Poetry & Blindfolds

 

When I finally sat down to write “The Observatory”, I decided to continue my trend of writing myself a small role in order to add some laughs and punch to the play.  If nothing else, I know how to twist scripts and get laughs.  So I wrote the part of Victor, the charming and sadistic government agent (not from the FBI, as one reviewer suggested, and not in the future, as claimed by another – I’m all for reviewers projecting their feelings, but when they project my plot points, they’re piss poor at their job).

 

Having myself in mind for the role of Victor allowed me to have quite a lot of fun at the expense of one of the main roles, that of David Lockwood.  Even with Victor offstage, I still relished in Victor-izing David throughout the show, tormenting him with his own weaknesses, foibles and vulnerabilities until he is crushed under the weight of them.

 

In early 2011, I had a breakfast meeting with a couple of fellow creative types and we ruminated on the idea of combining our powers under one umbrella.  This unnamed entity was to be used to promote each other’s works and be on hand for each other to work with.  It was decided that, to launch this none-too-ambitious idea, we would remount “The Observatory” to capitalize on the very positive reactions we received from the December 2010 run (and – this should be underscored – we all liked the play anyway). 

 

Like most garage band philosophies, the idea of the creative umbrella didn’t survive long after our french toast, pancakes and omelettes made their way back into the public water supply.  However, by this time, I was financially committed to remounting “The Observatory”, so that was that.  From the first run came Angela Jo Strohm and Kasey O’Brien, both of which have outstanding talent, infinite charm and magnificent noses.  In line with creative evolution, we all took on more ambitious roles this time around: Angela, who had understudies the role of Marissa, took on the principal role of Sally Lockwood, as well as became the main director.  Kasey, who had understudied Sally in the first show, moved up to take on the principal role of Marissa, as well as assistant director. 

 

Right around this time, I heard an interview with Ken Finkleman, a particular hero of mine, in which he was asked why he chose to produce, direct, write and star in his various TV shows.  He responded, “would you ask a painter why he decided to paint the entire canvas?”

With that, I decided to take on the lead role of David Lockwood.

 

Now, as I mentioned above, I did delight in torturing our poor David when I wrote the script, but what I didn’t realize is that the tools I used to create a mental Guantanamo Bay in David’s mind – the insecurity, the vulnerability, the loss of worth, the fear of being mediocre – are exactly my fears.  And David and I get to share them with everyone for an hour and fifteen minutes.  Oops.

 

Over the last six weeks, it’s been a circle of hell that Dante didn’t even think of.

 

There were two saving graces to being so emotionally naked in front of the rest of the cast: (1) no one was aware I was really terrified and vulnerable and (2) Angela and Kasey were always there.  I have grown very reliant on their opinions and have come to trust them implicitly.  This is not a common thing in theater, no matter what anyone says.  I cannot hug them enough. 

 

Love is the cast member with the longest resume.  And she’s not even Equity.

 

 

 

 

 

In college, I was once asked by one of my drama teachers how I would define ‘theater.’  I replied, ‘A sanctuary for people who can’t do anything else.’  Although my teacher did not appear to be pleased with my answer, I have found this spontaneous theory to be pretty accurate.  Sure, actors, writers, tech folks and directors can do other things – if one is involved in theater, one must learn to do other things, unless one has a starvation fetish – but the real theater people breathe, eat and sleep the stuff.

 

And these people, I would say, have some damage to start with. 

 

But who doesn’t?

 

The best folks in the performing world blend being an artist and being art itself.  The best way I can describe this is when you watch a performer and completely forget that they are performing.  I’ve been lucky enough to see this a number of times over the last few years – notably, Angela Jo Strohm in the 2009 movie “Gless” by Herbivore Productions; Caitlin Emmons in my 2008 play, “The Tearful Assassin”.  I know I am nowhere near being that kind of artist, which is why I tend to gravitate towards writing over acting.

 

A performing artist, in my view, is like a jazz standard: recognizable but always morphing, guided by instinct and circumstance, always seeking that connection with the other players.  When I see that happen, I get what my wife calls the “L.O.L.” – not “laugh out loud” but “look of love.”  People on top of their game… I love them.

 

If the best folks in the performing world blend being an artist and being art itself, the worst do neither.  Like most professions, theater is choked with people who use their “craft” to propagate whatever damage they’re not facing.  These folks are “Problem Children”, and I’ve yet to work on a show in which there hasn’t been at least one (this includes 2008’s “The Woman in Black”, in which I surprised myself by being the Problem Child – I reversed course immediately after that).  My wife has suggested that I create an anonymous website listing and describing Problem Children but, though it would probably prove beneficial to producers, who must cast characters without knowing actors’ characters, such “power” could easily fall into the wrong hands.

 

One such Problem Child said to me, “I do theater because it makes me feel good”: that, make no mistake, brothers and sisters, is a direct threat.  You know nothing good is going to come after such a self-centered declaration.  Moments later, she made good on the threat by blaming her co-stars and the production team for why she was disengaged from the production.  After making the point that she was supportive of her cast mates (I heard the “but” in that line before she continued), she promptly quit the production.   

 

The benefit of working with Problem Children is, of course, that once you identify someone as one, they don’t bother you.  If you can handle an 8-year-old brat, you can handle a Problem Child.  And, as much as one wants to yell right back at them, it is best not to.  In the best-case scenario, they might learn something – and who wants an intelligent Problem Child out there?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1. The moment Angela Jo Strohm came into rehearsal and introduced a completely original and clever angle to a character we had been struggling with (Tony).

 

2. The first few moments Kasey O’Brien and Colin Fewell shared a stage together and seeing how she immediately inspired him. 

 

3. The style of the review in Chicago Stage Review.  Good and bad reviews are easier to learn from when one knows the reviewer is a good writer.
http://www.vincenttruman.net/observatory/observatory1.htm

 

 

4. The Meisner night.  The first time I made note of Angela’s and my very different – yet very complimentary – directorial styles.

 

5. Quoting Tom Waits lyrics back and forth with Stephen Ruppel.

 

6. The first read.  I knew the casting and chemistry was just about right.

 

7. Meeting Colin’s parents.

 

8. Broadcasting the rehearsals via UStream, making the online audience “observers.”

 

9. Reviewing the filmed bits.

 

10. Closing night, attended by one of the biggest influences of the piece, Melissa Malan.

 

11. No meltdown. 

 

12. The first moment Angela really had my back and I really had hers.

 

13. Nerds.

 

14. Any time the actors weren’t texting in the middle of a rehearsal.

 

15. Being introduced to Drew Cohen, the Sound and Vision Man.

 

16. The kind promotions from friends all over the US.

 

17. The December 11 performance with friends who came in from Michigan and Oregon – and liked each other to boot, even before they all got stuck in Chicago due to snow.

 

18. Picking the cast, with a team I trust.

 

19. Getting to know Kyle Waddle again, after a three- or four-year pause.

 

20. Realizing whatever I do next has to be better than this.