Looking Back

The other day, for whatever the reason, I found myself wondering about years past, as I looked in the mirror during my early morning "get ready" for work routine. It was a good thing. The way it used to be, way back in the fifth or sixth grade.

I’m sure most of you over the age of thirty, from time to time wonder where an old childhood friend might be today. How did he or she turn out? What variety of life’s pitfalls did they overcome? He might have been the best athlete in the school; someone you admired, or competed with. She was the little girl with the big smile who sat directly in front of you; the one who was the smartest kid in the class. I saw faces; remembered attitudes; who was tall; who was sloppy, and who was neat. There were aggressive kids and those so shy the teachers had trouble getting them to participate on anything requiring a verbal presentation up in front of the class. The voices are gone. For whatever the reason, I can recall many of the faces, but what my schoolmates sounded like escapes me.

It was a time in my life when all of us had everything in common. We were boys and girls who lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, and shared the label of middle class Americans, not poor, not rich, decidedly middle.

The word love rarely came into a meaningful play; nor was the term hate used in a serious vein. “I love chocolate. I hate chocolate.” That was about the extent of our love/hate expression.

Most of us have delved into self-reflection. It’s ours to experience, usually at our own propelled bidding. Naturally there are the conditioned response memories, times when without warning an event resurfaces, allowing pleasures as a rekindling; Some to our liking, bringing smiles, with endearments, capturing the moments in time which are ours alone to savor. Surely there were the not so pleasant events, none of us wish to relive. But those are the ones we learn and experience growth from by thinking back.

At eleven years of age, it was my first really deep thought experience. Up until that moment, what had existed for this sixth grader were happiness, laughter, and the occasional disappointment over the realization the Dodgers were not going to win the pennant for yet another year.

Robert wasn’t a really close friend of mine. He was one of those quiet introverted types. He wasn’t a klutz, but by the same token he wasn’t a kid who was one of the first to be picked when we were choosing up sides for a sandlot ballgame. Robert did however have the unpleasant distinction of being the first kid in our class to lose a parent. I suppose it was a day or two following his father's funeral that Robert returned to school. He looked different to me. There was something in Robert’s eyes that told the story. Of course his life would never be the same; none of us knew that. What we didn’t know was Robert’s loss was also ours. For the first time in my life I was to say, “I’m sorry about your Dad, Robert.” Robert could barely speak. I don’t recall a sound being made. Robert mustered a token thank you nod. The next day I picked him first to play on my team. To this day I wish I might have picked him before his Dad was gone.

Loss or gain is always an action, which causes change. For an eleven-year-old boy in the sixth grade, a new thought was to be perceived without warning. While I had not yet used the word empathy, I would never the less have it with me for the rest of my life.

***

From time to time I will be writing about some of my friends from the past who have become well known to the world. There names will be changed to protect their privacy.

"I Wrote A Blog"

“I Wrote A Blog”

Entitled:

“From the Heart”; Taking a stand for what you believe and what it means to the actors of Los Angeles and all over the country; perhaps the world.

***

Straight from the shoulder was a way of communication taught to me at such an early age, I doubt if I could even recall when my Father began it all. What I do remember, most of all were his words to the wise; and that would be me. In no uncertain terms my Dad said:

“If you have the courage to take a stand, on your own, on behalf of the next guy, when at first glance it appears to be of little benefit to you personally, then be prepared for the outcome, which in most cases will provide personal loneliness, and disappointment.”

Charlie, aka my Dad, was attesting to his belief, that to take a stand for the next guy, will not bring more than a fleeting fame, or fortune, or acclaim. Rather, he said a thank you would be your welcomed gratuity; not that you were seeking any. But it isn’t my intent to describe personal disappointment as derived from monetary loss. I’m talking about the deep disappointment, which I derive from people in general. Charlie warned me about expecting too much from people. He told me not to let them get to me, yet over and over in my lifetime I’ve kept from heeding his words.

“Do it for the good feeling it gives you, never because of any monetary rewards. “

Charlie was the definitive Good Samaritan. I personally experienced his courage come into play on more than one occasion. Once as a little boy, Charlie and I, as would be the case for many Fathers and sons, were at Ebbetts Field for a ball game. It was about the fourth inning, when these three guys, who had had too much beer to drink, began to make real pests of themselves. A young family that included a Father and his two kids was sitting close by. The drinkers became too rowdy for Charlie’s liking, and as their language disintegrated along with their faculties, so did Charlie’s patience. If I remember correctly, little da harv was about ten years old at the time. I wasn’t the least bit afraid because I was there with my proven champion.

There was an apparent bad call by an umpire, and it had the effect of really setting these three guys off. Now they felt justification to become a mob. The three of them were on their feet and chanting one expletive after another for all to hear. Charlie cupped his hands together, and let go with a marvelously cultivated Brooklyn shriek of his; yelling at the three of them, “Hey guys how about giving it a rest!” Charlie, all five foot five inches of him stood there looking straight at these jerks. He motioned for them to sit down, and that’s exactly what the three noisemakers did. The very next inning they were once again on there feet making every one uncomfortable. This time without hesitation Dad signaled to a near by usher and in very short order the three guys were ejected from the ballpark. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Dad had gently pushed me behind him when he first made eye contact with the three guys. On the way home I received a verbal lesson, which still holds true today.

“Never become violent with anyone in a situation like the one that happened to us today. Take your stand as a man, but don’t be the one to raise your hands combatively unless it’s the only way to protect yourself against the bullies of this world.”

Dad referred to the mob mental cases as bullies. He had four sisters, and five brothers who all shared his mantra. They had never met a bully who didn’t take on a true posture of cowardice when separated from the mob they ran with. While they have long ago passed on, to this day and forever I will take great pride as I think back to the stalwartness of my Kalmenson uncles. Family, friends, home, our country, it’s people; in that order, became their order of importance. They were never part of a gang of hooligans. I guess with that many brothers and sisters in the family they really had a gang of their own. All of them became successful working middle class citizens. Some served in the Second World War. A few of the family members had established a small degree of name recognition. None of them went to college, and probably only half attended high school. Beginning with the third and fourth grade, all of the brothers and sisters worked to bring in what ever they could in order to help support the family. In that era, employees were paid with cash. At the end of each week pay envelopes would be issued. The year was 1941. Social Security had been in place for six years, and was of little consequence at the time. Family medical insurance and welfare was non-existent. My Dad’s two-year-old Chevrolet cost him a whopping nine hundred bucks. The theme each of the immigrant families revered was simple and straight to the point;

Stand up for your near and dear. Take a stand and make sure you’re counted. If help is needed, be the one to be there.

Who knows what the cause may have been. Some said the new arrivals to the United States learned to say please and thank you as their first and most important words in the English language; words they felt would help them to assimilate. They strove for ways to become one with The United States Of America. They easily down played the boorish displays of the three guys at the ball game, in favor of standing, and joining in with great pride in the singing of our national anthem before the start of each game; and being an every guy contributor in the bottom of the seventh inning when it was time for “Take Me Out To The Ball Game”.

And as an aside…in the movie theaters they stood and sang, often before the feature came up on the screen. When the American flag appeared on screen, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. Honestly, I will never have the best words available, for me in order to describe ours, the genuineness of so many moments, so many years ago. Nor can I offer anything more than mere opinion over why a man or woman will stand by a brethren, willing to sacrifice in order to take a stand for no other reason other than it was the right thing to do.

(And back to “From The Heart”)

On June 13, of this year 2011, I shared with you via blog, some of my inner most feelings. I threw caution to the proverbial wind as I chose to ignore some of my Fathers most sacrosanct leanings. To date, I have received two formal references to “From The Heart”, the blog, (mine) in question. And as my Father pointed out with his patented approach, displaying complete certainty, what followed my posting of “From The Heart”, was the revelation; my Father was correct once again. The loneliness he referred to with his assumptions truthfully does not play a part in my life. The aspect of the disappointment however does. I’ve never learned how to resign myself to it. My salve has been an acquired one. Learn to live with it Harvey; that’s the way it is; accept this credo: Disappointment goes with life’s territory. I learned about disappointment long before I entered the world of show business. A person does not have to become bellicose, nor depressed, as the end result of each and every one of life’s disappointments. When I asked people to take a stand, I did so from the deepest place in my heart. The air we breathe and the words we hear today make me fearful of a repeat of one of histories most vile eras.

There Will Be Times To Reflect, "As Time Goes By"

In two large corrugated cartons stored in the corner of my office, there are many stories, which will forever remain, not found, and most likely never again to be read by anyone but me. Scripts that began with a dream, and ended in two nondescript boxes in the corner of an office. It took all of five years to fill the two boxes, probably around forty pounds of paper, eighteen hundred and twenty five days of an immeasurable journey. The worth of the trip is only a selfish value. I’ve talked to other writers who cop the plea allowing how they were only writing for themselves anyway. If they happened to get paid for their labors, it would represent icing on the cake. To them I would offer, “What good is icing when you don’t have a cake to put it on?”

The younger writer brings enthusiasm. The older writer finds his or her enthusiasm turning to cynicism, without willful attempt. The younger writer tells a story with his or her passion for the truth being enthusiasm for the life and times being depicted. The older writer may bring forth a truth cloaked in cynicism regardless of the time period they’ve chosen to write about; happening without a willfulness to be downtrodden.

Many of us have given in to following a heart whose choice for joy is far less indiscriminate than should be allowed; our choices are not without limits. Personally, I admit, not necessarily to poor judgment, but too often to no judgment at all. I doubt if many young people enter into a pursuit of a dream, by first really taking heed of their dreams' limitations. If you’re dreaming about your dream not coming true, the result will be just that. The question becomes, why in the name of good common sense did I fill the two boxes in the corner of my office? My writing was a day and night never-ending pursuit. The words hit the paper with reckless abandon. Days, weeks, months, and finally five years of damage had to be accounted for.

While I was never guilty of deliberately conjuring defeatist’s thoughts, my dreams of success at the heights of the literary world had come to a sour end. Sound the trumpets; reality had set in. What does remain in my minds' eye, and perhaps will stay with me forever, is the stack of rejection letters I received during the course of my travails as a struggling scribe. At first I found the letters shocking, mainly because much of what the reviewers had to say about my work didn’t jive. It often came across as if they had sent the rejection notice to the wrong writer. I actually found myself wondering what in the world they were talking about. But the turn-downs that remained with me were the ones that were just outright cruel. One review was particularly nasty. It came in at the end of my professional writing career.

Note: I had already made my mind up about the futility of my continuing pursuit of a career as a writer.

The reviewer attacked me with a vengeance. Line by line, she pointed out my obvious ineptitude. That became it for me. The time had arrived. The cartons were sealed. However, not all was lost. Her review provided me with two pluses. It improved my vocabulary. Nothing in the review was the least bit conversational. It wasn’t a tutorial. It would be a much better descriptive if I referred to her assessment of my work as a verifiable documentation of my inability to communicate at even an average level of intellectuality. And secondly, after rereading her assertions of my literary clumsiness, I laughed uncontrollably for the balance of the afternoon, most likely a form of temporary insanity.

The amazing part about all of this is how many years ago it all took place. Everyday we hear someone remark about how fast time is flying by. “I can’t believe it’s Christmas, or New Years again. What happened to the summer? Your daughter is how old?” Probably one of the most agreed upon terms in all of humanity: Race, creed, color, religious preference, men, women, friends and enemies. The universal cry for all is agreed on: Time flies by, “As Time Goes By”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vThuwa5RZU


So, if we all agree about how short life really is, why do so many of us waste it? Why do we usually do just the opposite of what should be done in order to slow things down?

The other day I gave an actor the note, “Romance it a little.” His look wasn’t one of complete understanding, because the script wasn’t calling for any degree of intimacy. I added,
” Read in the present as if you’re relishing the moment, and recognizing the satisfaction you personally are experiencing.” And the key to all this is not merely asking the actor to slow his reading pace, but rather slow because of a pertinent reason to do so. What better reason could there be than creating the romance of what once was commonplace? It may have been a fleeting moment you’re reflecting on, but in the instant it takes to recreate it, your thought process will bring into play the missing romance aspect required.

The boxes in the corner of my office are not painful keepsakes. They have within them some tears, some laughter, and a great many dreams of what could have been. What they don’t have are buttons, switches, portable screens, and games to be played. Nothing in those cartons was ever “Googled”. The five years cannot be recaptured. The content of those boxes however are mine to recall and savor at my will. The five years may have been nothing more than short flashes of light, but the pages will never again be misunderstood. Those are mine forever to recall, “As Time Goes By.”

• Is the vast number of words in our world ever read?
• If every discarded script in our fair city was solicited for a paper drive, would there be enough space in our city o hold them?
• Is there anyone in Los Angeles (Hollywood) who doesn’t have a script in his or her possession that will be the next blockbuster sensation?

I’ve Been a Cheerleader My Entire Life

My God…I’ve been a cheerleader my entire life. That statement isn’t an attempt or a continuance of a hopeless endeavor at me gaining praise. I just do what I do because I do it. But there are times; as a matter of fact there have been a few times when I find myself asking “What the hells wrong with you Harv? Give it up…leave it alone already.” One of those times occurred not more than a week ago.

A (not yet) star with an attitude walks briskly from the set of a film many would die for. (Isn’t that a stupid statement? I mean if one dies, they can’t actually play the part anyway.) Today, my situation is quite a bit different from his. I can’t remove myself from the project I’ve been hired to direct because I’m the designated entertainment committee. I’m the one charged with the responsibility to keep things going; to cheer the ingrates on to new and loftier heights than even the wildest supposition of their self imposed entitlement might demand or require. Fortunately for me, in general not too much bad attitude finds it’s way into our world of voice over. Most of the veterans who make it; those who are able to exist on what they earn as a voice over artist; rarely if ever put on a pout face. The newbies, those who make it into me for the very first time to audition, usually have been forewarned about the dos and don’ts practiced and expected by us at the Kalmenson & Kalmenson ranch. What it all boils down to is nothing more than common courtesy. Just as I don’t appreciate an actor with bad manners, I try to set an example for my own Kalmenson teammates. A hectic day isn’t an acceptable excuse for being rude. And rude is the word, which covers a wide variety of poor taste. Hectic comes with the territory. Hectic is our accepted parameter of our life in voice casting. Ignoring the needs of the people sending us the casting assignments would be tantamount to running our business with the snail-like dispatch of derangement necessary for those seeking an end to their business world. Without a doubt we are guilty of catering to those who are helping to place bread on our table. Likewise, without actors, we don’t have a business. These two salient points demand an unequaled display of social grace by all concerned parties. By this I mean, the actors coming in to audition for us, and we the people who endeavor to keep the clients we have in a constant state of the "happy camper" mode. In other words, we need whom we have, and we know whom we need. To ignore either side would spell ultimate disaster.

The Ignorish People

The little known or publicized country of “Ignoria” has a reputation for boasting about how his or her people and leaders pay little or no attention at all to anyone, including their own “Ignorian” citizenry. Hence, the new and revised Kalmenson dictionary of refined letters has coined the word: ignorish;one who pays absolutely no attention to anyone or anything of a productive vain; as in, it was a non productive vain and or attempt.

Another common use of the word ignorish would be: Most politicians are ignorish.

Actors as a special breed must never be, or become ignorish. Ignorish actors usually suffer banishment.

It Comes with the Territory

“Lead, follow, or get out of the way."
- Thomas Paine, 1776

“It comes with the territory.” We’ve all heard the phrase many times from people - some good, some bad. In any event, when a person delivers the line, “It comes with the territory,” they usually do so with the intent of showing acceptance of the situation they must deal with. They’re the leaders of the tribe, the bosses, the head coaches, the generals and the teachers, amongst others who manage to take charge, either by their own life’s design, or perhaps an act of God which placed them in the position.

By nature… these are not the whiners of the world. Rarely will a whiner ever find himself or herself at the top of the heap, unless said heap is destined to be only a temporary assignment. Please don’t become confused over the fact the whiners appear to be getting what they’re whining about, what they end up getting is usually the worst of everything.

What follows might make my point:



From the time I was a very young man, I found myself enamored with those effectually labeled “junkyard dogs.”

Again, it was my dad who bore the responsibility of introducing me to the term. It was his belief that if you owned something of value, you’d better have a “Junkyard Dog” to watch over it. To Dad, it meant fighting for it. He pointed this out to me at a Dodgers baseball game, referring to their then manager, Leo "The Lip" Durocher. “That guy will fight like a junkyard dog in order to win."

NOTE: Never consider a “junkyard dog” as a member of a whiner's club. He or she could be a most purposeful and trusted hired hand.

"Junkyard dogs” bite. They never whine. They accept what goes with the territory. While they are not leaders, they are dedicated followers of such.

When a “junkyard dog” accepts his or her position at the top of the heap, he or she is most likely finding one of two scenarios in place. The yard has been constantly victimized by thieves who manage to break in and steal, or all is serene and calm do to the previous guard dog who had an exemplary work ethic.

In our first scenario, the new “junkyard dog” throws himself or herself into the work, not taking the time to blame or whine about the previous dog. During day one, the community, state, city, town, office, or stage, quickly takes heed of the facts. This dog will bite your ass off if you enter his or her home without first gaining permission from whoever the leader happens to be. Never whine around this dog - he or she will ultimately find out the origin of the whine.

In our second scenario, the “junkyard dog” takes over at the top of the heap and finds all is well. The job called for him or her to keep things status quo, and that’s what he or she does. The leader explains to the junkyard dog that in the event he or she begins to lie down on the job, a dog that can follow the leaders dictates will immediately replace him.

The community is welcome to come in and do business, providing they remain cognoscente of the leader's rules.

The leader got what they were paying for, in both scenarios. No whining, no blaming, and no fixing what wasn’t broken to begin with. The community had a clear understanding of how the game was being played, and they continued to go along with the rules as prescribed.

At Kalmenson & Kalmenson, we will always endeavor to keep our junkyard running on an even keel. We will accept the credo: “It comes with the territory.” Although we’re not going to become guilty of prejudging a book by its cover, we will however also not be guilty of disregarding the lessons taught to us by experience.

Don’t you just love these dogs? Which one are you? (Which one would you hire?)

The dogs who bite their owners
Soon will not to be found,
Neither resting, nor waiting to be fed
It’s not their fault,
They whiningly expound
Reluctantly giving way
To other dogs
Waiting in a reception room
For their talents to be found.

Here, succinctly stated, is a Harvey Kalmenson feeling: I truthfully do not enjoy having actors who are whiners come in to audition for us. Extremely low on my favorites list: Actors, non-actors, and want-to-be actors who fall into a whiner category. They are of equally little consequence to the ultimate success of human beings, in general.

A non sequitur for me would be man's inhumanity to man. Being human should have little to do with the infliction of pain administered by one to another. But I guess if we didn’t have some pain to rely on, what would the great Russian playwrights have to write about?

Accordingly, the human characteristic which remains atop our "social dislikes" list: The disdainful posture of reckless indifference. In other words: “Man's inhumanity to man” -- expounded on by the most revered men and women throughout recorded history. Nothing in nature’s realm matches the injustices dealt by man to man. Regardless of our life’s walk (or run), the magnitude of infliction manages to stay with us with never ending divisiveness.

And with each new age reached comes more necessity to count our blessings of good health and all things which, without our control, continue the enhancement of any prosperous living cycle.

While I personally remain duty bound,
To my daily ritual, shamelessly counting my endless blessings, their remains a painful cognizance of all, which is still, left undone.

What were the plays and novels of times gone by are again being reenacted for a new and younger audience's confusion. The many stories of life’s distortions continues at the whims of the same unknown causes, reviving a testament to the egregious substances which continue
Man’s ability to avoid the moral weakness of inhumanity itself.

Today, the powers that be operate with the advisement: “We’re looking for a younger and new breed of writer.” The younger and new breed enters the arena, putting on a display they deem to be new and fresh. Yet the subject matter remains the same. A man, a woman, a child, a pet, a friend, a neighbor, a stranger in town, a family drinking too much, and one that doesn’t care at all. We have doctors and nurses, guards and prisoners, cops and robbers, and soldiers we call "troops" -- some are leaving, while others are returning home. There’s nothing really new as far as I can see. Seems to me I once read about guys who were just like the soldiers the new and young writers are writing about. My dad told me about them. He said they went to Europe during the First World War. Then the writers talked about guys who looked exactly the same. All that was different, I think, was about twenty years between the two of them.

The news reported a story of a Christian church, bombed by a suicide bomber in Egypt.

There’s really nothing new and fresh about people killing one another. I doubt if the age of the writer could bring back any of the twenty-six parishioners who were attending service.

The real chroniclers of our world’s injustices have been around for centuries. Their work remains new and fresh.

Early on, after reaching the age of fifty, I was taken with (Benedict) Spinoza’s simple appraisal of life:
“God is love, we're all parts of God, that love is the most important thing we have in the world, the most successful thing.
For whoever loves their fellow man will never know the pain of death."

I doubt if I ever thought about my own death until I reached age fifty. Maybe it was because my attained age was coupled with a variety of what I thought God had no business sending my way. Like the theatre, acting, producing, writing, listening, telling tales, accepting the applause with the unmeasured humility of a needy man. After all, how could a person who is busily accepting what life has lured him into be anything other than caught up in how he was being screwed and tattooed at the same time?

“Did you hear them clap? What an audience!"

“The man is going to read my script tomorrow!”

“People die for screen credits like yours!”

Then, at the end of another long and emotional trip, a relationship ends, and a new one begins.

(Mortality falls into a separate category of all the things totally out of our control.)

Things out of our control should not be contended with. What gives me the right to say that to you? No right and every right are mine to say it. Your's is the right to listen while not paying attention, not to listen at all, or to say, "Maybe during his extra few years on this planet, he is less encumbered with burdens brought on by a naivety not shared by any other industry than those of the arts."

“Our Arts Intend To Mend”

Our creativity brings with it a joyous recklessness, bearing no ill will, and stimulating our brainless desire for what stays staged, mostly for the other guy.

Again and again, if you feel the discomfort of the variety of slings and arrows on the narrowness of the road we chose, you might find some comfort by saying out loud: “It was my choice to go for it." And though it may still remain a distinctive "I don't know what the hell I want" in many of our artist’s lives, it is enduringly ours.

I wasn’t forced into it. What happened can be simply explained. I awoke one day, or I thought I was awake, and if not, perhaps it was a dreamlike experience. I found myself in this strange, rather large junkyard. Somehow, I was the one who escaped danger by making a long and arduous climb to the top of a heap in the center of it all. There were hordes of people trying to get into the yard. Each time they surged forward, I was somehow able to get them to stay back by threatening to turn my dog loose on them. In truth, I had no dog.

It was coming to the end of a very long day, or was it a year or two? A respite of a few years, perhaps a decade or more disappeared. I awakened and found myself in the same junkyard. Much of the equipment around me performed the same chores, but each machine was different. It seemed like nothing was happening. I heard no sounds of whirring or churning. All I saw were symbols and numbers and waves of light forming lines moving across a huge screen. There remained those same hordes of people trying to enter my yard. An attractive lady, all made up, and carrying a microphone, magically made her way to me. Some light went on as a man signaled her with thumbs up as he moved in with a TV camera. The interview began.

SHE: How long have you been at this?
ME: I’ve been climbing for thirty-five years.

And on the interview went. The praise and idolization was overpowering. She would ask a question and I was in disbelief over why she was even there speaking to me.

And then it mercifully came to its end. I was back asleep and dreaming of tomorrow when some fifty close friends were visiting and entertaining me with antics that could only be found in my kind of junkyard. I was the entertainment committee. One of them was to win a grand prize. The very best interpretation of a talking toilet seat would be the recipient and owner of a great deal of money. The shame of it all was that there could be only one winner. The rest would leave my yard in the hope I might invite them back to try for a prize on another day.

And as they shuffled out, still all smiles as they left the yard, a single spokesman for them was heard to say:

“It comes with the territory.”

(And it also goes with the territory.)

Keeping it Together (as a professional, that is)

Firstly, here comes the disclaimer: Who am I to offer advice on how to keep it together?

Yes, I do have a lot of work experience, the kind you might think would help me to be an expert on the subject of how not to become a sniveler, sappy, crybaby, girlie-man who cries when he sees an event, like a squirrel hiding their nuts in the ground.

Never drink alcohol before making a presentation of any kind (if there is any chance of becoming unwound or losing it, alcohol is guaranteed to bring on a performer's emotional undoing).

Certainly I'm not the first nor will I be the last speaker who worries about keeping it together (not losing it) when the subject of the presentation is one of such heart-rendering emotion. It tests our ability as caring human beings to keep from losing it; a time when we find ourselves unable to continue. I’ve been there on many occasions during the course of my professional appearances.

One would be inclined to think the ability to perform without an overt display of emotion would become easier as one gains in experience. Yes and no. The bottom line, of course, is who we really are as individuals.

Obviously, we’re not all the same. Some of us, by nature are just more emotional than others. An obvious assertion.

For the sake of conversation, I’m limiting what I have to say to those of us who make, or are destined to make presentations to groups in public.

Regardless as to whether or not we have emotional stability in our every day life, we are faced with the task of performing as professionals; reportage, being an event guide, or speaking on behalf of a group of people, either paid, or as an obligation to assist during a time of crisis. The thickest of human skin has suffered through a melt-down at always the most inopportune of times. It could come during an audition for the lowliest of jobs. Environment as well as subject matter, or what may have recently occurred in your (our) own personal life,

Activate the emotional trigger. When pulled, it creates a will of its own.

Holding it together while rendering the voice during a fundraiser commercial for deprived children is one form of public service announcement, which almost always promotes more emotional involvement than the norm. There are many more of similar category.

Have you ever wondered how people who appear to be like you in every way, manage to hold it together, and still show attachment for the subject, or the event they are tending to? This coming at a time when you are inwardly concerned with your own personage.

There are methods, tricks of the trade, supposedly designed to enable one to go on with his or her presentation, while experiencing a lip beginning to quiver or a mouth becoming dry, as a personal sensitivity to the subject matter begins finding it’s way to an uncomfortable place of no return.

I marvel at those who have mastered their own personal method of being able to perform with great passion, while being able to keep from presenting an out-of-control display of emotion. Some very strong men and women have shed a tear during one of these moments.

Many high profile and prominent leaders use the method of reading and rereading a script over and over again, until they supposedly become immune to experiencing an uncontrolled display of emotion. This method carries with it the risk of being perceived as uncaring.

Of course the easiest of all tricks to remember would be an inward feeling or expression of anger, or dismay.

(Even the wrong attitude can serve as something to focus in on in order to break away from what you feel is about to happen.)

What follows is a thumbnail look at some of history's grand men and women, who managed to make it through a variety of trying events.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt addressing congress, and asking for a declaration of war following the December 7, 1941 sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. He was deathly serious, angry, and personally affronted by “a date that will live in infamy,” as he put it.

Our president's visage was grave. Our country had suffered one of the worst indignities; we were hit, and our only alternative was retaliation.

For our president, tears were not an option. Can you imagine if FDR went before congress, and began to sob as he asked them for a declaration of war?

Sir Winston Churchill was in my opinion the best of the very best. Historians have a positive consensus of opinion regarding his ability to rally his country and, many feel, ours as well.

In 1941, as his country experienced the death toll of air raids as a nightly regimen, Sir Winston stepped to the podium in order to address the congress of the United States for the first time.

“[Japan’s leaders] have certainly embarked on a very considerable undertaking [Laughter]…What kind of people do they think we are?”

And for the above, Sir Winston received a standing ovation. Perhaps the most monumentally depressive moment in world history, was never the less treated with the aplomb and dignity only a person of his stature could possibly have effectuated.

"Undertaking" (the word), signifying the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and "undertaking" (the word) as the reference to the corpse at a funeral home, was delivered to congress with complete and total understanding. Hence a moment of laughter, ultimately followed by a standing and thunderous ovation of thanks for the encouragement.

In this situation… there was no time for the shedding of tears. He was a world leader, at work, leading!

The thought of breaking down never entered Winston Churchill’s mind.

Although FDR and Winston Churchill were experiencing a never before crises of overpowering magnitude, the scope of the historical events preceding their speeches far out weighed the grief of any individual's suffering. Their concern was for the survival of their respective countries. It becomes far more difficult to contain one's self when the suffering is individualized.

An athlete making a goodbye or farewell speech at the end of a career, upon retirement, often turns into a tearjerker for all concerned.

I’m always reminded of the movie “Pride Of The Yankees,” when Gary Cooper playing the part of the famous Yankee first baseman Lou Gehrig, steps up to the microphone at a packed Yankee Stadium, and delivers the now immortal line, “Today, I consider myself the luckiest man in the world”; there wasn’t a dry eye in the theater. He touched us as individuals. His loss became ours, and so the tears flowed. In retrospect, much of Lou Gehrig’s departure speech did serve as encouragement for thousands of people who found they too suffering through some form or another of life’s unforeseen trials. Doubtful if this category of speech can ever be properly prepared for.

Margaret Thatcher

At a time in her career when the press as well as the parliament was tossing rocks and boulders at her, she managed from deep within an effervescence, which served as a rallying point for herself and her country at the same time. She stepped up to the microphone on what was to be recorded as one of her most auspicious outings.

It came at a particularly trying time for the prime minister of England, but as opposed to succumbing to human and emotional upheaval, she followed in the sublime footsteps of Sir Winston, as she delivered with:

“Disciplining yourself to do what you know is right and importance, although difficult, is the highroad to pride, self-esteem, and personal satisfaction.”

“I always cheer up immensely if an attack is particularly wounding because I think, well, if they attack one personally, they have not a single political argument left.”

And for me, the most difficult performance assignment is definitely the one where I know in advance of the people who will be in the audience. Those who, along with me, have experienced a loss, or a change of guard, after many years of personal association.

A real life recent example of this would have been delivering the eulogy of the late great basketball announcer, Chick Hearn. (I’m glad I wasn’t the one chosen for this assignment). In this particular case, the high visibility of this very personal individual brings with it the additional pressures of a celebrity-packed audience.

(Note: If you’re ever called on to extol the virtues during the celebration of a person’s life, it’s a necessity to stay focused. Putting names with the faces in the audience can be a terrible distraction. Eye contact is not the key to a good performance in this instance. Seeing a close friend or acquaintance begin to tear up isn’t exactly a stabilizing factor.)

Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth. I have been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans.

"I Owe It To Them" Attitude

Some events are obviously far more taxing then others. As the master of ceremonies at a local beauty pageant, the danger of me being driven to tears would not normally exist.

(I mean, how bad could it be, surrounded by a group of look good, smell good, bright young women who by nature are seeking approval.)

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.

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).

I Take It Personally!

Trying not to complain usually isn’t a difficult task for me. I like to heal a wound and move on to higher ground. Most of what people do and say I can manage to take with a grain of salt. The old adage of not taking something someone says to you personally is a practiced art form, but while I endeavor to follow the credo, I still have a degree of difficulty with it at certain times.

This week, an event occurred which I took personally, and will always feel the way I do about it.

While I have stated my feelings in past blogs, I must repeat a point or two as a reminder of the emotions I will never hide, I will always take personally, and will continue to wear on my sleeve.

As a boy of nineteen years of age, I found myself serving my country in the infantry of the United States Army. Frankly, at that attained age I had not yet felt my mortality, and therefore was not gripped with the extent of fear a great many men in my position were experiencing twenty-four/seven.

What I was experiencing and feeling as deeply as anything I had ever felt in my life was pride. I’ve said it before, and here I go again. My mom and dad came to this country as immigrants. Their love of the United States was displayed as unabashedly as any two parents could. That’s the kind of house I grew up in. It was a trait in them I strove to emulate. They would both be proud to know I have succeeded.

When the American flag was unfurled before us in preparation for our very first army parade, my emotions rose much higher than pitching a no-hitter for the first time in high school. I so totally took it personally. Harvey Kalmenson had been selected to defend his country: The United States of America. I think you might be getting my point. If not… I won’t be taking it personally.

Anyone visiting our place of business on Sparks St. in Burbank always knows when da harv is present and accounted for. I always place an American flag, as personal as it gets, on display up front for all to see. Da harv is in the building.

This week, my American flag was stolen. Whoever the culprit may be, I do not and will never wish them well.

Sum and Substance

“Sum And Substance”: An often-used phrase; it’s probably an impossibility to come through any of today’s school systems without hearing this popular mathematical term. In fact, simply stated, it’s nothing more than the aggregate of two or more numbers being determined by plain and simple addition: (like) The sum of 6 and 8 is 14.

But the above has to do with school, when simple rules prevail; when one and one must add up to the sum of two; and when it doesn’t, if you’re the student presenting the alternate answer, the outcome will be a grade certainly in the fail category. As a matter of fact… in the real world, true incorrectness brings with it the same results as any remedial study being taught in our schools today. A wrong answer is just what it is: a wrong answer; that is, unless you’re attempting to be:

A) A "PCer" (politically correct).
B) A politician making a speech.
C) An actor in a play where the outcome doesn’t make any sense at all.
(or)
D) Someone who tries to make rhyme or reason out of any subjective form; including acting.

It appears to me, what applies to us in order to live any form or even a modicum of a successful life, would be the ability to understand the spoken and written word in the language of one's heritage.

Within the confines of what I have chosen to pursue, a career of being a director and educator, it occurred to me many years ago the language of my heritage was not completely singular.

My substance is the body of words created by every language I become privy to, and therefore the sum of which generates an ability to honestly communicate with those experiencing the intention of my given direction.

As an example, I could compliment an actor by saying, “You’re the summe,” from old French, or “summa” from the Latin; but instead I choose to say, “You’re the top.” The actor, in turn says thank you without knowing he or she has benefited by no less than the heritage of three or more languages.

Without belaboring my point regarding heritage, here’s another short example of what can be gleaned from the origin of a word or phrase. An actor about to read for a role in a play is given a side to study. The side, in addition to the lines he or she will be reading, contains a short description of the scene to be played.

The person who wrote the description must have been a lawyer, or a politician. After reading the breakdown, our actor was thoroughly confused. It read: "Jeb expresses his opinions based on his broadly comprehensive gist of the situation."

Da harv’s translation: Jeb’s simple substance was his many years of telling it like it is. He reckons it’s the truth! In this case, "reckons" and "sum" are synonymous.

Note: You've heard cowboys say the phrase “I reckon it’s the truth.” What you’re hearing is far more than singular. It’s Old World French, as well as Latin, as well as South West. And guess what… it doesn’t stop there.

ORIGIN: Old English (ge)recenian [recount, relate] ; related to Dutch rekenen and German rechnen ‘to count (up).’ Early senses included [give an account of items received] and [mention things in order,] which gave rise to the notion of ‘calculation’ and hence of ‘coming to a conclusion.’

And so I write of sum and substance as my own personal way of clearing what separates fact from fiction. I listen as closely as I can to what each of us as individuals deem of importance.

If you are an actor by trade and your substance is what is offered as the truth, regardless of its origin, then and only then will the sum of your performance bear with it the quality of the success you may seek.

Biblical Terms for the Professional Actor

I’m so guilty of living in the past that there are times when even I can’t stand it. My love of the old movies, as I watched them as a kid, remains and will always live on in my mind's eye and in my heart's throbbing. I grew up believing almost everything I saw on the big silver screen. If they smoked, I smoked. If they fenced on a sailing vessel against whatever pirates had attacked, then I too established myself as a master of the saber. When Tyrone Power swung by one arm as he held Maureen O'Hara in the other, then I too longed to do the same. William Powell and Myrna Loy dressed in evening ware as they sipped incessantly on martinis, smoked cigarettes and stayed up until dawn everyday - that was the envy of my neighborhood. Whatever and whomever was on the screen was to be our portrayal of that day or week or month. We lived and became the stars. All of us knew every players name, and quite often were able to memorize all of their important speeches.

Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney, Edward G. Robinson; they were all bigger than life. They were life. What was then remains with me now. What has changed for me is simply stated: Nothing. I can vividly recall sitting there in a darkened theater with my dad alongside as we watched and listened to Gary Cooper as Lou Gehrig, in “Pride Of The Yankees,” proclaiming: "Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth,” as we all, including my father, fought back the tears. I was Mickey Rooney in “Boys Town” being put in his place by Spencer Tracy. And the cowboys and their horses being able to gallop all the way from one town to another as Roy Rogers fired at the bad guys while facing backwards as he rode. But of all of the thousands of actors I watched and portrayed, none were able to sustain the mark left permanently and indelibly on me as did Peter Lorre. There was a short period of time when I became Peter Lorre. I studied his every move. He was my favorite sniveling bad guy. I loved when he got slapped around by Bogart, or in his hushed voice attempted to convince the world of how honest a man he was. None of my friends ever wanted to be Peter Lorre. I don’t know, he just really got to me.

And then each of my favorites took turns as leading men and women on all of my favorite radio shows. I was in heaven. I knew what they looked like, so it didn’t take much in the way of imagination for me to see them once again before me doing their thing.

From age eight to age thirteen, actors took charge of my most impressionistic period of life. I never dreamed I was ultimately going to meet them, let alone enjoy the thrill of directing them (not all but many). As a young kid, I wasn’t yet aware of the role the director played. The fact is, I wasn’t even aware there was such a thing as a director. In short order, I was about to find out. Between ages sixteen and eighteen many of these same actors began to once again enter my life. This time they were live people like me; laughing, joking, and breathing just as the normal folk do.

***

What follows comes as a result of many years of practical application. The academic being turned into the reality of life in a variety of venues, where having a director is essential to the success of the project.

If I were required to choose between a formal education (school) and a practical education (learning as you attempt to earn a living), my selection, unequivocally: The practical. Every venue is different. Every group of players is different. Every audience is different from night to night, even if it’s the same play being repeated. Trial and error must be gleaned during application under fire. There will never be a replacement for experience. Whether it is acting, directing, producing, writing, or choreography, the practical application of one's skills become finely honed during the game.

“Listen.” The word for every creative being, today, tomorrow, and forever; “Listen.” Hearing this word a thousand times will not be wasted on who you are today, and with the utmost certainty who you are destined to become in the creative world. Of the thousands and thousands of actors whom I have directed during the course of my latest thirty years on this planet, the most successful professionals have a marked similarity: they are the most ardent and attentive listeners to be found anywhere.

Without the ability of being a good listener, one loses the ability of becoming a superior learner. Learning is synonymous with experience. I use the term “superior” because in order to make it within any subjective art form, a person must excel; be excellent, be outstanding, be skillful, be talented, be preeminent, reign supreme; stand out, be the best, be unparalleled, be unequaled, be second to none, be unsurpassed; call it superior, if you like. And with all your striving, and all your hard work in order to establish yourself with recognized preeminence, there will always be those out there ready willing and able to point out how lucky you are. To those out there, who have judged you as being lucky, I offer them my condolences over their obvious comatose existence. Those out there dependent on luck have an obvious inability to listen and learn. They will never lead as a director, create as an actor, nor lead their troop of dancers across a stage. They will never cause an audience to feel what they feel, or hear what they themselves listen to.

As a voice over artist you must recognize the fact, although your audience happens to be in their own home or car, they are still your audience. You must still cater to their needs and wants. In this case your forever word is “responsive.” The printed directions will help you to listen and cater to the obvious and not so declarative needs of those within the sound of your voice. But it isn’t a case of what you want to do or say. As an actor, you must be responsive to the needs of the listener.

A good director understands the foregoing. He or she has the valuable aptitude of being an exceptional listener. I, of course, mean as a director who listens to the actor, and not praying for what they are going to ask you to do next.

Following as precise a direction as my experience will allow, I switch from being the director, and tune into the actor, listening as closely as I can for their responsiveness to my needs as their audience. (The director becomes the audience.) They speak; I listen. I speak; they listen.

Here is a brief review of what I feel to be the most substantive notes coming from my foregoing eleven hundred words.

“Listen and then be responsive.”

Regardless of what you are preparing to creatively accomplish, take a moment to hesitate before diving in, and remind yourself of those important success ingredients: “Listen and then be responsive.”

On stage, or in the wings, listen and be responsive.

Preparing for an audition, listen and be responsive.

You come home to your wife and children, listen and be responsive.

… and for me and da harv; when God talks, I try to listen and be responsive!

The Voice Over Audition: History + Pursuing Excellence

Many of our younger thespians are unaware of what transpired prior to their entering the commercial voice over world. Others are in search of the most beneficial way of continuing their pursuits of excellence as a talent. When I’m asked what it was like a few years ago, almost all are surprised at my history lesson.

While these are two separate subjects, they never the less are of equal importance. The history lesson is presented as I lived and participated in as it was taking place. The help I will be offering is my own personal opinion.

Circa: 1974

Sponsors (the ones paying the bills) hired advertising agencies to publicize extol - the outright benefits of buying anything and everything. Print adds and radio were the two main vehicles for telling the sponsor's story. But television was moving quickly into the leading position. Both radio and television had the spoken word as a prime purveyor for what they had to say; albeit, much of the verbiage was considered to be “puff” verbiage, which was deemed to be less than accurate. A good example of puff was certainly the language used in all of the cigarette commercials. Can you imagine telling people about all the singers who smoke Lucky Strike cigarettes because they didn’t irritate singers' throats? They claimed the reason was the fact that “Luckies were toasted.” As they also pointed out, most doctors smoked Lucky Strike “two to one.” If you’re wondering what that really means, join the club.

Doing a network TV cigarette voice over commercial led the way to some enormous paydays for the actors.

In those days, the procedure for conducting an audition for a voice over commercial was quite simple.

1. The advertising agency contacted a commercial voice over agent by phone, or by posting a casting call breakdown through one of the published services.

2. They’d describe the type they were looking for and the agents would submit names to the advertising agency producer.

3. The producer would select by either voice recognition from a past experience with the actor, or by listening to the actors voice demo reel.

Early on, actors all had demo reels of their individual work. Most of these reels (or tapes) were about three minutes in duration.

4. The actors, who were selected by the advertising agency, were then given an appointment to come to the agency and be auditioned and directed by the producer of the spot.

5. The more well-known voice actors were oftentimes booked by the advertising agency without actually having to take an in-person audition.

In the beginning, the agents spent their days mostly on the telephone.

Agents worked at their desks. None of them conducted in-house auditions. It was a much simpler time. But all was about to change.

In my humble opinion, what transpired was a needless and detrimental acceptance of what many thought had to be. Our unions were void of cognitive perceptiveness. While many new venues were being developed, creating vast avenues for product, the union constituency were the last ones in the pecking order to garnish the full extent of the monetary rewards.

Circa: 1977

It was about thirty plus years ago, when one of our more famous agents (who will remain nameless) came up with the less-than-bright idea of bringing the actors he represented in-house to audition for voice over commercials. He pointed out to the advertising agencies how it would be free of charge. The audition would cost them nothing. What a concept. The advertising agency could actually send a script to this guy (agent) and, without charge, get back a (reel to reel 7.5") tape of the actors and actresses reading the exact script they would in turn use for their on-air commercial TV or radio advertisement. It also sounds simple, doesn’t it? The scripts were mailed to the agent, the agent brought in his talent, auditioned them, and sent a tape back to the advertising agency. Stay tuned.

Make no mistake, across the board, the experienced professional journeyman actors absolutely hated it. Voice actors were accustomed to reading for the man doing the hiring. Most of the agents' sound equipment, if you can call it that, was less than professional. The common statement heard around town from the actors' point of view was a total disdain for what their agents were up to. I heard many of the actors say how their agent had no idea about how to direct.

In the beginning, this in-house process was exclusively used in Los Angeles. The agent who was responsible for all this never reasoned out that he wasn’t going to be the only agent offering this economically illiterate format to the ad agencies. Think about it. If one of this agent's actors was chosen by the advertising agency to do their radio spot, the agent would earn, at 10% in those days, around twenty dollars. A trained monkey could do the math and discover auditioning folks for radio spots was a complete financial disaster. I mean… you can’t turn on a light bulb for twenty bucks, let alone pay a staff member to stand there and direct the talent.

And now here’s the real pretzel logic. The news of the in house auditions spread like wild fire. No one can surpass an actor’s ability to spread word of mouth information.

Overnight, every agent of near substance was in the game.

(As an aside, I was brought into Abrams Rubaloff & Associates, the then industry leader, to build perhaps the very first full service recording facility in Los Angeles. I experienced the actor’s comments first hand.)

The talent had zero reservations about what they felt about the new system. They pointed out to me: New York and Chicago weren't doing in-house auditions. In essence, we were removing the actors from a face-to-face audition with the man who could hire them. The whole idea was unsound. It was foreign territory for everyone involved.

What had begun as a single agent auditioning six, seven, and maybe ten actors for the commercial at hand quickly turned into total warfare between all of the Los Angeles agents submitting talent. Since the advertising agency no longer needed to spend their time setting up their own in-house auditions, they began indiscriminately sending their scripts out to every voice over agent in the city. The so-called initial brainstorm became a tornado of as many as one hundred and fifty or so actors reading for the same role.

The only thing that helped to keep the situation reasonably sane was the time frame. The commercial scripts we were receiving from the advertising people came to us through the mail. In most cases, we had around a week to get the finished audition back to them. It was a bad third-party process. Rarely did I have the opportunity to speak with the person who wrote the commercial we were auditioning.

I mentioned earlier how we recorded on a reel-to-reel setup, using what was known as tape. That’s correct, an actual box containing an audition tape was sent or hand delivered to the advertising agency or production company.

Enter our trained monkey to figure out:

A) The recording tape cost money

B) The box to package the audition in cost money

C) The delivery cost money

On one particular early morning, I was the designated tape box audition deliverer. The advertising agency was in a high-rise building on Wilshire Blvd., an area known as the miracle mile.

It was a common practice to get to an advertising agency office in the AM before they opened and leave our audition package in either their building mailroom or at their front door. In this instance, I chose the front door drop-off. At their door, I counted no less than fourteen jiffy bags, all containing the audition tapes of our competition.

That day served as a very enlightening experience for me.

Our Abrams Rubaloff audition consisted of eight actors. If each of the other fourteen offices had submitted the same number, it meant one hundred and twenty actors were vying for the same radio spot.

As a young and perhaps hopelessly naïve crusader, I attempted explaining the actors' position to AFTRA and also to the Screen Actors Guild; all to no avail. I actually felt I was working on behalf of the actors we represented. Frankly, I felt disheartened over the whole event. I wasn’t guessing. This was plain old-fashioned arithmetic. The handwriting was on the wall.

An actor knows what they’re getting into when they enlist in our subjective life form. But blatant disregard by the agents, who represent you, and the unions you belong to, is the same predicament we’re in with most of our politicians. Talking a good game and playing it are two entirely different things. My exact words to both guilds were the same: “It's not fair for an advertising agency to command subservience by the actor.”(I don’t think they understood what the word subservience means.) The fact is, one hundred and twenty actors got in their cars, and read for a commercial they had very little chance of winning. As I tried to explain to our guilds, “You’re looking at the tip of the iceberg.” Well … it is no longer the tip. Today’s iceberg is buoyed by just about every hamlet privy to electrical current.

The Wonders Of Science

The winds of change were upon us. It took about four years, when, without warning, little brainless electronic conveniences crept up on us. The romance was about to be removed from an entire industry.

The fax machine; we all celebrated.

(Wow, No more slow mail)

The cassette; Wow, we all celebrated. But wait a minute,

We still recorded on tape, but now we were required to transfer to cassette.

Da harv was a little annoyed.

They still sent us the scripts, but now they always seemed to get to us at the last minute.

Da harv was a little annoyed.

Every time I turned around, it seemed like we were all celebrating about one more magic gadget being added to our rapidly growing impersonal attitudes.

Da harv was a little annoyed.

More scripts coming to us faster and faster; we celebrated. So did every agent in the city.

E-MAIL; we all (really) celebrated.

The biggest strike in our history; we commiserated.

No one celebrated.

The home studio; many of the agents no longer do in house auditions. They send the scripts, which are sent to them by e-mail to the actor's home. The agent doesn’t have to go through the audition rain dance.

The winner may be heard celebrating, while nine hundred and ninety nine wonder what the celebration is all about.

But here’s some good news. The economy has forced many of the advertising agencies to reduce their staff size. The number of actors auditioning is beginning to show signs of shrinking. The smaller staff size won’t allow enough time to do all that listening.

I believe we’re experiencing a gentle return to the work of the quality actor. Of course, that’s usually why we’re hired as casting directors. Since the advertising agency is paying us by the hour to cast their voices, it’s a rarity for the numbers of actors we bring in to become of gargantuan proportions. It goes without saying, the smaller the casting call, the higher the degree of talent. We’re hired to find quality acting skills. That is always our intention.

(And) So the universal question, as always; How to become a quality voice over actor? Please stay tuned. I might be able to help.

Workshops & Coaches

In general, actors have the very best handle on the good, the bad, and even the most ugly of what’s out there professing to be the actor’s helper. The larger the city, the more good and bad helpers you will find. I call them the in and outers. These are the folks in our business who find themselves in a struggle to make a living. They turn to coaching.

What I suggest first is the most tried and true method for finding help in a big city like Los Angeles. “Word of mouth.” Actors talk to one another. While advertising can be a marvelous signpost, that’s all it is. Read the sign, and then ask an actor or two if they have had experience with the people whose name appears on the signpost.

The really good workshops have a tendency to stay around for long periods of time. The bad ones disappear quickly. Word of mouth works both ways.

When an actor calls a workshop inquiring about what they have to offer, and his calls are consistently being answered by a machine, and no one gets back to him that very same day - well, for me that isn’t the kind of a place I would like to trust my career to. It may be a workshop that you’re calling about, but it must be run like a business.

For me personally, I wouldn’t think of signing on with a workshop, unless it was recommended by an actor or two whom I respected. Agents are also good authorities on where to go for education. Even if an agent does not represent you, they will usually be amenable when it comes to making workshop suggestions.

Before calling a workshop have your questions prepared in advance. Ask for printed informational material about the workshop you're inquiring about. It’s important to know how long they’ve been in business, as well as their qualifications. How many different kinds of classes do they offer? It’s important for you to be studying with a like group of people. By like, I mean at similar experience levels. What I’m getting at is that you obviously wouldn’t want to be in a beginners voice over workshop group if you happen to be an actor with twenty years of experience in the theater.

Note: In the above paragraph I have bolded the words voice over, because in a variety of theatrical classes, having a novice or two in the group may be a distinct advantage.

The workshop representative should be amenable to giving you a reasonable amount of telephone time. That representative must be knowledgeable. Too often a person who is acting as nothing more than a telephone receptionist will handle your call. When your career is at stake, you should expect a great degree of caring to be displayed by the people running the workshop in question. Never settle for second best. Los Angeles is the home to the finest acting coaches in the world. Just ask another actor. They’ll know where to find them.

TIPS

* Once you sign on and enter a voice over workshop environment, do so with a total commitment.

* Honor your choice of this particular workshop as the very best in the world.

* Consider your ultimate achievement as a process. You are a work in progress (forever).

* Do not expect an overnight epiphany of success.

Every professional musician practices with his or her instrument each and every day. As a voice over artist, your instrument is your voice. Being the best reader in the world will not diminish your chances of success.

Read out loud each and every day. Newspapers and magazines are a must. I’m referring to the articles they contain as opposed to the advertisements. A voice over actor must be comfortable with a cross section of verbiage. Whether you’re interested in an article's subject matter or not, you may one day be called upon to read for a commercial containing the same or similar content as the one you dislike. Your job is to be comfortable with whatever is thrown at you during an audition. The more you practice, the easier it will become. An actor doesn’t have to be a doctor to read medical terminology. Don’t limit yourself.

Good luck!