He Was "Grrrreat!"

For close to 25 years, Lee Marshall has been a part of our lives here at Kalmenson & Kalmenson. As an acting student, VO actor, and forever a friend, we will affectionately remember him always as the voice of "Tony the Tiger.”

Lee passed away Saturday, April 26, 2014.

We had the honor of casting the voice of this animated American icon, "Tony.” And then, we had the joy of learning that Lee, a Kalmenson graduate, was the choice.

Rest in peace, Lee.

Cathy & Harvey
On Behalf of Everyone Here in Our K&K Family

Positive Thinking

There are times when I wonder why I write a blog. Many years ago when I first picked up a pen for profit I was told in no uncertain terms to prepare for criticism. At least then I was being paid, and somehow indecision regarding the validity of my work didn’t seem to get to me quite as much as it does today. There were times when I was working for a newspaper that I wondered if anyone was actually reading what I had to say. It was like I was writing an obituary column for those readers who had already died. No wonder they didn’t make comments.

I can remember early on, about thirty years ago, when I was a guest on a radio talk show, and found myself wondering whether there was anyone listening in to what I was saying. The host smiled and said with a sly wink, “Wait until we open up the phone lines for questions and comments”. It was then I found out the real importance of them having a producer who also functioned as a screener: Some of the callers were really screw loose with what they had to say. One of the kids at the radio station called it pounce time. I found out quickly what he was getting at. There are people out there who devote their energies towards indiscriminate attacks on whomever they can find who isn’t in a position to retaliate. These are the unpaid critics, the "wannabes" that don’t begin to have the talent or the fortitude to make it on their own. (There was a time delay, so luckily most of these nut jobs couldn’t get through.)

Today there exists a new and equally parasitic clutter the creative world must deal with. They are still categorized as critics, and their psychological thrusts are the same as most those other bygone eras produced. But today’s rock-throwers have far greater capabilities than ever before in the history of communications. All a person needs is a computer, a phone, a screen, and an acidic condition in order to render their dissertation to a world in waiting. About one year ago I was cajoled to venture fourth into the wide world of “blogdom”. In doing so I promised myself I would not take to heart any really mean spirited critiques any of my readers might offer. Admittedly, my promise to myself at times is hard to live with.

***

One Hundred Blogs Later

Writings, scribbling(s), statements of what have become lived in facts...receiving things from people, often the reality of tainted distortions of the real truth, or the truth as they perceive it. I try not to let another human beings misgivings about life, as they have lived it, get in the way of my attempts at remaining positive.

The majority of people offering their personal sentiments regarding my opinions, as I continue to scribe, have been positive in nature. Many have thanked me for reminding them of what they themselves know to be true. Most are reflections of little tidbits from my own past, which helped me during my own down times.

I doubt if we can uncover very many folks in the entertainment business that have reached a noteworthy degree of success without experiencing first hand a pitfall or two, or three, or four, or more. My own are numerous.

If I were to ask a person what gave them the right to vote for someone other than who I voted for, I believe I would instantly earn the title of one of the world's most boorish men. But what about an obviously bitter old person, who was never at any point of creative acceptance in their life, questioning why I have the nerve to write a blog, and further going on in asking if I’m seeking out a new career. To this person, I felt duty bound to offer my thank you. I will forever feel indebted to you for offering your boorish direction. You have given me the fortitude to go on with an even greater display of positiveness than ever before. Bless you for taking the time to let some of the vindictiveness seep from the core of uselessness that has centupled as you continue your creative condemnation during the remainder of your senior years.

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.

Learning to Learn

"In the groove" is a common statement often heard from a wide variety of professional athletes. They speak of how the game around them has slowed down, and how they are seeing the ball or the entire field more clearly than ever before.

A golfer remarks about how comfortable he or she feels while addressing the ball. The same golfer finds himself or herself on a streak when everything he or she attempts to do works out perfectly.

Then there’s the basketball player who describes the basket as appearing twice the normal size. Every shot he throws up goes in. The guy announcing the game says how the player appears to be "in a zone."

All the old-timers agree, when skill and experience are coupled with an exceptional work ethic, one day the unusual slowdown will occur. The batter will see the ball better, the golfer becomes relaxed and comfortable, our basketball player sinks a three pointer to win the game.

***

It was probably around age fifty. A time when things in general began to slow down, appearing to all those within my spectrum, as if I was a guy who might know what he was doing. Without knowing or feeling a transition, the ten-thousand hours of toiling away at my craft were beginning to take a firm hold.

Was it others or I? Inside, the same drums continued to beat out a rhythm as background for the same word, “Learn, learn, and learn.” I may have been fifty years of age, but I was in many ways still the little kid tuned in to his dad asking him with religious fervor, “What did you learn today?” The ever-present upper right side of my grammar school report card, visibly tolling out the score of “Could do better.” The report card thing has never left me. I guess it never will.

Exactly when it happened will always remain my unanswered query; one day my personal signature became self-acknowledged. When people around me began to comment about how comfortable I appeared to be.

My life, from it’s earliest stages, was dedicated to the totally agreed upon premise of the greatest philosophers the world has known:

“Wisdom is a blessing only to those prepared to absorb it.”

When learning becomes wisdom, and one's dedication is an absolute and resolute way of life, it then becomes possible for each of us as human beings to experience being in a so-called "zone." When we are questioned and give answers while displaying a demeanor of total confidence.

Most of us, regardless of the field of endeavor we may choose, are striving to become the best we can be. Rarely, however, will a student declare their desire to get into a zone. The subject never comes up, because in life’s earliest stages, comfort zones have not yet been cultivated.

The academic world provides many of our needed tools. But the desire to reach one's goals while playing through the pain of real life experiences can’t be derived from a book. In almost every walk of life, success and endurance go hand-in-hand. A kid graduates at the top of his class, and immediately faces up to the question, "What do I do now?" In the business world, the answer is gaining some experience. And be prepared to start at the bottom.

In our entertainment world, staying in the game, enduring, and continuing an uninterrupted study of one's chosen craft, are all must have parameters for success; yet these same parameters will never guarantee your goals and aspirations will ever be met.

May I dutifully present the following life’s experiences, to hopefully serve as a helping hand to whomever there is out there in need of encouragement?

His and Hers

EXPERIENCE: 10,000 HOURS APPLIED, serving as the catalyst for the two of us to join hands and together begin the process of building:

Kalmenson & Kalmenson: The business of voice casting and education.

Catherine and I agreed:

“If we do not hang together, we shall surely hang separately. I love the man (and woman) that can smile in trouble that can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. 'Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death.”
-Thomas Paine, The American Crisis, No. 1, December 19, 1776

Our company's goals are to always provide for our patrons the ability to share in the wisdom we have both gained during our years of dedication to our craft.

Learning will remain our theme. Cultivating our learning into the wisdom we may pass on to our students and clients will remain the driving force behind the constant passage of integrity behind all we endeavor.

The last eighteen years of business have enabled each of us, Cathy and da harv, some thirty six thousand hours, in order to turn some of what we have learned, into the wisdom we endeavor to pass on.

“Ignorance is a voluntary misfortune.”

“Wisdom will not support ignorance.”

Revisiting

Maybe it’s because digital cameras didn’t exist during my days in the United States Army, that I have maintained a fondness for the snap shots which still remain in my possession today.

Taking photos had a certain romance involved with the process. There was always a wait-and-see-what-they-would-look-like flavor to it all. Nothing was instant, especially when you happen to be many thousands of miles from home, and the vendor responsible for film development can’t speak anything more than broken English.

I’m reminded of the Orson Welles words in the wine commercials, “We will sell no wine before it’s time.”

Time. It moves when it wants to. Years, far too quickly, while a child waiting for their presents to be delivered, far too slowly.

Romance should never be allowed to turn into memories, but should take forever as it occurs, and the anguish of anticipated pain measured by less than the smallest instant taken.

Waiting for the words "you will be allowed to come home" was a time span too lengthy to be measured.

As is my want, I often review, from a time seemingly long ago, a photo in which I appear too young to ever be that young. Perhaps only those of you old enough to recognize your own physical change will appreciate fully what I will relate.

It was a time when cigarettes were ten cents a pack, my brand new Ford convertible was less than twenty five hundred dollars, and I was able to buy it with five hundred bucks as a down payment, against a monthly payment of seventy dollars. That beautiful car of mine was able to go anywhere on a couple of bucks worth of twenty-five cents a gallon gasoline. It had to be that price because I was only earning seventy dollars a week. After payroll deductions, my net pay came to a total of fifty-seven dollars a week.

But some of my most cherished remembrances are just that, remembrances. No photographs. Not even the old places I can drive by and look at. It must forever remain in my mind's eye in order to relive, recapture by the wonderment derived from the ability to reflect.

“Would you prefer color, or will black and white prints do the trick?”

Color photography for the non-professional was still some years away from being available. So today as I revisit my senior high school prom night, I see myself, all decked out in a rented tuxedo, posed along side the most beautiful girl at the prom. The orchid I presented her with is still perched, and remains in full bloom adjoining her strapless formal gown. I met Gail following the finish of a baseball game I had just pitched and won against her across-town school. She was a year younger than me, and was quite taken with my athlete star demeanor.

The photograph of the two of us is of course a still shot, but somehow it continues to have a life about it. It was an evening of romance, free from love.

Every actor, writer, director, producer, or creative source should every so often look at a time period of his or her life, and conjure what was and what wasn’t. In reflection, my prom was a romantic evening taking place at a time period, existing for no more than a single day; standing back and capturing what the truth was. And then easily describing the joy of the moment, the anticipation of Gail’s answer, whether or not she would be my date for the prom, and finally the reality of its truth as a fleeting moment.

And with reflection, often comes salvation; salvation in a form only yours to assume, if you choose to do so.

The performers I was so blessed to have experienced and worked with, first hand remain forever on the old recordings, films, and television shows. I’m free to listen to Sinatra, and view a photograph of the man taken at the time he performed in person. I was there in Las Vegas watching him on stage in complete command, while giving the audience far more than they could have possibly expected.

Las Vegas was the entertainment bargain of the ages. I doubt if there will ever be a comparable package. The best food in the world, being served twenty-four hours each day for the lowest prices imaginable.

When I first visited Las Vegas, we stayed at the old Sahara Hotel for a grand total of ten dollars a night. And it wasn’t a low-end accommodation. Appearing as an opening act in the Sahara Lounge was a rather young Don Rickles. Followed by the headliners, Louie Prima, and Keeley Smith, with Sam Butera and the Witnesses. It was free admission, and no cover or minimum. Just walk in, sit down, maybe order a drink for a $1.00, and watch the show. Then off to the Sands and the Rat Pack. Las Vegas treated me to Lena Horn, Sammy Davis Jr., Harry Belafonte, Ella Fitzgerald, and about everyone you could think of. A weekend was almost more candy than any enthusiast could stand.

But still to this day, of all the thousands of actors and actresses I have met and or directed, one woman made the most lasting impression on me as a young man. There will never be another Peggy Lee, in my estimation. Those were the high-flying nightclub days on Sunset Boulevard, in Hollywood. The two "in" places for a performer to appear were Ciros and The Macambo. I was introduced to Peggy Lee by Dave Barry, the erstwhile comedian who served as her opening act.

We shook hands outside the club, and as a young man it was all over for me. I fell in love with her instantly. On stage Peggy Lee was the sexiest performer I had ever seen or heard. A close second was the absolutely unbelievable Lena Horn. Even mentioning Peggy Lee and Lena Horn in the same sentence brings a reflection I will always be able to count on as an everlasting truth, depicting quality, and the best ever.

What influenced me to get into this business?

If you hang out long enough, and enjoy even a modicum of success, someone is bound to ask you how you got into this business. “How’d you get your start?” is the usual way the question is posed. Others are perhaps more specific; they’ll ask, “How did you get into voice over?” If it happens to be an actor posing the question, almost without exception they’re asking about your origins, because they’re in search of some secret thing you might offer; a minor morsel of fact, which might serve them as an enabler on their individual road in search of success.

And what constitutes success is a whole other story.

But for now, as is my usual method… I’ll precede to the past in order to generate a reasonable truth about my own beginnings; you know, like reflect.

(If you’ve got a minute or two.)

In the beginning, God didn’t refer to it as “Voice Over.” Often, a community leader (organizer) handled communications; the people didn’t elect him; they were under the impression he had been anointed by God. No voting was allowed. The job required the communicator to do a great deal of shouting, and so it became the natural realm for the man with the most powerful voice. His messages to the villagers were written on huge granite slabs, which were held up by the communicator’s worshipers on each side of the hill he was standing on. In that way, the communicator was able to look like he really knew a great deal about his subject matter. These early prompters were known as “cue slabs.” On occasion, a slave was known to tire and drop one of the slabs. It required the communicator to improvise his speech until a new slave could be brought in as a replacement. This really raised hell for the communicator, as the Stanislavski Method was years away from being invented. In any event, this particular method for selecting a communicator lasted only until the days of radio came along. In actuality, it was only for about four years. Many of the “Village People” stopped paying attention to the communicator and began forming singing groups.

Since recording equipment had not yet been invented, communicators were able to say whatever they pleased. In other words… in the very early days, people accepted what the town communicator (organizer) had to say as the gospel, only to discover following the invention of new and better equipment, that the village communicator was indeed nothing more than a carbon copy of themselves.

Following the invention of the radio, and vast improvements in megaphones (now referred to as microphones), communicator’s voices began to change. In some societies even women became communicators. As a matter of fact, in 1920 women were even given an opportunity to vote. It was initially considered to be a “Noble Experiment.” There was, however, a big difference between the men and the women who ultimately got the jobs. Early newspaper reports one women claiming another women got her job as the village communicator because she became intimate with the mayor. This story was never proved, but the rumor still lingers. It was the era when the now famous colloquialism, “It’s all about who you know,” was established. Many believed women were given the right to vote as the effect of men no longer being permitted to legally drink alcohol for a full year prior to the female voting emancipation.

Did you know?
In the history of the United States, Prohibition, also known as "The Noble Experiment," is the period from 1919 to 1933, during which the sale, manufacture, and transportation of alcohol for consumption were banned nationally as mandated in the Eighteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution.

When I was a kid, there was no such animal as a voice over. We had a thing we all called “acting.”

But even before I uttered the words "act," or "to act," or "be in an act," or "I’m an actor," my environment pushed me in a direction.

Excuse me, but I’m about to be guilty of personal nostalgia sharing. You might agree, personal nostalgia sharing sounds so much more genteel, than me saying how I intend talking about myself.

My aunts and uncles were constantly accusing my mother and father of being overly boastful about what a great child I was. One of my uncles told my father, right in front of me, I might add, “You think your kid is so smart, polite and perfect; he never causes any trouble. He’s a regular angel”. My Dad looked my uncle straight in the eye, and said, right in front of me, I might add, “You finally got something right,” as he began laughing at the poor guy. The descriptive "precocious" was not yet in vogue.

There I was, in the second grade; not yet known as da harv, but never the less, firmly established as our neighborhood communicator. Nobody voted for me, it just happened. Telling people what to do came with my territory. The descriptive, director was not yet in vogue.

One day, my second grade teacher was about to go into shock when she discovered I had disappeared from class. She became aware of my absence because the schoolroom was far quieter than usual.

I wasn’t kidnapped, and I wasn’t playing hooky. I was merely engaged in my earliest presentment. They found me on the ground level of P.S. 233 in a kindergarten class, doing an audiovisual about school safety.

Being in front of those kids, and commanding their attention was an overpowering event for an eight year old. The strange part about the incident, was the fact, I wasn’t going for it. Although it was early in my life, intellectually I was having a blast. Honestly, my memory really won’t serve any further narrative. I know for sure I wasn’t punished. And although I can’t be certain, there’s a good chance, that incident may have stimulated my beginnings.

Acting, teaching and helping people develop within the confines of the subjective art form of their choice, began for me as an eight year old; maybe earlier than that.

Adding to what influenced me, or pushed me towards the voice over world will require some historical notes about my grandma, (my father's mother). While it wasn’t her intent, she contributed to my development without knowing it.

Some kids remember the smells of the wonderful delights being cooked and baked by their grandmas. It was different for me. I vividly remember the sounds. Each of my dad's brothers and sisters (all nine of them) played musical instruments. Oddly enough, there wasn’t any sheet music to sing or play along with. Much of the music was derived from ancient Hebrew chants. The musical notes were passed on from one shtetl (village) to another. The modern music of the day was learned by ear while listening to the radio. A family member would learn a new tune and then pass it on to a brother or sister by playing it for them.

Shtetl rhymes with “kettle.” The German translation: a little town.

My Grandma Ethel was treated as a true matriarch. She was in total control of the family until the day she died. She rarely did any cooking or house cleaning. Her job was to provide the sustenance for her families survival.

Anyone who may have seen “Fiddler on the Roof”, will have an idea of my grandmother's roots. Her father was a village leader. He owned a factory which manufactured saddles for members of the czar’s Cossack cavalry. All went well during her young life until just before the Russian Revolution began, and the ouster of the czar, and an end to her father's saddle business.

Grandma Ethel saw the handwriting on the wall. So in 1903 she packed her belongings and somehow managed for her husband and two children to make it to (as she would say, with her hand over her heart) “The United States of America.” Within the first few years after their arrival to Brooklyn, New York, Grandma found herself in the unlikely position, due to her young husband's death, of being a single parent and responsible for her family's sole support.

(Here’s where the fanfare would be inserted.)

Enter the eight-year-old Harvey Kalmenson. Please don’t get the idea I enjoyed visiting Grandma Ethel. That wasn’t the case at all. In actuality, I was probably afraid of her. That’s not to say I wasn’t learning, by soaking up the environment surrounding this lady of unbelievable strength. Once each week my Dad would say we were going over to visit his mother. It never entered my mind to say no to my father. If I did say no, I probably wouldn’t be here telling you about what influenced me creatively.

There was always someone playing the piano or violin when we arrived. With a mandate set down, each of my nine aunts and uncles were bound to show up. While all this transpired, grandma was usually conducting her business as a translator. She was busily continuing her business of reading and writing letters for many of the neighbors to their relatives in the old country. It was the sounds of all those different languages that got me going. Yes… I really didn’t care about going to see Grandma Ethel, but to this day, she remains one of the most adept linguists I’ve ever come in contact with. I can’t imagine how valuable she would be working at the United Nations. But the most amazing part of relating this story is it’s unlikely reoccurrence.

Each time I’m asked the question about what influenced me, in my mind's eye a picture of the house in Brooklyn, the music playing, the rhythmic chanting, and all those people of foreign extraction coming in and out of the very small apartment grandma lived in during her entire life in the United States. Long after each and every one of her children became prosperous, and she no longer needed to work, she never moved and never stopped doing for others. She had long since stopped charging for her services.

I do believe she had something to do with my life’s direction. I can still hear the sounds. I can still hear her saying to anyone and everyone, “Speak English. We’re in America.” And, oh yes… she had her hand over her heart when she said it.