry, we no longer have that book” email.

Just two weeks ago, I decided to spend part of the $40 I did not have to pay my doctor (thank you, President Obama) on Untidy Murder. It was a splurge. Out-of-print and in demand books are not cheap. I ordered it. And five days later, I got the “We’re sorry” email.

Undaunted and determined–it’s the last book in a forty year search–I remembered that another copy was available, for a higher price, and I ordered it again.

Yesterday, I got the email that it had been shipped.

Hooray!

I haven’t read Untidy Murder in a long time. How great to finally, finally, finally have the whole series! I’m excited.

Now, it should be noted that these are not first editions or anything. They are simply good reading copies of “good reads.”

But isn’t that what a book is for?

The rain it raineth every day

Shakespeare!

I would like to propose a drinking game. Not a real one. I don’t really hold with drinking games. I just like the idea of an ongoing treasure hunt for a particular something. For example, there was once a famous NYPD Blue drinking game. (It may only have been famous in the NYPD Blue fandom.) People were supposed to have a drink whenever particular characters did particular things.

The point of a drinking game associated with a TV show is that each show has repetitive lines or behaviors. The game acknowledges those repetitions and gets some fun out of them–assuming you actually think it’s fun to pass out and wake up with a hangover.

Since I don’t think that’s fun, let’s not call this a drinking game. Let’s call it–I don’t know–padiddle is taken–let’s call it “Flapdoodle.”

Flapdoodle acknowledges that blogs may also have repetitive themes or phrases. Players of Flapdoodle are now looking for one of those that I already know I repeat: references to and/or quotes from Shakespeare. Upon recognition of such a thing, the player should leap to his or her feet, turn around twice, flap his or her arms, and yell, “Flapdoodle.”

(Any player at work or in any otherwise inappropriate environment may make a discreet mark on a piece of paper to remind the player to do the Flapdoodle Dance later, in the privacy of his or her home. We work on the honor system.)

Players may also suggest other significant repetitious ideas or phrases via email or the comments below.

Every Flapdoodle Dance is worth 1 point. Any player who amasses 20 points may thereafter be known as a Flapdoodle Dandy.

Heavens to Murgatroyd! This is what happens when I run into writers’ block and can’t think of anything to post!

But, honestly, the Flapdoodle post is much more fun than what was originally behind today’s headline. So, maybe tomorrow we will continue to look into the “rain that raineth every day.”

Flapdoodle!

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants