You Know My Steez

Things are shaping up nicely on the work front, hence the dearth of posts.

Headed to LA to film a season of Showtime’s Dexter (what’s a good word to describe audible giddiness?), then back to NY to reunite with the theater company that gave me my first job (and $100 paycheck, I believe I have it in storage somewhere).

Not allowed to say anything about what will happen on Dexter, (wooo ha ha ha ha, sinister thumb twiddle).

As for this fall,  I’ve always wanted to perform at BAM’s Harvey theater. More info.

C’mon feet, don’t fail me now!

Or, Back in the New York Groove.

When I decided to crawl out of the eighteenth century and start this blog, I promised myself I would not vomit irrelevant musings like Narcissus would if there were a Narcissus Blog (even the word blog itself is repugnant to me, to be honest). But here I am, enjoying not the sound of my own voice, but the sound of my own keyboard. And I have some time to kill before Oleanna starts in New York, so I’ve been letting my mind wander. I don’t pretend my insight is, well, insightful, I just hope it is at least worth a chuckle. So indulge me.

Did you know there is a National Yogurt Association? I was reading my yogurt container today… (yes, I have that much time, and I feel irrationally guilty about it because I am, essentially, a New Yorker)… I was reading my yogurt container and noticed it said “meets National Yogurt Association’s requirements for live active cultures.” This had me thinking, who exactly comprises the National Yogurt Association? And do they spend their working hours looking at thousands of petri dishes full of yogurt samples? Petri dishes full of thousands of yogurt samples, full of billions of live bacteria? What do they do when they are not working, and can they ever eat a cup of yogurt again? Curiouser and curiouser. (FYI, with a bit of reconnaissance, I discovered the NYA WEBSITE! Did you know that yogurt has a publicist? Thankfully, those good little active bacteria are no longer misrepresented).

Before I stumbled on this new information, I attended a Yoga class for the first time since being back from Los Angeles. The class did what it was supposed to, I left feeling limber and a tiny bit Buddha, but not before I noticed the many things one could buy at said Yoga Studio. There were books and CD’s and leotards and outfits and seminar packets and audiences with gurus. My idle thoughts sufficiently controlled, and my $18 clarity reached, it seemed ironic that an ancient non-material tradition could become so glaringly profitable. God, I love New York.

Doing a play is an exercise in Zen Buddhism, I am convinced.

We are about to enter a five show weekend (Friday evening, two shows on Saturday and Sunday), our first since a successful opening (more on what that actually means later). I arrive at the Music Center, a beautiful Lincoln Center-esque complex with three performance spaces including my place of employment, usually in the early evening. I witness the many well-dressed folk, milling about the fountain and food stands, ready to enjoy their evening of entertainment. They are on dates, with family and friends, sipping wine or careful not to smudge their lipstick, but they have all put their obligations behind them. I, on the other hand, am just getting started. (I’ve been sleeping late on this theater schedule, but not that late… I’m talking about alertness, standing at the gate before the gunshot).

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Here’s an article from the L.A. Times on OLEANNA.

A girl could get used to this city.

Not that I disliked L.A. before, but I had never really felt at ease here…and I did participate in that bad New Yorky habit of dismissing it right off the bat. Let’s say my feelings about L.A. could be summed up in three stages:

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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.”