We have one show left to go -- Saturday at noon -- do any members of our fairly youthful audience actually get up early enough to go see shows in Soho at noon? God knows I don't, but then I typically stay up until 4 or 5 in the morning. But I sincerely hope that other people will be able to make it to the show, because our last two have been really great. Actors don't work in a void; when they can sense that the audience has no sense of irony, it gets hard for them. But we've had good audiences, and we hope to have at least one more. At this point I recommend you buy tickets at the door, but if you want a discount, you can head to 1 8th St, and get one for $15 -- until noon on Friday, that is. After that, you're stuck with $18 at the door.
What will I do when this is over? I mean, the day afterwards I will probably spend dead asleep, but what about Monday? Start writing grants to go to Edinburgh? (But who says anybody else wants to pick up and go to Scotland for two weeks?) Or just send out the script to a few far-away places that will produce it, if they do produce it, without me or Lucy or any of the actors to whom the parts now seem so permanently bonded? Lie in bed and feel lost? Apply for jobs and internships, as I so desperately need to do?
Some combination of the above. But most likely I'll sit down and write another play. Nature did not intend me for a producer.
Showing posts with label authorial whining. Show all posts
Showing posts with label authorial whining. Show all posts
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Don't you waggle your ears at me!
So, we were invited by Fringe publicity to bring our "big visuals" to the CBS Early Show for possible interviews and some camera time. We stood on the line with Devin in his rabbit ears, Mary in her pink hijab, and me toting Fadl the neon green puppet. The people standing around us found us quite entertaining. The anchor began to move down the line, talking to people. He saw us standing there, and took in Mary's headscarf and our muppet-with-an-assault-rifle postcards, and visibly reared back and away from us. No signs of Islam for the morning show! We're too busy watching idiots across the nation equate Muslims with terrorists! But we made it into the background of another shot, holding up our postcards and looking adorable, with Mary carrying Fadl. Devin, catching sight of himself on the monitor, shook his head, and a P.A. went crazy. You can't let your ears wiggle on the Early Show!
We've been getting some press. It's mostly positive, but it makes a lot of mistakes that I'd sort of like to address, and one review walks straight into the issue I mentioned before, of making assumptions about my attitude on the basis of my Jewishness. But, although I am burning to address the issues of Why Quentin Is Vital to the Play and How This Play Is Really, Really Not Pro-Israel, I guess it's kind of tacky to argue with critics. We will let their bad writing speak for itself. (Okay, so it's hard to resist being bitchy when people are insinuating that you're biased towards Israel because you're Jewish.)
We've been getting some press. It's mostly positive, but it makes a lot of mistakes that I'd sort of like to address, and one review walks straight into the issue I mentioned before, of making assumptions about my attitude on the basis of my Jewishness. But, although I am burning to address the issues of Why Quentin Is Vital to the Play and How This Play Is Really, Really Not Pro-Israel, I guess it's kind of tacky to argue with critics. We will let their bad writing speak for itself. (Okay, so it's hard to resist being bitchy when people are insinuating that you're biased towards Israel because you're Jewish.)
Monday, August 9, 2010
Venue Prep Day
It is kind of a wonder that I can write this post. That's because I spent a lot of today dealing with ladders. I don't like ladders. They are directly related to heights, which I am afraid of, and they always seem kind of unstable, so I am not just worried that I will fall off them, I am also always worried that other people will fall off them as well. Which is why the less-stressful bit of ladder-oriented work was holding the ladder for Becca, who knows what she's doing and is not afraid of heights. Becca doesn't become a trembling wreck because somebody asked her to tie a curtain to the grid. I do, but I did it anyway, which, I mean, good for me and all, but being a trembling wreck is kind of exhausting. Especially when somebody asks you to get up on a ladder in the dark to adjust something which isn't necessarily the safest way of accomplishing the particular task it is accomplishing. But, here I am to tell the tale. The boring, boring tale.
In other, very much related news, lighting and scenic design progress apace! Brett tells amusing stories about the reactions of Toys-R-Us clerks who are confronted with a young man buying 216 square feet of alphabet-patterned foam puzzle pieces. Jimmy finds 1000W lights and does interesting things with them that I probably shouldn't give away.
All the other shows who share our venue were also present today, of course, and so there was a postcard exchange. And everybody looked at ours and said something along the lines of, "OH, it's the one with the MUPPET with a GUN." To my perpetual surprise, everyone seems to have heard of us. Stop putting off buying tickets, readers. The link is to the right.
(Alternately, you can go to 1 W. 8th St, and buy them for $15. Grab a postcard while you're at it.)
In other, very much related news, lighting and scenic design progress apace! Brett tells amusing stories about the reactions of Toys-R-Us clerks who are confronted with a young man buying 216 square feet of alphabet-patterned foam puzzle pieces. Jimmy finds 1000W lights and does interesting things with them that I probably shouldn't give away.
All the other shows who share our venue were also present today, of course, and so there was a postcard exchange. And everybody looked at ours and said something along the lines of, "OH, it's the one with the MUPPET with a GUN." To my perpetual surprise, everyone seems to have heard of us. Stop putting off buying tickets, readers. The link is to the right.
(Alternately, you can go to 1 W. 8th St, and buy them for $15. Grab a postcard while you're at it.)
In other, slightly less officially related news: once you have written one perky song, it can become hard to stop. I find myself taking all kinds of flimsy excuses to do it. Right now I do it socially, but the next thing you know I'll be staying in at nights to do it alone.
OH WAIT.
Well, so I guess the existence of this play is proof that it's clearly trouble, this ditty-writing business. But the latest is actually social in origin; it's for Becca, who doesn't like asking other people for help. Even if a friend might be useful in the matter of, say, dislodging 216 square feet of foam puzzle pieces from their awkward hiding place in an electrics closet.
OH WAIT.
Well, so I guess the existence of this play is proof that it's clearly trouble, this ditty-writing business. But the latest is actually social in origin; it's for Becca, who doesn't like asking other people for help. Even if a friend might be useful in the matter of, say, dislodging 216 square feet of foam puzzle pieces from their awkward hiding place in an electrics closet.
Friends are useful! Friends are fun!
Friends can help you get things done!
You may be very strong and
You may be very smart
But friends are there to help you out
So let them do their part!
It goes on from there. If you could hear the melody, you'd hate me right now. Fortunately for both of us, I don't go in for singing to YouTube.
Monday, August 2, 2010
A History of Violence
"She ought to be slapped for writing it."
I had the pleasure once of hearing my play discussed by people who didn't know I'd written it. Invisibility is a privilege of playwrights; actors are seen by the public, while we hide in the shadows. Interestingly, the reaction (summarized in the statement above) was not the one that haunted my nightmares. (I have a reoccurring dream of being condemned by the rabbi during Yom Kippur services. I barely even go to services.) The speaker felt that the play was anti-Palestinian; I'm not sure if she'd stayed for the second act or not. I loitered in the hall where she was talking to her friend, trying to look casual. I awaited my moment. When the conversation seemed to be turning away from AK-47, I approached.
"I couldn't help but overhear you talking about that play*... I wrote it, and I was just wondering if there was anything you wanted to ask me about?"
Oh dear. Much back-pedaling. Much equivocating. Many, many chances, all of which I took, for me to show off all the research I had done, all the care I had taken. Some implicit apologies. Some satisfaction.
I narrated this incident to my father later. "Well," he said, "you're provoking everybody, kid! Isn't that what art's supposed to do?" I hear this a lot, and I suppose to a certain degree it's true, but it also seems worrying likely like a commonplace. Is it my job to provoke? Or is my play insufficiently clear, that someone could see it and come away with the idea that I was condemning Gazans and excusing Israel? Artistically, I prefer to err on the side of obscurity rather than heavy-handedness, but the entrance of politics does complicate things. I don't like to think of my play as being itself propagandistic, but if it can be read in the way that my critic in the hall read it, then it takes on some aspects of that genre, a notion with which I am not comfortable.
* A dirty lie. I could totally have helped it.
I had the pleasure once of hearing my play discussed by people who didn't know I'd written it. Invisibility is a privilege of playwrights; actors are seen by the public, while we hide in the shadows. Interestingly, the reaction (summarized in the statement above) was not the one that haunted my nightmares. (I have a reoccurring dream of being condemned by the rabbi during Yom Kippur services. I barely even go to services.) The speaker felt that the play was anti-Palestinian; I'm not sure if she'd stayed for the second act or not. I loitered in the hall where she was talking to her friend, trying to look casual. I awaited my moment. When the conversation seemed to be turning away from AK-47, I approached.
"I couldn't help but overhear you talking about that play*... I wrote it, and I was just wondering if there was anything you wanted to ask me about?"
Oh dear. Much back-pedaling. Much equivocating. Many, many chances, all of which I took, for me to show off all the research I had done, all the care I had taken. Some implicit apologies. Some satisfaction.
I narrated this incident to my father later. "Well," he said, "you're provoking everybody, kid! Isn't that what art's supposed to do?" I hear this a lot, and I suppose to a certain degree it's true, but it also seems worrying likely like a commonplace. Is it my job to provoke? Or is my play insufficiently clear, that someone could see it and come away with the idea that I was condemning Gazans and excusing Israel? Artistically, I prefer to err on the side of obscurity rather than heavy-handedness, but the entrance of politics does complicate things. I don't like to think of my play as being itself propagandistic, but if it can be read in the way that my critic in the hall read it, then it takes on some aspects of that genre, a notion with which I am not comfortable.
* A dirty lie. I could totally have helped it.
Disclaimers
So, like every good Child of the New Media, I have, of course, used Facebook to advertise our show. And, like every good Facebook user, I am friends with people I haven't spoken to in years, and people I met casually at a party one time, and probably people who have mistaken me for somebody else of the same name. My nose being to the publicity grindstone, I invite all these people to come see the show. Since I am a hardened insomniac, I check back in at 4AM to see who's planning to show up. I see that Mary and Matt are planning to come; that's good, because we don't have understudies.
I see that two people have already definitively decided that they're not coming. I know who they are; I don't know them that well.
I can already hear Becca tactfully suggesting that I am perhaps a little paranoid, yes? And I am decidedly paranoid. But I, looking at their (Arabic) names make anxious (probably incorrect) guesses about what they, looking at my name, may (incorrectly) guess about my play. Such as: since it is written by this playwright with the Hebrew given name and the German-Jewish surname, it must be a defense of Israel. It concerns "Tomorrow's Pioneers", so it is about how Palestinians are anti-semitic.
But obviously it is no more fair for me to assume that these are their reasons for not coming than it would be for them to make those assumptions about my play. Nevertheless, I'm filled with a pathetic desire to take every opportunity I can to assert or suggest my actual values. I won't fall so far as to begin writing "Not anti-Palestinian!" on the postcards I hand out, because once you start going there you might as well break out the fine-tipped pen and write a little essay about how your play is about different ways of conceptualizing/narrativizing traumatic events and the concept of home, and the loss of home. And once you've done that, everybody knows you're not a blind supporter of Israel, and nobody wants to see your play, because it sounds boring as fuck.
And it just seems craven: why should I have to fall all over myself to prove that I'm a moral human being with an independent opinion? Just because I'm Jewish? No. No. You'll have to trust me, and give me credit, as you should try to trust and credit every writer. (Or at least, until they have proven themselves unworthy of such credit.)
I see that two people have already definitively decided that they're not coming. I know who they are; I don't know them that well.
I can already hear Becca tactfully suggesting that I am perhaps a little paranoid, yes? And I am decidedly paranoid. But I, looking at their (Arabic) names make anxious (probably incorrect) guesses about what they, looking at my name, may (incorrectly) guess about my play. Such as: since it is written by this playwright with the Hebrew given name and the German-Jewish surname, it must be a defense of Israel. It concerns "Tomorrow's Pioneers", so it is about how Palestinians are anti-semitic.
But obviously it is no more fair for me to assume that these are their reasons for not coming than it would be for them to make those assumptions about my play. Nevertheless, I'm filled with a pathetic desire to take every opportunity I can to assert or suggest my actual values. I won't fall so far as to begin writing "Not anti-Palestinian!" on the postcards I hand out, because once you start going there you might as well break out the fine-tipped pen and write a little essay about how your play is about different ways of conceptualizing/narrativizing traumatic events and the concept of home, and the loss of home. And once you've done that, everybody knows you're not a blind supporter of Israel, and nobody wants to see your play, because it sounds boring as fuck.
And it just seems craven: why should I have to fall all over myself to prove that I'm a moral human being with an independent opinion? Just because I'm Jewish? No. No. You'll have to trust me, and give me credit, as you should try to trust and credit every writer. (Or at least, until they have proven themselves unworthy of such credit.)
Theatre Has No MPAA
Tonight an actor from my other show* told me that she'd seen a child on the B train admiringly holding a postcard for our show. She estimated the child's age at 4 years.
People.
Watch your children, please.
Yes, there's a fuzzy puppet on the postcard. Yes, the word "Sing-Along" appears in the title. Did you notice the "AK-47" bit? This is ironic juxtaposition; it's meant to illustrate the circumstances which the children of Gaza find themselves in; circumstances which your 4-year-old American child should, by the grace of God, never have to endure or even contemplate.
I thought this went without saying, but then again, at my meeting with the Fringe folks, they asked if the show could be sorted into the "FringeJR" category, so evidently it doesn't. I can't say if we're "PG-13" or "R" or whatever nonsensical category the movies are using these days, but I can say this: DO NOT BRING SMALL CHILDREN. They will be bored, upset, or possibly psychologically damaged.
*A contemporary adaptation of the Bacchae, much more in my usual sex-and-violence line. We're about to go out into the parks of New York City and scare the joggers a little bit. Check us out.
People.
Watch your children, please.
Yes, there's a fuzzy puppet on the postcard. Yes, the word "Sing-Along" appears in the title. Did you notice the "AK-47" bit? This is ironic juxtaposition; it's meant to illustrate the circumstances which the children of Gaza find themselves in; circumstances which your 4-year-old American child should, by the grace of God, never have to endure or even contemplate.
I thought this went without saying, but then again, at my meeting with the Fringe folks, they asked if the show could be sorted into the "FringeJR" category, so evidently it doesn't. I can't say if we're "PG-13" or "R" or whatever nonsensical category the movies are using these days, but I can say this: DO NOT BRING SMALL CHILDREN. They will be bored, upset, or possibly psychologically damaged.
*A contemporary adaptation of the Bacchae, much more in my usual sex-and-violence line. We're about to go out into the parks of New York City and scare the joggers a little bit. Check us out.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Jew to Jew
Sorry, folks, just a little something I have to get out of the way. A little bit of intra-faith business.
Confidential to the Anti-Defamation League:
You are making us look bad. I know you do good work; I know there are times (many!) when Mel Gibson needs to be told what's what, and I know (and appreciate!) that you have spoken out against anti-Muslim sentiment in the past. So now is not the time to quit and start mealy-mouthing it. There is a tradition of Jewish social justice, and I'm proud of it. Don't let us down.
And while we're having this chat, can you please quit equating criticism of Israel with antisemitism? If you argue that (Israel = Jews) then, by the commutative property, you imply that, in any sentence, the words "Israel" can be safely replaced by "Jews." And considering that there are sentences out there, depressingly true in their original form, that say things like "Israel tortures prisoners," I would really prefer that that substitution didn't take place.
Thanks, guys. I'm glad we had this little talk.
Confidential to the Anti-Defamation League:
You are making us look bad. I know you do good work; I know there are times (many!) when Mel Gibson needs to be told what's what, and I know (and appreciate!) that you have spoken out against anti-Muslim sentiment in the past. So now is not the time to quit and start mealy-mouthing it. There is a tradition of Jewish social justice, and I'm proud of it. Don't let us down.
And while we're having this chat, can you please quit equating criticism of Israel with antisemitism? If you argue that (Israel = Jews) then, by the commutative property, you imply that, in any sentence, the words "Israel" can be safely replaced by "Jews." And considering that there are sentences out there, depressingly true in their original form, that say things like "Israel tortures prisoners," I would really prefer that that substitution didn't take place.
Thanks, guys. I'm glad we had this little talk.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Praying
I give Matt a lot of grief because he’s Irish. Okay, it’s not actually because he’s Irish so much as it is that he’s not Jewish, but he’s portraying an Israeli character. I try to explain to him how to sound Yiddishe without actually giving him line readings, or sounding like I’m giving him line readings. This is tricky for both of us, and some times I just want to call up some family or friends and put them on the line with Matt so he can hear what I mean. I worry about falling into stereotype or parody; a lot of the media presence of these accents and mannerisms is in exaggerated, comic forms, like Jon Stewart's shoulder-shrugged rendition, or Woody Allen's self-consciously Other shpiel. And I'm not Israeli myself, of course, nor do I come from a household where anybody of any generation speaks more than a few words of Yiddish. But Matt is an enterprising actor, and takes advantage of the awkward crumbs I can give him to build a more natural character. He makes a very sweet Jewish dad to his young (entirely offstage) daughter.
Today we’re praying, in translation from Arabic and Hebrew. The prayer rug and the prayer shawl are dug out, and the finer points of procedure are discussed. Since I am a Hebrew-school dropout, and Adi has only a vague idea of how salah is supposed to go, we are lucky to have consultants -- Beth advises Matt, and Nuah-Ozryel Bukhari comes in after work to help Adi. I’m embarrassed by my ignorance; I’ve done so much research for this play, and yet I have to be reminded that one is supposed to kiss the tallit. In doing my research for the play, I was and am constantly hurt by the tendency to conflate “Jews” and “Israelis”; talking about “what the Jews have done in Gaza” is as ludicrous as talking about “what the Muslims have done in Afghanistan.” There is also a painful tendency for Western statements of support for Palestinians to slide into ugly claims about “Jewish-controlled media.” And I feel personally hurt and alienated by this; I instinctively regard myself as Jewish. In the context of this play I’ve written, and the hostile attention it may garner, I know that my irreligiousness could subject me to accusations of “inauthenticity.” I feel sad, but, on the other hand: whatever, man; I’m an artist. I’ll leave authenticity to the role models.
And also perhaps this blog is not a good venue for me to vent about my relationship to my own religio-ethnic identity and whatnot.
But: speaking of prayers, ours have been answered. We have a stage manager! AND an assistant stage manager! Chrissy and Jing are our new favorite people. They are here to save us from our own incompetence.
Today we’re praying, in translation from Arabic and Hebrew. The prayer rug and the prayer shawl are dug out, and the finer points of procedure are discussed. Since I am a Hebrew-school dropout, and Adi has only a vague idea of how salah is supposed to go, we are lucky to have consultants -- Beth advises Matt, and Nuah-Ozryel Bukhari comes in after work to help Adi. I’m embarrassed by my ignorance; I’ve done so much research for this play, and yet I have to be reminded that one is supposed to kiss the tallit. In doing my research for the play, I was and am constantly hurt by the tendency to conflate “Jews” and “Israelis”; talking about “what the Jews have done in Gaza” is as ludicrous as talking about “what the Muslims have done in Afghanistan.” There is also a painful tendency for Western statements of support for Palestinians to slide into ugly claims about “Jewish-controlled media.” And I feel personally hurt and alienated by this; I instinctively regard myself as Jewish. In the context of this play I’ve written, and the hostile attention it may garner, I know that my irreligiousness could subject me to accusations of “inauthenticity.” I feel sad, but, on the other hand: whatever, man; I’m an artist. I’ll leave authenticity to the role models.
And also perhaps this blog is not a good venue for me to vent about my relationship to my own religio-ethnic identity and whatnot.
But: speaking of prayers, ours have been answered. We have a stage manager! AND an assistant stage manager! Chrissy and Jing are our new favorite people. They are here to save us from our own incompetence.
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