More on Nicholas Hughes
March 31, 2009
Nicholas Hughes lived most of his life without his mother, Sylvia Plath, yet his obituaries overwhelmingly mention her. A longtime friend of the biologist tries to set the record straight in London Times Op-Ed piece. He writes,
“It’s ironic, isn’t it, that a man who spent his life trying not to be seen as the son of poetry’s most celebrated suicide should, by the manner of his death, ensure that for many who never met him this is exactly how he will be remembered.”
The positive memories he has of Nicholas remind me of the ways friends of Sylvia Plath have often described her, noting that neither showed signs of depression openly or until later in life.
And here’s more from the NY Times…
Tech-mology
March 31, 2009
Could everybody just slow down for a second?
It’s not a novel idea to lament how cellphones, email, text messaging and the interwebs have caused us to speed multitaskingly through our days, but I have two complaints… or at least some nostalgia for the old landline days.
1) As baseball season approaches, and my NY Mets will inaugurate their new stadium, I was excited to dig up the awesome pictures I have from Shea. I had close-ups of the dug-out, behind home plate, even of Game 5 in 2000 (boo). Then it hit me that all those photos were taken on a cellphone- meaning they don’t exist anymore… just like the stadium (eventually, once it’s been fully dissected and auctioned piecemeal).
2) Doctors and cab drivers text message too. God bless, ‘em (doctors), they save peoples lives, and I do like taking cabs everywhere except across town, but those are two jobs where divided attention is enough to put me on meds.
Here’s what I have to offer instead of a photo of my favorite old eyesore Shea:
A British guy on Brick Lane carrying meat the old-fashioned way.
Nicholas Hughes
March 25, 2009
I’ve been torn about this post for a few days, feeling compelled to comment on the recent suicide of Sylvia Plath’s son, yet stunned into silence. I’ve also been concerned that sharing my thoughts on their family legacy would be exploitative, as I’ve been working on developing Plath’s novel The Bell Jar into a film for over five years.
Like many other people, I’ve been fascinated by Plath’s tragically short life, and an admirer of her writing. I don’t know much about Nicholas Hughes, except that his sister is the only surviving family member. Nicholas’ death stirs up a number of questions, particularly because he was only a year old when his mother commited suicide. I don’t have the insight or authority to speculate on his decision to end his life, and I feel it would be disrespectful. But I can offer praise to his mother’s work, if for no other reason than to lament that she wasn’t around longer to provide more of it. Read the rest of this entry »
Oleanna Revisited
March 10, 2009
Five years ago, I did a run of David Mamet’s play, OLEANNA, in London’s West End. The experience was so rewarding, I’ve decided to do it again, only this time with a different cast, a different director, and in a different city. For more info, click here.
But I have more of a point than shameless self-promotion. I really love this play. Years later, and before we’ve even started rehearsals, it gets my mental motor running. I still find it provocative and challenging, and I remember bits of dialogue that sound like musical daggers. The set up is simple; OLEANNA takes place entirely in a college professor’s office, where a failing student accuses her mentor of abusing his power. The ensuing ninety minutes is more than just a battle of “he said/she said,” and conflict between the two characters escalates. Words are weapons in this play, sometimes more potent than physical violence.
I went to see SPEED THE PLOW (also Mamet) a few weeks ago, and said ‘hi’ to William H. Macy afterwards. (Forgive the name-dropping, but we did work together twice). When I told him I was doing OLEANNA again (he originated it), he looked at me with pity. “Yikes. That’s a hard one. Especially for the girl.”
He meant that the audience utterly hates the female character by the end. Yes, there were times in London where I understood the accusations that Mamet is a misogynist, but the genius of the play is that he sets you up to hate her so much you want the professor to hurt her. And there you are, surprised by your own prejudice.
But as an actor, this bias is entirely freeing. I discovered after the first night in front of that London audience that I wasn’t up on stage to get approval, but to make a point.
I can go on and on about OLEANNA, and I will another time. Then I’ll change the category to “AD NAUSEUM.”
