So, my ambitions of a carefully documented process have -- to the surprise of absolutely nobody -- largely fallen by the wayside; the combined stress of production week with a recurring illness left little time, energy, or inclination for meaningful reflection. Come to think of it, I've seen a number of these production blogs floating around (hence my desire to jump on the bandwagon), but they've rarely been compelling. Part of the reason for this is obvious: when you spend all day working on creating something, you don't want to come home and write about it; you're far more likely to want to curl up with a bottle of Guinness and DVD episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Y'know, hypothetically.
It runs deeper than that, though. Process fascinates me; but I don't really like talking about my own, at least not regarding a project that I'm in the middle of. Some of that's paranoia: I'm reminded of the fable about the centipede who, upon being asked how he was able to walk with so many legs, promptly fell over, unable to move anymore once he actually stopped to think about what he was doing. Some of that's superstition: every artist is Daffy Duck walking off the edge of the cliff, knowing that he's fine until he looks to see how far he has to fall. Some of that's insecurity: I've always been wary of people who seem to spend more time talking about art than creating it. (And it stings -- a lot -- that I've become far more well-known for my writing about other people's work than I have for creating my own.) A lot of it's just a desire for the work to speak for itself.
But it's something that I see among a lot of other artists, particularly comedians, this reflexive dismissal of self-analysis: every comic has a stock response to blow off those stupid questions "What is funny? Why do people laugh?" But they're not stupid questions: in fact, they're damn good questions. And nobody goes into show business without pausing at least once to ask themselves why they're doing what they're doing.
And I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that good comedians are a lot like magicians, and a good joke is a lot like a magic trick: it relies on surprise and misdirection, and explaining it to the audience is a pretty surefire way to guarantee that it won't produce the desired effect. As E.B. White once put it, "Humor can be dissected as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind."
(He then proceeded to discourse at length about what makes humor work. Some of us just can't resist.)
So I'm uncomfortable with it, and I find myself wondering what the purpose of a production blog is. Is it worthwhile, for example, for the audience to know that, halfway through the rehearsal process, I realized that our developing storyline was nearly identical to that of Parzival, an obscure middle German epic that's been the central obsession of my life? Probably not -- and, even worse, such knowledge might transform the performance itself, turning it into something ponderous and affected.
And yet, I know that I devour all the background information I can get on entertainment I enjoy. If I hear a song I like, it's not enough for me to listen to the song: I want to hear the whole album, to get a sense of the environment the work emerged *from*. Exhaustive, even invasive probing for background has actively enhanced my enjoyment of the work it produces: it seems somehow absurdly hypocritical for me to then want to be able to remain an invisible part of my own process.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
I Am the Punchline of God
Oh, motherfuck, I am sick again.
I'm actually starting to get concerned about this -- since February, I've been sick more often than I've been healthy. Aside from the fact that I can't afford to be sick this often, it plays into a lot of paranoia related to my dysautonomia -- after all, my entire life changed overnight because of a single viral infection. It took me three years of unemployed self-loathing, feeling that my body had betrayed me, before I was able to pick myself up and start living in the world again. So I get a little nervous when I don't feel like I can rely on my basic biochemistry.
Chaos theory is the study of complex systems -- systems so complex that the scientific method -- taking it apart to examine its component parts -- no longer works. So our study of these systems largely revolves around mapping trends -- while we may not understand the underlying mechanics, we can become statistically aware of certain emerging patterns. The theory's been particularly useful in fields such as studying weather. Some fringier experimentation has been done with gamblers, seeming to indicate that lucky and unlucky streaks aren't just psychological, but quantifiably exist.
So, these are some of the things that I'm thinking about as I muse on the fact that my car, my computer, and my body seem to be breaking down on the verge of opening a show which relies on my access to all three items.
But then, this always happens, doesn't it? Sometimes I think it's a miracle that anything gets produced at all. Just got to turn on the blinders, keep moving forward, and remember the advice of the Red Queen: "Begin at the beginning, go on until you come to the end, and then stop."
As long as you can do that, you have a show. The rest isn't up to me to judge.
I'm actually starting to get concerned about this -- since February, I've been sick more often than I've been healthy. Aside from the fact that I can't afford to be sick this often, it plays into a lot of paranoia related to my dysautonomia -- after all, my entire life changed overnight because of a single viral infection. It took me three years of unemployed self-loathing, feeling that my body had betrayed me, before I was able to pick myself up and start living in the world again. So I get a little nervous when I don't feel like I can rely on my basic biochemistry.
Chaos theory is the study of complex systems -- systems so complex that the scientific method -- taking it apart to examine its component parts -- no longer works. So our study of these systems largely revolves around mapping trends -- while we may not understand the underlying mechanics, we can become statistically aware of certain emerging patterns. The theory's been particularly useful in fields such as studying weather. Some fringier experimentation has been done with gamblers, seeming to indicate that lucky and unlucky streaks aren't just psychological, but quantifiably exist.
So, these are some of the things that I'm thinking about as I muse on the fact that my car, my computer, and my body seem to be breaking down on the verge of opening a show which relies on my access to all three items.
But then, this always happens, doesn't it? Sometimes I think it's a miracle that anything gets produced at all. Just got to turn on the blinders, keep moving forward, and remember the advice of the Red Queen: "Begin at the beginning, go on until you come to the end, and then stop."
As long as you can do that, you have a show. The rest isn't up to me to judge.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Long-Form Storytelling
One of the reasons I'm hesitant about a production blog is the fact that I wonder if it's really a good idea for people to know the stuff that directors are thinking about before the show opens. I mean, it's never anything *good*. The show could be brilliant. Alternately, it could be terrible. But there's a sense in which I'm the least qualified person to make that judgment.
One frustrating thing, I think, is that we never get the luxury of standing back and looking at our work with fresh eyes. That's the real reason why so many of us have difficulty marketing ourselves -- it's not being self-deprecating, so much as it's the fact that you're necessarily fixated on the things that need to be worked on. When I look at one of my shows, all that I see is a collection of flaws.
The other problem with writing about your own work is that it's almost impossible to document the work you're doing and to actually *do* it at the same time. The blind panic of production week is beginning to set in, and with it that odd, serene despair.
The greatest struggle that I've been having with this piece is the transition of a collection of sketches into something resembling, y'know, a play. (Funny, how it didn't occur to me that this would be difficult until, like, yesterday.)
But then, the transition from short-form into long-form is something that I've done a lot, in the past -- Lokasenna was originally a collection of sketches developed by students that I turned into a play. (And has, bizarrely enough, been recently re-adapted into sketch form again.) Both Son of the Dragon and Broceliande began as sequences of loosely-related poetry around which a frame was constructed. And Libertarian Rage was a bunch of sketches that, well, never really developed a satisfactory through-line.
The reason for this process is probably that every large project needs to be broken down into smaller parts before it can be undertaken. But I've always considered myself a long-form writer. My favorite composer is Wagner, and my favorite poet is Tennyson, for largely the same reasons -- their ability to take recurring phrases and themes, and intertwine them in complex and interesting ways that illuminate the central ideas of their stories in a way that wouldn't be possible on a smaller scale.
Achieving these things, I think, requires significantly more time and focus then I've had for this project. Hell, at this point I'll be happy if people understand what the fuck is going on.
One frustrating thing, I think, is that we never get the luxury of standing back and looking at our work with fresh eyes. That's the real reason why so many of us have difficulty marketing ourselves -- it's not being self-deprecating, so much as it's the fact that you're necessarily fixated on the things that need to be worked on. When I look at one of my shows, all that I see is a collection of flaws.
The other problem with writing about your own work is that it's almost impossible to document the work you're doing and to actually *do* it at the same time. The blind panic of production week is beginning to set in, and with it that odd, serene despair.
The greatest struggle that I've been having with this piece is the transition of a collection of sketches into something resembling, y'know, a play. (Funny, how it didn't occur to me that this would be difficult until, like, yesterday.)
But then, the transition from short-form into long-form is something that I've done a lot, in the past -- Lokasenna was originally a collection of sketches developed by students that I turned into a play. (And has, bizarrely enough, been recently re-adapted into sketch form again.) Both Son of the Dragon and Broceliande began as sequences of loosely-related poetry around which a frame was constructed. And Libertarian Rage was a bunch of sketches that, well, never really developed a satisfactory through-line.
The reason for this process is probably that every large project needs to be broken down into smaller parts before it can be undertaken. But I've always considered myself a long-form writer. My favorite composer is Wagner, and my favorite poet is Tennyson, for largely the same reasons -- their ability to take recurring phrases and themes, and intertwine them in complex and interesting ways that illuminate the central ideas of their stories in a way that wouldn't be possible on a smaller scale.
Achieving these things, I think, requires significantly more time and focus then I've had for this project. Hell, at this point I'll be happy if people understand what the fuck is going on.
Friday, April 27, 2007
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self-assu-u-ured...
Sent this inquiry out to our mailing list, but figured it couldn't hurt to post it here as well:
Due to a number of factors, we got off to a late start putting this one together, and we're running behind (even for us). We're still missing a number of pieces, and we could use your help in the following areas:
Due to a number of factors, we got off to a late start putting this one together, and we're running behind (even for us). We're still missing a number of pieces, and we could use your help in the following areas:
1) We are in urgent need of a stage manager/running crew. No experience necessary. Seriously. A monkey with Parkinson's could do this job. We just need the bodies. Comes with a small stipend.
2) We need to provide at least one usher for every performance. If you're strapped for cash, this is a great way to see the show for free.
3) We're still looking for the following properties, if anyone out there would care to lend/donate them to us:
-canvas and easel
-wheelchair, or possibly a rolling office chair with arms
-speculums
-suitcases
-microphone stand
Monday, April 23, 2007
Warrior Needs Food, Badly
Our 2005 show Camelot is Crumbling left me more emotionally exhausted than any other show we've done. I'm a great believer in taking responsibility for my own work, and that if a show of mine is poorly received, I'm at least partly to blame for it -- but the fact remains that I had invested a tremendous amount of myself in a project that ended up generating low audience numbers and active hostility from a number of critics.
When 2006 rolled around, I had no desire to undertake something so ambitious again so soon -- our first two shows suffered largely from their scope exceeding their venues, both essentially being sprawling epics crammed into an hour-long Fringe slot -- so I began flipping through my piles of unfinished scripts, now looking for any short-form work I'd done -- outlines for ten-minute plays, half-finished sketches, rants from my blog at the time. What I found was that my short-form stuff was divided into two categories: political satire and pop-culture parodies. The former became Libertarian Rage. The latter became Warrior Needs Food, Badly.
Libertarian Rage ended up being another exhausting project, too, though for different reasons -- that it was (unsurprisingly) a show riddled with so much negativity: a lot of my anger about our last project, and how we regard our entertainment, found its way into the production, but mostly the script was just my way of laughing bitterly at a system that I felt completely shut out of.
In a weird way, I regard the two shows as having a symbiotic relationship: they're both sketch comedy showcases, for one thing, but it's deeper than that -- that the jaded cynicism of Rage felt to me to be in diametric opposition to the wide-eyed optimism of Warrior. If Rage was a play about everything I hated about America, then in some sense Warrior was a love letter to the country of my birth. And all the things I love about it! Its hyperactive desire to entertain; the way so many cultures are blended together, while still maintaining their own distinct identities and qualities.
Lokasenna was based on Scandinavian mythology, Camelot on British. But in 2006, we devoted two shows to exploring that mythology which is uniquely American.
I doubt that anyone thinks that deeply about it, when they're watching the two of us running around and bumping into each other. But on some level, that's what it means to me.
When 2006 rolled around, I had no desire to undertake something so ambitious again so soon -- our first two shows suffered largely from their scope exceeding their venues, both essentially being sprawling epics crammed into an hour-long Fringe slot -- so I began flipping through my piles of unfinished scripts, now looking for any short-form work I'd done -- outlines for ten-minute plays, half-finished sketches, rants from my blog at the time. What I found was that my short-form stuff was divided into two categories: political satire and pop-culture parodies. The former became Libertarian Rage. The latter became Warrior Needs Food, Badly.
Libertarian Rage ended up being another exhausting project, too, though for different reasons -- that it was (unsurprisingly) a show riddled with so much negativity: a lot of my anger about our last project, and how we regard our entertainment, found its way into the production, but mostly the script was just my way of laughing bitterly at a system that I felt completely shut out of.
In a weird way, I regard the two shows as having a symbiotic relationship: they're both sketch comedy showcases, for one thing, but it's deeper than that -- that the jaded cynicism of Rage felt to me to be in diametric opposition to the wide-eyed optimism of Warrior. If Rage was a play about everything I hated about America, then in some sense Warrior was a love letter to the country of my birth. And all the things I love about it! Its hyperactive desire to entertain; the way so many cultures are blended together, while still maintaining their own distinct identities and qualities.
Lokasenna was based on Scandinavian mythology, Camelot on British. But in 2006, we devoted two shows to exploring that mythology which is uniquely American.
I doubt that anyone thinks that deeply about it, when they're watching the two of us running around and bumping into each other. But on some level, that's what it means to me.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Unstable Molecules
So the irony is that not being buried under other projects right now is what's giving me the time to write in this space -- and that's the very reason why I don't have all that much to report. Or rather, there's plenty to talk about, but nothing I'm comfortable going public with yet.
There's a period at the beginning of every year that I spend trying to set up performances for the rest of the year. This always starts out being just crazy ambitious -- I've got a ludicrous number of shows lined up -- and, one by one, they all get knocked down. In fact, the only one I *do* have nailed in place right now is the Minnesota Fringe in August -- everything else involves me getting in touch with someone or somebody else getting back to me or them waiting to hear back from somebody else or this guy being out of the office this month or his higher-ups needing to talk to their higher-ups or EEEAGH.
This is what drives me crazy about this profession -- and usually I'm not one to complain, I'm doing what I love and how many people get to say that about their lives -- but it's the total lack of stability -- it's that basic inability to know what you're doing from month to month. And, sure, that's fine now because I'm in my twenties, but what about in ten years? Twenty years? When I'm supporting my parents? My children?
One of the hardest things for me to watch on the cabaret circuit is older artists struggling. It's one thing to watch young folk bomb a performance because, y'know, it's possible to reinvent yourself when you're thirty. But when you're sixty? Should you really be having to try so hard to connect with yet *another* generation?
It's one of the things that I admire so much about Groucho Marx -- that he was able to re-invent himself for the vaudeville stage, then the broadway stage, then film, then television -- to go from sketch comedian to comic actor to talk-show host. It's almost impossible to achieve that kind of success in *one* iteration -- to do so repeatedly? That's a rare talent. And even he died in relative ignonimy, a lonely old man being essentially beaten and drugged by a woman who was after his money.
Is that what we have to look forward to?
There's a period at the beginning of every year that I spend trying to set up performances for the rest of the year. This always starts out being just crazy ambitious -- I've got a ludicrous number of shows lined up -- and, one by one, they all get knocked down. In fact, the only one I *do* have nailed in place right now is the Minnesota Fringe in August -- everything else involves me getting in touch with someone or somebody else getting back to me or them waiting to hear back from somebody else or this guy being out of the office this month or his higher-ups needing to talk to their higher-ups or EEEAGH.
This is what drives me crazy about this profession -- and usually I'm not one to complain, I'm doing what I love and how many people get to say that about their lives -- but it's the total lack of stability -- it's that basic inability to know what you're doing from month to month. And, sure, that's fine now because I'm in my twenties, but what about in ten years? Twenty years? When I'm supporting my parents? My children?
One of the hardest things for me to watch on the cabaret circuit is older artists struggling. It's one thing to watch young folk bomb a performance because, y'know, it's possible to reinvent yourself when you're thirty. But when you're sixty? Should you really be having to try so hard to connect with yet *another* generation?
It's one of the things that I admire so much about Groucho Marx -- that he was able to re-invent himself for the vaudeville stage, then the broadway stage, then film, then television -- to go from sketch comedian to comic actor to talk-show host. It's almost impossible to achieve that kind of success in *one* iteration -- to do so repeatedly? That's a rare talent. And even he died in relative ignonimy, a lonely old man being essentially beaten and drugged by a woman who was after his money.
Is that what we have to look forward to?
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Commercialism
Saw a show last week with a friend which I loved, and she hated, claiming that it was far too "commercial" for her tastes.
Took me a while to put my finger on why this bothered me so much. A think it's mainly because, well -- whoever said that "commercial" was necessarily a bad thing? It's wrong to entertain people?
The protest, I imagine, comes from those who say that it's wrong to sell out one's artistic integrity for the sake of making a buck. Which is undoubtedly true, not least because it doesn't actually *work*. But, y'know -- in my opinion, the error lies in viewing art and commerce as being two forces that are at war with each other. One without the other doesn't really have value, right?
It's an attitude I hear from a lot of other artists -- a sense of resentment at having to reckon with market forces. They'd rather just be able to focus on being creative, rather than focus on having to connect their creativity to an audience. My response to this is, well, duh. Of *course* you'd prefer to just have the fun part without any of the work. And that's just too fucking bad, innit?
For my part, working with marketing and producing has, I feel, made me into a significantly *better* artist -- because I can't respond solely to the needs of my own creativity, but to the needs of an audience -- y'know, the people who are paying me to provide them with a service? I should probably be paying attention to them. Just a thought.
(That said, those aren't terms I'm thinking in when I sit down in front of a word processor. At that point, it's just me and the story. Eventually -- via rewrites, readings, et cetera -- I turn on my left brain, and that is emphatically A Good Thing.)
A comparison I heard a slam poet make was that performing is a lot like making love to the audience -- yeah, it's possible to do it in such a way that you're only servicing your own needs. And it's possible to do it in such a way that you're only servicing theirs. But everyone has a lot more fun if you can find a way to pleasure both.
Aside from producing some awkward images -- I've certainly been part of performances where it felt like I was being gang-raped by the audience -- that's as effectively as I've ever heard it put.
Took me a while to put my finger on why this bothered me so much. A think it's mainly because, well -- whoever said that "commercial" was necessarily a bad thing? It's wrong to entertain people?
The protest, I imagine, comes from those who say that it's wrong to sell out one's artistic integrity for the sake of making a buck. Which is undoubtedly true, not least because it doesn't actually *work*. But, y'know -- in my opinion, the error lies in viewing art and commerce as being two forces that are at war with each other. One without the other doesn't really have value, right?
It's an attitude I hear from a lot of other artists -- a sense of resentment at having to reckon with market forces. They'd rather just be able to focus on being creative, rather than focus on having to connect their creativity to an audience. My response to this is, well, duh. Of *course* you'd prefer to just have the fun part without any of the work. And that's just too fucking bad, innit?
For my part, working with marketing and producing has, I feel, made me into a significantly *better* artist -- because I can't respond solely to the needs of my own creativity, but to the needs of an audience -- y'know, the people who are paying me to provide them with a service? I should probably be paying attention to them. Just a thought.
(That said, those aren't terms I'm thinking in when I sit down in front of a word processor. At that point, it's just me and the story. Eventually -- via rewrites, readings, et cetera -- I turn on my left brain, and that is emphatically A Good Thing.)
A comparison I heard a slam poet make was that performing is a lot like making love to the audience -- yeah, it's possible to do it in such a way that you're only servicing your own needs. And it's possible to do it in such a way that you're only servicing theirs. But everyone has a lot more fun if you can find a way to pleasure both.
Aside from producing some awkward images -- I've certainly been part of performances where it felt like I was being gang-raped by the audience -- that's as effectively as I've ever heard it put.
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