Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thanksgiving

Our thankfulness is daily, almost to the point of continual celebration over the blessings far more than Cathy and I could ever perceive as our entitlement.

So on this Thanksgiving Day, November 25, 2010, we say an additional thanks for all the friends, colleagues, and those of good nature who have provided us with an enormously joyous good year.

Good Thanksgiving to you and yours, in prayer and good deed.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Truth Be Told

The magic of the truth. When the truth is there for you, certainly no explanation is necessary. The lack of explanation regarding the recognition of the truth has always been the same.

Truth has always been the actor’s goal. While the word truth or its study thereof by a theatrical production company may differ dramatically, the end result will always be the same.

Most likely every nook and cranny in this great country of ours has its own version or method of guiding actors in their quest for the truth. The most famous of these nooks would be the “Actors Studio.”

In the thirties we had the “Group Theater,” its forerunner and inspiration being Constantine Stanislavski and the “Moscow Art Theater.” Stanislavski, the most searching, dedicated, and powerful teacher of acting in the history of the art, set in motion an ideal that has codified the truth.

On December 3, 1947, Marlon Brando, in an American play called “A Streetcar Named Desire,” put on display a most notable exemplification of the Stanislavski method. Two months earlier, in October, the play’s directors, Elia Kazan, Cheryl Crawford, and Robert Lewis formed a workshop for actors called the Actors Studio. It was there that Lee Strasberg devoted the next thirty years zealously to the development of the Stanislavski method. Fifty-seven years plus, and the method is still gathering momentum.

Method Acting: What was once an awkward admission is now a fact shared by almost every acting student in the country. Method acting has long since arrived. The Actors Studio continues.

Earlier in this piece I mentioned "Street Car" and Marlon Brando. It was in this play that Marlon became one of the first American actors to deliver a speech with his back to the audience. That revolution began long before Kazan staged it in "Streetcar."

There, in the middle of the first act of The Sea Gull, at the Moscow Art Theater on December 17, 1898, a group of actors was seated with their backs to the audience. That same audience, in unison let out a gasp at this sight. The director that night was Constantine Stanislavski.

It is important to know and understand that the year was 1898. Stanislavski had a slim background in directing actors. What he did have was an innate feeling for the truth, and a desire to change the pomp and circumstance that was part and parcel of the then Russian theater. Initially, Stanislavski actors were not the least bit creative. He staged the play as a dictator might. Not only did he tell the actors where to stand, sit, and move, but he also provided exacting line readings. His fierce desire to improve himself was a driving force in his lifelong study that was about to begin.

What I so personally admire about Stanislavski the innovator and teacher is what I got from him as a student. He was a man not unlike myself. I, of course, am not making a comparison of skills, but rather the acknowledgment, and lack of understanding he had at the beginning of his wondrous learning adventure.

I share with him in the belief that being a student is forever. Being an actor is a lifelong study. Answers reveal themselves when the student has lived and studied long enough in order to recognize the answers. And becomes wise enough to allow for each answer to not necessarily be that of the gospel. We develop along with our recognition that life oftentimes does not present us with the answers we happen to be in search of. Concurrently, our questions will forever remain an endless road representing a lifetime of query.

His system and ours is internal. We harvest our truth through and during a lifetime or in a mere momentary reflection.

Sights and sounds cannot be shared tomorrow in exactly the same way as they appeared today. The old childhood neighborhood revisited will be familiar, but somehow not the same.

And as Stanislavski proclaimed the wealth of our ever-changing environment, I found myself becoming a total believer. Your audience will be the informer, as well as your judge, jury, and provider for what can be the greatest passion in one’s lifetime.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Why Improvise; You have a Script

"You should tell them about the time, right in the middle of the third scene, when a cue was misinterpreted and the clock began to strike a full scene ahead of schedule."


Okay then, get off my back. I’m going to tell them now!


(The actor who happened to be on stage is far too public a figure for me to reveal, and I’m sure he reads anything and everything where his name appears. As a matter of fact, his publicist spends a tidy sum keeping his charge from making the headlines. I guess you know you’ve arrived when you have a public relations team whose mainstay is keeping your life private.)


While it is one of my more comedic recollections, please trust in me when I tell you it wasn’t funny at the time. But, I digress. Back to our (very young at the time) actor's prematurely climaxing clock, as we referred to it from that point on. We had a single actor, moving to down stage center and preparing to deliver his most important and most poignant speech of the play.


A long moment of silence, signifying his attitude of deep contemplation, when the clock began to chime. Without any display of outward anguish our actor looked into the stage left wings and caught sight of the actor who was scheduled to appear with him in the very next scene, when the clock should have legitimately begun to strike the appropriate hour.


The actor in the wings was visually unstrung, and immediately began perspiring as if he was the one being “screwed to the heavens,” as it was later on aptly described.


The audience had not a sense of what was transpiring before them. It was then, as a young stage manager, I became aware of what a true actor can accomplish.


(On stage actor hesitates in further contemplation looking skyward, then speaks, unscripted:)

"Thank you, oh Lord, for chiming your recognition and sharing with me the relief of what tomorrow will bring."


(Our actor then turns away from the direction of the off-stage actor as the clock continues, and he delivers the scripted cue line for the next scene. As the clock completes its tolling the next scene begins without missing a beat or our audience becoming privy to what the future holds.)

Success became ours to enjoy because of the improvisational skills of two actors.


Notes:

The premature clock became the scripted scene.

The fellow responsible for the clock striking prematurely could never be found after that evening’s performance. I had nothing to do with his disappearance. He was gone before I could get to him.


***


Here are some things I’ve gathered along the way. Perhaps you will find them useful.


A premise:

“No matter how talented… an actor must be sacrificed if he or she cannot contribute to the harmonious atmosphere of the group.”


Because I have found myself in charge of a great many of “Life’s Happenings,” I need the utmost of displayed confidence regardless of what is churning within.


Remember your elementary school report cards? They had that box on the upper right side of the card, which had to do with your social character traits. "Gets along well with others," "meets new situations with confidence," and "could do better," are the three I feel are the most prevailing attributes for any professional.


Now that you’re no longer in elementary school, the report card as we knew it to be has been replaced by actual human beings. I always get a chuckle when I’m told not to be judgmental. Try telling that to a living, breathing audience.


If you want to get along well with this group of people, your audience, learn how to convey the truth.


Believing in one's self is the strongest ingredient for showing confidence, especially when others are depending on your performance.


All creative people live with there own personally inflicted stigma of "could do better." If you’d like to avoid complete craziness, study your craft relentlessly!


Our life and our work is a process; albeit the fact it is set up backwards has nothing to do with our work habits. The more experience you acquire, the better you will perform, regardless of the creative form you’re involved with professionally. You may be gifted with God given talents, but so are many folks in our subjective form of life’s pursuits. The best of the gifted actors are the ones who work the hardest at the continued process.


And to you, permit me to gently offer :


Enter as if you are a blank page. Be in the here and now while thinking about your past, and at the same time, show a degree of wonderment over what the future may hold.


Fill your blank page with expressions of your past.


The song that you may have hummed to yourself as a child can easily be recaptured.


The marvelous or not so marvelous odor or scent experienced can readily change your facial expression.


Add to this the sounds of today. It may only be your own breath that you’re listening to, but nevertheless, it’s there for you to hear and feel.


Your ability to recall the past and listen to the present is a simple step towards sharing your being and self. Your audience of people will believe in you, if for no other reason than your courage in sharing who you were, who you are, and perhaps additionally, your aspirations for the future, one day to be revealed.


Studying

While looking at the pictures of various historical figures, one might wonder what goals and aspirations a particular figure may have had.


Question Them

What happened to them in their earlier life?

What music did they listen to?

What daily rituals may have influenced their lives, and affected the lives of their most intimate colleagues and loved ones?

Take notice of what age brings to the face of your historical figure. A line in the human countenance may bring an engraved attitude with it.

What do you see engraved in this picture from the past?

What does the face reveal? Bearing; demeanor; calm?


Plain and simply stated, look for the emotion. It’s as if you’re being introduced for the first time.


No salutations are verbally being offered by the other party, yet they are in most cases showing you a great deal.


Many of these expressions are ones that you might be revisiting. The look of consternation on the face of an historical personage may be the very same look that you yourself have displayed at one time or another for the entire world to see. We see, we experience, we borrow, and we do.


While I’m not sure which of my mentors uttered the words, “Go with the flow,” or “Don’t confuse the issue,” I am certain that simplicity was their goal.


"Keep it simple" was the essence. If the truth is the only thing to enter your mind, then delivering a truthful line is the only thing that can be delivered.


The doctrine of the Stanislavski system worked exceedingly well on the plays of Anton Chekhov.


Chekhov wrote truthfully about ordinary men and women. He searched for the inner beauty in people and exposed their triviality and vice. Chekhov’s influence drove Stanislavski to strive to create an artistically conceived image of life on the stage. Whether you’re an experienced actor, or one trying your wings for the first time, Stanislavski has become the most accepted system for any actor to grow with. Comedy or tragedy, the method has become our most revolutionary acting tool. Given circumstances, subtext, images, real or imagined, and the beat goes on, ever changing, and always demanding that the actor continue to develop their improvisational skills. It is not a question of whether or not the actor wants to. If the actor is to grow, and have the ability to meet life’s subtleties, vagaries, tragedies, or outright desperation, then the choice is a simple one. The method will help you grow.


So look into the faces of your historical characters. Live their joys or misgivings. Empathize and redeem what their faces offer. Then through motion, or sound, or both, become, be, and continue to be.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Veterans Day

Veterans Day, honoring the Men and Women who celebrate their faith in our country!

What brighter light could burn, than that which has been nurtured by those who have understood and appreciated the gifts that endow any and all, who may venture within the boundaries of this country's great heart.

Pray for them; they are yours.

Hk / December, 2001

Friday, November 5, 2010

My High School Shortstop




My high school teammate George (Sparky) Anderson; in memoriam.







From: Harvey Kalmenson, November 3, 2010

My high school shortstop is ill
Get well, get up it’s time for us to play
I wish I had the power to heal him
And the others I’ve lost along the way
I see him there with me, just yesterday
On this field at our school
Spring, the time for kindled dreams
And our Fathers are there
Each sharing their sons’ love of a game
Fifty-nine years since together we played
Since we rose to the heights
The title of Los Angeles City Champions
Our high school so proudly displayed
My Dad called him Georgie
And Georgie he will remain with me
When last we were together, and talked of the past
Not speaking as heroes, but rather how long our true friendship did last.
When dinner was over and hugs went around
Carol whispered to me about the loving wife I had found.
You did good Carol said, that’s the way those two are,
And have always been.
One final hug as my high school shortstop kissed me on the cheek.
Carol and George gave me a memory forever to keep.

For whatever I could possibly provide, your call will be served.

Monday, November 1, 2010

The Things my Mother Never Did, or Served Us

Can you imagine growing up without the benefit of having tasted peanut butter?

I was one of those guys who fell in love with the great American spread when I entered the United States Army at age nineteen.

It was one morning at breakfast when I first discovered the delight of the sticky, life-perserving substance.

There in the mess hall, in a huge "number ten can" (as they called it), was this marvelous substance, which became a life support system. Wherever I happened to be in the world, if there was a can or jar of peanut butter, I knew da harv was safe from possible starvation.

But aside from the great ability peanut butter had to provide the sustenance for life needed to make it in a combat area, there was also the trading value on the black market, which for a time was beyond belief. I can remember seeing those number ten cans being used as containers after they were empty. A tin or aluminum can was a valuable tool to a homemaker when there weren’t any “Crate & Barrels” or “Williams-Sonoma” stores in the neighborhood.

Some of the less reputable cooks in the service were making sizeable sums of money trading anything extra they had in their mess halls at the end of the day. As an example, a number ten can of peanut butter often brought in as much as fifty dollars on the black market.

Amongst the United Nation troops, the Americans, The Filipinos, and the Brits were the most familiar with peanut butter as a staple in their weekly diet.

Since peanut butter was originally patented circa 1890-1903, immigrants coming to the United States in that era from the European Eastern Bloc countries had no idea of what it was. Maybe that would explain why as a young kid I had never tasted it. With a dad from Russia, and a mom from Romania, one might understand why my mother never served it.

And then there was the artichoke. My mother not only never served one up, I doubt if she had ever even seen one as she was growing up. Well, this one I can’t blame on my mother being an immigrant. It turns out only four out of every seven people over the age of thirteen has ever eaten an artichoke. All seven know it is green in color, it should be eaten preferably warm or hot, and at a reasonably slow pace. Since it’s not a particularly filling course, it falls into one of the more expensive food sources. Artichokes are preferred more by women than men. Children would much rather have a hotdog or a peanut butter sandwich.

(The preceding information was gathered from my own office staff of seven, and should not be considered as an exact science, unless you’re soft in the head.)

There were many more things my mom refused to include in her culinary repertoire. My mom never gave in to looking at a recipe. If she couldn’t memorize the ingredients, or if the meal required too many ingredients, then you had better forget about it. Measuring cups were not things she believed in. It was always a handful of this or a pinch of that; and I guess that would have to be the main reason she was in the “Guinness World Book Of Records”, holding the title of "The World’s Most Inconsistent Cook" (The Guinness part is a fabrication, in order to make my story more endearing).

The inconsistency drove the family to tears, caused by the laughter from behind-her-back-remarks about her cooking.

On one occasion, the family was celebrating the return from service of a young uncle of mine, from my father's side of the family. They were the Russians with the heavy duty say-or-do-whatever-you-like sense of humor. On that night, my mother was making my favorite: Spaghetti and meatballs. My uncle Nat, the returnee, was seated near the head of the table next to my dad. Everything was very festive. The place looked and smelled good. About thirty family members gathered around the table as my mother, assisted by three or four of my young cousins, began bringing in the large platters of salads, meatballs and spaghetti, and all kinds of Italian rolls.

Note: I was eight years of age at the time.

Of further note was the fact no one from my mother's side of the family was in attendance. I can’t ever remember them socializing at any event other than a wedding or a Bah Mitzvah. Oil and water would be a good description.

All was going well as the salad began to disappear. Then I wondered why the room began to get quite as the plates of meatballs and spaghetti were started on. Around the room, the relatives began looking at each other in disbelief. It was then my mother came in from the kitchen to see how everyone was doing. The aunts and uncles tried not to show any radical expressions, up until a couple of them began to giggle. In no time at all it turned into raucous laughter. My mother, displaying one of her ominous getting-ready-to-explode look, shouted out, “Okay, somebody want to tell me what’s so funny?” My uncle Nat, trying to head off the problem, decided on his own form of humor. He picked up a couple of meatballs, one in each hand and proceeded to tell the group: “These things are like rubber balls. I bet they can bounce.” With that, he attempted to bounce one on the dinning room floor. While they were kind of tough, they were still unable to bounce. And then he tossed the other meatball to my dad at the head of the table. My dad reached up and with a display of perfect timing caught the meatball and placed it neatly back on the original serving platter. It was quite a spectacle. Everyone at the table began replacing their uneaten meatballs. My uncle Nat stood up, wine glass in hand, and proposed a toast to my mom. “Here’s to Lill,” he said. "She made the best spaghetti I’ve ever had in my life.” Without exception, all stood and congratulated her. I have no idea what happened to the meatballs. I can’t recall my mother ever serving them to a group again.

Today, let it be known, I still list spaghetti and meatballs at the top of my favorites list, even if the balls are made from turkey. I go for what I call the old-fashioned spaghetti. I don’t like the crazy, disguised girly kind. And meat sauce should look like how meat sauce should look; tomato color is the only acceptable color.

Artichokes have also become a disturbingly appealing form of da harv's sustenance. In the beginning, I was gripped with a most painful forbearance at the very sight of this green misshapen vegetable form. How or why anyone would order an artichoke was beyond me. The name itself makes me think of a person struggling to breathe.

Then one day, because I wasn’t asked what I felt like eating for dinner, there before me, a very large junior form of palm tree was placed proudly on our dinner table for all to see. Lo and behold, I was the recipient of my very own man-sized artichoke. This gentleman was trapped. I hesitated for a moment as I watched our two guests and my wife dive in with reckless abandon. I immediately discovered that artichoke enthusiasts have a great deal in common. Most eat as if they were raised by a barbarian cult, following the edict of eating as fast as you can because some enemy may take your food away from you.

The other obvious characteristic is their lack of feeling in their fingertips. While I had trouble peeling off the leaves from the main body of the choke (as I affectionately called it) these people, my wife included, without any thoughts of burning palates and no longer having discernable fingerprints, proceed to tear into these butter drenched, malformed, distorted, asymmetrical, and obviously selectively addictive gourmandizing delight of the above-the-crust normalcy, allowable to a privileged few.

And all of what I’ve said, now having been said, I would like to say… I have grown to love my wife’s artichokes. I admit without any real consequence or peril of misunderstanding… hers are the best artichokes known to man (actually, to this man).