Thursday, April 29, 2010

Bittersweet

On any given day it will occur. When a moment is just for me, not to be shared.

Not because I object to sharing, but rather sometimes I find it better to keep a feeling and the emotions which were brought on by a moment, unannounced and, without warning, to myself.

I don’t know, it's just a letdown to share a moment I might have found endearing, and then to see and hear an unequaled responsiveness from the person I happen to be sharing with. It’s like finding a joke or a situation funny to me, and then right as I’m telling it to someone else, I begin getting uncomfortable because the person I’m sharing with isn’t remotely interested or amused. I always find myself wondering how I could have misread the person to begin with. I keep warning myself: Just because I find it a certain way, it doesn’t mean anyone else does.

All that put aside, and despite the fact there are many of you who may be adverse to my sentiments, I will forge ahead with an occasional moment or two in my career, by the sake of the circumstances by which they present themselves, created a bittersweet endearment which shall remain with me, intact and personal for the rest of my life.

"I’ve been called an actor’s director.
The label suits me to a tee.
If I am there for the actor
They are there for me
If I give out all I have within
The actor in turn presents
Equally from as deep
Often without words
We two glean what we seek."
- Hk/2010

This room, with all its bittersweet memories is mine forever. Take notice… I work here with all the diligence one might muster when the driving force has been cultivated by a life long passion to create from the substance, or lack of substance; God-given, or not.

I entered this room as a child, far too long ago for even me to perceive a true date of entry. But I do remember a single day, which could be responsible for my first knowing reaction to the creative efforts I had before me on a stage with real live people on it.

There was a big band on the stage, and a large group of singers they referred to as a choir. Our third grade class was on a field trip to experience a radio show at NBC studios in New York City. The name of the radio program was “Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians” - really nothing more than a big band and a group of singers. But it happened to me that day. The show came to an end, yet I remained in my seat, transfixed on the stage, and in a state of complete captivation over what I had just experienced.

The other students had filed out, and there stood my teacher at my side asking what was wrong. I couldn’t find any words; that in itself was extremely curious for usually talkative little da harv. Add to it the fact the tears were rolling down my cheeks and one would understand my teacher's concern over my welfare. Nothing was wrong with me, but it was never-the-less a first in my lifetime experience. I was overpowered by emotion caused by this ensemble of people performing creatively as one. The moment was lasting and bittersweet. It remains with me.

I don’t think being a creative soul ever leaves a person. There might be a time or a series of events which manage to stand in a person’s way, bringing to a stop individual effort of pursuit. Sure you might find an overwhelming obligation, as I did, which by the nature of circumstances demands things like food, money, clothing, cars, insurance, mortgage payments, braces on your children’s teeth; and the nagging remembrances of how you grew up, being taught about accepting responsibility. It can get so damn hard to recall “Fred Waring & The Pennsylvanians” when somehow you find yourself trapped with all that goes with the day in, day out pitfalls of normal life. Inside you are saying, “Don’t they understand I am a creative soul?” No. They don’t understand.

The fact is… who the hell cares besides you anyway?

So, there you have it, the bitter and the sweet. You decide which is which.

Moving right along; let’s get back to where I belong. We’re back in, as Gary Owens labeled it, “Beautiful downtown Burbank.” I’m about to relay another bittersweet moment. This particular moment took a lifetime to create. I won’t embellish; I don’t have to. The lady's story is a stand-alone adventure. The term bittersweet applies more often than most will experience in a (normal) lifetime. I have not shared this lady's name with anyone. It is not my intent to do so now or ever.

Age: Unknown
Married: Often
Awards: Many
Glamour: Abundant
Intellect: Superior
Humor: Always

It was another of those busy days at Kalmenson & Kalmenson. Our studio would be packed with a cross-section of exciting and talented people. I found myself smiling as I glanced at our call sheet of who was coming into our studio that day. Being honest with you, when I saw the breakdown of what the ad agency was looking for, I found myself hoping she would be on the call. Low and behold, I got my wish. Unfortunately this was a spot where she would be reading with a partner. It turned out to be an older woman giving advice to a much younger guy. He was to be a blue collar type, and she would be a lady of substance who comes into his place of business; in this case, a mechanic's garage. As an aside, I don’t think in real life she had ever been in a mechanic's garage (the French Riviera is another story).

I knew for sure she would be in on time for her call time. The younger guy was another story. In any event, she arrived and was greeted by our talent coordinator, and in short order, I was there to personally say hello and get my desired hug and kiss on the cheek.

By the way, I also got the slightest of slight little winks, made just for me a very long time ago. The warmth of her wink would be difficult to describe. If I were to try to get another actress to emulate the feeling which transpired without words in the shortness of that moment, it would be a difficult task. It was the shear history of friendship built during the years, conveyed with a wink almost too minuscule to discern.

It began with me rehearsing the two of them. In short order, without the younger actor having any idea of what excellence and professionalism he was experiencing, he found himself becoming a touch cocky about his performance. I looked through the glass and gave her the "take over" look I have reserved for talent of her magnitude. At times like this, my enjoyment makes it all worthwhile. She brought the conversational notes around to herself by asking me what she should do in reaction to his more internal and soft-spoken approach. I saw the light go on in his eyes, and I knew the two of us had succeeded with our very own misdirection play. The next take could have gone on the air. It was letter perfect. The two of them shook hands. She waved goodbye to me. That part was sweet. As they were leaving he said to her, "Have you appeared in anything I would know?" That part was bitter. “Doubtful,” she replied without emotion.

The visit was over with another wink.

The bitter and the sweet, are they what we sign on for in our life?

Can anyone at inception - in that very first moment when, for whatever reason, they find themselves motionless, and transfixed, have any idea of what their creative future will hold?

The other day, one of the oldest of actors coming in to audition for me, took my hand before he left the building, and with a marvelous sixth sense on display, catered to what I needed at that moment. “It’s because we love it, Harv,” he said. “We would do it again, wouldn’t we,” he added.

How bittersweet.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Kaplan, Solovey, O’Shea, and of course the Pulchritudinous Mrs. Glassberg

Not a sports team; they influenced my life, although I can’t attest to whether or not they did so on purpose. They could be anybody, but today they belong to me. They were my teachers at Public School 233, from the second through the fifth grade. In retrospect, I don’t think they cared for me. (Actually, I’m positive they didn’t like me.)

I remember many more, but these are the ones I choose to share with you, because these are the teachers who, each in their own way, managed to carve their permanence into my life.

All of them are deceased, so I have no qualms about what I will or won’t say. All I guarantee is I won’t embellish on the truth. I don’t have to.

It was Brooklyn, New York, and the Second World War was ablaze. The only men around in those days were a little too young or old for the draft, and those who were classified as 4F (physically unfit).

At the time there was a very popular song, which lamented the fact, "They're Either Too Young or Too Old.” A gal who had no one to date usually sang it. It simply meant: Guys too young or too old for the army were left out of the military service.

Mrs. Kaplan’s pet class was called “Choral Reading.” She had a severe affection for herself. “Lady Kaplan," as I labeled her, stood all of four foot eleven inches tall, but never the less to us little kids she came across as an imposing figure of a woman. “Mirror, Mirror on the wall who’s the most beautiful teacher of them all,” was perfect for her. Mrs. Kaplan never passed a mirror she judged unsuitable to admire herself in. Mrs. Kaplan seemed to be in a constant pose. Her class consisted of having us (third grade) kids memorize the same poem. She, of course, picked the material. Our input wasn’t remotely an option. This didn’t go down well for little da harv. When I submitted an original piece for the class to read, I got a flat turn down without her even giving me the courtesy of reading it. We would then rehearse it as if we were a concert orchestra, and present a performance to the student body. Of course, Mrs. Kaplan was our conductor. After we were all assembled on stage, she would be introduced by the school principle, to a very organized student body response. She was indeed a Brooklyn diva. I do believe I still have a couple of her mannerisms as I direct today’s actors.

One day before class began, I decided to try out my skills on the class before Mrs. Kaplan made her entry. I didn’t realize she was there behind me. As I called the class to attention while emulating the Kaplan baton technique, it suddenly became deathly still. I turned to see Lady Kaplan standing there in a complete over-reactionary mode. She dabbed at a supposed tear as she informed me of how deeply hurt and embarrassed I made her feel. I relay this information about Mrs. Kaplan because it was my first exposure to a serious actress. She had me going. I knew this was going to be my final fling as a school humorist; instead it was a first-hand experience with a real honest-to-goodness actress. It was also my first exposure to a woman who couldn’t turn off. Mrs. Kaplan was always in a portrayal of someone or other. Lucky for me, our school principal had long since become aware of the Kaplan over-reaction-to-everything approach.

During the same year, I went from Kaplan, to O’Shea; from drama queen, to the schoolmistress of music.

O’Shea had her own sadistic little sense of humor. She got off on making the parents upset with her. It wasn’t the era of the broad-minded parent.

At first my mother and father were pleased to hear about how accomplished our school music teacher was and how we were all going to learn harmony.

I doubt seriously if Miss O’Shea cared for any of the parents. I think she resented having to deal with any of them, especially at the Parent Teachers Association meetings. What O’Shea did was pretend to listen to the parents and then do her own thing. Her favorite songs were hymns, of any kind, and "Negro Spirituals." The first time my dad questioned what we had learned that day, he immediately thought my answer was very funny. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t care for her little Harvey learning “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny," "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," "Abide With Me," and "Onward Christian Soldiers,” as our earliest musical assignments. To this day, I still remember most of the words. I have to hand it to O’Shea -- I mean, P.S. 233 was ninety percent Jewish kids. She must have been laughing her ass off every time an eastern European Jewish immigrant parent was subjected to "Onward Christian Soldiers." I still smile every time I think about it. As a matter of fact, I’m smiling right now as I recall those marvelous images from my past.

Not all of my recollections provide a tickle. Mr. Solovey was a returned war hero. He was a decorated veteran who had two ships sunk under him. He definitely displayed shakiness attributable to combat exposure.

We learned discipline from him, and how to conduct ourselves as professionals. Solovey was a basic mathematics teacher. When he gave a student a work assignment, he expected it to be done. We all learned right away, there would be no forgiveness. If a kid didn’t do what was asked of him, Solovey gave them a fail for the assignment. He’d say, “If any one of you doesn’t do their part, the whole team suffers. Ships are lost when a single sailor doesn’t do his required assignment.” I remembered he would get this gray look on his face whenever he spoke of a sailor not doing his duty correctly. Rumor had it he never could forget his loss of comrades.

It was during my third grade that I had as a teacher the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. When Mrs. Glassberg spoke, I listened. I was married to her every move. She didn’t look like my mother, or any other of my relatives. Mrs. Glassberg was a movie star. How she walked and talked made a lasting impression on every kid in the class. The girls would emulate how she walked and talked and the boys seemingly overnight developed unbelievably good manners.

Kaplan, Solovey, O’Shea, and Glassberg, without knowing it, cast a lasting influence on a third grader's future. Kaplans’ drama, O’Sheas whimsy, Soloveys’ professionalism, and Mrs.Glassberg putting on display what a woman should be. Some might say it was my first class in “Woman Appreciation.” Yes. Some might say that.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Amazing Contacts

Of all the amazing changes I’ve seen and experienced first hand in my lifetime, nothing compares with the internet, and with the far-reaching effect of writing a blog.

I can remember a few moons ago, hearing from an actor friend of mine, who was calling me from the other side of this planet to tell me he had heard his voice on a commercial I had directed no more than a few days prior to his call. My amazement has been layered with many years of incredulousness. The spot he was referring to was no more than a few days in the can. Secondly, he was some place in Ireland working on a film when he made the call, and I wasn’t even aware it would be played outside the United States; a big time rarity in those days. In a matter of one week, the actor had auditioned, recorded the voice over, traveled to Ireland and heard his work firsthand. We thought it truly amazing. Many of us talked about the incident for a long time afterwards. Of course, that was a minor event compared to what we consider to be commonplace in today’s marketplace.

Our office receives calls from all over the world on a regular basis. It’s no big deal, but it is twenty-four seven, twelve months a year. Cell phones, emails, and the internet are all critical tools.

In the past, every actor had to have an answering service. There was always the danger of missing an important call. Today, every actor is reachable instantly by cell phone, email, or texting.

One of the aspects of all this speed and gadgetry is, I find much of it an invasion of my privacy. Mainly, it’s our constant companion the cell phone that annoys me the most.

I try not to give my cell phone number out to a wide variety of people. I may be wrong, but I get the feeling people who have my cell phone, or anyone else’s cell phone number for that matter, are under the impression we’re fair game to be called whenever they deem it necessary. Since most people annoy me anyway, you might understand my consternation when I’m busily involved with an important task of my choosing, and my cell phone rings.

Note: I consider the following grouping to be important tasks:
* Reading a book
* Sleeping
* Eating
* Going to the bathroom
* Breathing
* Driving
* Drinking single malt scotch
* And just about any forced abbreviation of anything of a personal nature

All of the aforementioned take constant precedence over cell phone communications with me.

Of all the most modern and time saving devices, nothing has touched my heart so readily as the internet. The ability to research almost anything instantly does boggle the mind. I can’t imagine what school would have been like if we all had the ability to do instant research.

Because I so intently value letters, the great importance of the scribed provenance from men of letters from around the world is my daily equivalent of one cherished moment after another.

While I consider the cell phone to be a necessary intrusion, the opposite evaluation applies to my internet contact with people around the world. The speed of which my letters fly is of such a nature, it astounds my comprehension. Light and time are known to have set equivalents for speed of travel. Figuring the speed of one's internet communication to an individual in another corner of our earthly planet far exceeds this guy’s skill. But what I do know and understand is my constant amazement over the process; a blog (my journal) is posted, and in what seems like an instant, travels to people who I never thought might be recipients of my philosophical meanderings.

For what it's worth… my journal has been read in thirteen countries. Of course, you would expect it to be read in these United States, but the following list grabs me every time I look at it; in no particular order theses countries are: United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Russia, India, Philippines, Australia, Spain, Germany, Norway, France, Colombia, and Iran.

Can you imagine? For those of you who are considered to be locked away in a country where freedom to communicate is not accepted as the norm, I send you my most heart-warming greetings from Los Angeles, California. Many of us around the world have a great many things in common, one of which is our dislike having a so-called leader telling us what to do. I promise not to post any comments being made from outside the United States without receiving your written permission. You, on the other hand, have my permission to download my blogs and post them at your will. Living in the United States gives me the marvelous extravagance of freedom of speech.

What I’m really getting from all this is one simple fact: People are people. Take away the names of the country of origin and we appear to have much more in common than we might have imagined before the advent of the internet.

FYI: My retinal specialist happens to be from Iran. I can’t wait to tell him I heard from people in his homeland.