(Your choice of usage of the above is dependent
on what form of sales you happen to be in.)
Words that glide off
the tongue disappear more quickly than those words tending to block a happy
incident of any kind.Saying
something positive and nice usually helps generate moods free of divisiveness.
There’s the word
divine – which conjures up sublime. It doesn’t bother a person’s ear. Nothing
about divine could possibly be painful. That is, unless the word happens to be
used without practicality.As an
example, one mature (old) person says to another, “Isn’t the aging process
divine?”
See what I mean,
nothing about growing old is beautiful, magnificent, extremely pleasant, or
delightfully perfect. Look at those new little crow’s feet just popping up
around both eyes; aren’t they just divine. Not!
It is, of course, the
alternative to growing old that warrants the label divine.
“You’ve got a lot
more years a head of you,” the doctor tells you.
Tell me again.
Tell me again.
Please tell me again.
I love the way it
sounds.
What a divine phrase.
I lingered in the
large lobby of the medical building in order to “do my thing.” What kind of a
thing would a mature man be doing as a lingerer in the lobby of a medical
building?
Not to worry, it’s
all good. I’ll try to make my explanation as reasonable as possible though, to
some, this is going to come off as if I were doing my Clintonesque version of
an oratory about what is – is.
Many years ago
without realizing it, my Father exposed me to his humorous skills as an
observer of life. As we walked or talked together, no matter where we happened
to be, he prevailed with never-ending comments as he observed those around us.
And as we grew older together I noticed his observations contained a great deal
of ridicule as well as a noticeable increase in vulgar language. However, it
always remained between the two of us.No one was ever hurt by our ridicule or lack of pleasant demeanor; they
couldn’t hear us.I never dreamed
this habit-forming procedure would become such an important part of my life’s
pursuits.
A medical building is
a virtual melting pot of humanity. If you’d like to experience a wide variety
of folks, then it’s the place to be. How they walk, talk, hurry, scurry, amble
leisurely, or reflect on the news they just received from a doctor (or the
worried visual in anticipation of what they might hear as the result of a test
taken during a previous examination) is what some refer to as a slice of life.
For me, it is life.
Young and old bonding
and bonded together as human beings.
A full screen
ever-changing scene study/reality workshop set before me to experience first
hand in living, three-dimensional color. It is a never-ending method actor’s
dream unfolding there, ready for the taking.
That man could be me.
(He must have received good news, as did I.)
I wonder if the little
girl will one day be able to stand a little straighter?
I do think that
little old lady in the wheel chair was smiling at me. (I wonder if it was
because I was smiling at her?)
Thanks Dad.
In case you didn’t
hear, all went well for me at the medical building. Actually, you could say it
was divine.
Not as an idle lest we don’t, or refuse to
understand
This joyful look is the countenance when
confusion
Controls the man.
Yet we may have together allowed him to lead
When never a prayer
Nor ever a prayer allows a dolt to succeed
Mothers read to us, I remember mine so well
About this clumsy clown, less than a prince
His own makings would cause his fell
Stand back, for never will it fail
His clumsy story of lacking seems his destiny to
prevail
And when it ultimately comes to an end
The storyline never allows the outcome to mend
Humpty Dumpty went down alone
No people left to cheer him
No favorable reminders
No one wept
Only left behind him, his empty throne.
***
Yes,
so many of you within earshot of my words shared in the belief and amazement of
Mother Goose and her cohorts who, in their own inimitable fashion, helped to
raise us. My life and the books I have read have instilled in me an endless
passion to make up my own mind thus allowing me to make my own mistakes. I look
at the books I have read as my old and dearest of friends.
“All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you have finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was.”
- Ernest Hemingway, December 1934
Not my wish to escape
Though it is craved by so many
Sailing to another land and place
Likely my trip for tomorrow’s chosen
When tomorrow comes
If it comes to me
Another page turned
Back to another day lived
For me to see and feel and mostly hear
Then to share with others
As others have shared with me
Stories of war, love, hero’s and God
Of people enslaved,
And how they became free
Always, as the last page is turned
Reliving almost all I have learned
Unbelievably relished
Thousands upon thousands
Of presentments of wordsmiths renowned
Never relinquishing the beauty I by myself have
found.
But then… is there a time when it becomes more prudent for us to
glance back in time?
Glancing is okay; remaining there will usually cause a problem.
"One must never pray for the past to return for, if it became God’s will to grant that wish, life’s light would certainly have been relinquished, perhaps forever."
- HK, May 17, 2012
“I look forward to an America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty.”
- President John F. Kennedy, upon receiving an honorary degree from Amherst College, October 26, 1963 and inscribed on the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Washington, D.C.
Aside from good health the greatest gift received to date in my
lifetime is unquestionably an ability to take in, in every form possible, the
joy of good humor. For me, grace and beauty have always been synonymous with
good humor or even raucous laughter.
A momentary glance over my shoulder to such a wondrous light, it
served then as it does today – a symbol of grace and beauty. A child laughing
with a spark kindled in her eyes, by a seemingly old man cavorting around a
sound stage with the same verve a child might display when enjoying bouncing
and sliding around a slippery floor following the consumption of too much
sugar.
For whatever the reason… it tickled her.
For whatever the reason her laugh created a part of a special day.
The social worker assigned to our production came forward and
asked what the child was laughing about.
“Me, I guess,” was the man’s only response.
A four-and-a-half year old little girl had not only captured hearts
and provided an entertaining relief to everyone’s day, but she blessed the room’s
ambience with a special God-given grace and elegance, single-handedly
indemnifying the inscription engraved on a wall at the Kennedy Center for the
Performing Arts.
· I can’t run on this crappy track. · This gym is too poorly lit for me to shoot baskets. · The diving board is too springy for me. · I need a new set of clubs in order to compete. · What a lousy script. · It was a terrible audience.
What do all
the above lines have in common?
Losers delivered them all.
***
The
Actors Studio, The Groundlings, Stella Adler, Meisner, Kazan, Houseman, and oh
yes…Stanislavski. Lemmon, Grant, and hordes of other actors and places…
And what
did all of the above have in common? All are winners, rare talent, and places
to be.
I
can’t recall which of the great studios I was privileged enough to visit first.
It really doesn’t matter. What mattered was the teacher and the method they
chose to use. None of them ever served as a symbol of opulence. As a matter of
fact, the winners in the crowd were almost always the shabbiest dressers and
often the most unkempt individuals I’ve ever come in contact with. Often the
group itself was so poor they were forced to alternate where they might
workout. Scenery or equipment was a challenge for the imagination.
A
broken circle, with the great Strassberg, or Meisner, or Elia Kazan in the middle
was all that would be necessary for either developing a backbone or finding out
you were born without one.
But of all
the lines delivered by perhaps the most stalwart of all, John Houseman, to a
young actor was…
“You
have far too much time on your hands.”
The actor
looked at Mr. Houseman not understanding what the great man was getting at.
Then came the explanation.
“You
are finding fault with all in life which matters the least. It is not the
acoustics in this building or the short stretches of this stage which makes you
an unfeeling actor. Your expended time in order to complain will always be a
culprit in waiting.”
It
isn’t the microphone; you’re a lousy actor. A role of duct tape may
successfully patch a wall, but complainers rarely find time to improve their
skills.
A
war raged while people of every cut tried desperately to find ways to lessen
their life’s burdens. There were still moms, dads, grandparents, boys and girls
at play, and most of all young men and women trying to hold on to momentary
relationships. The seemingly simple songs and music of the complex year 1942 were, by way of the abstract in their depiction of every
human emotion emanating from a nation, and the world it lived in, at war. The
titles of these songs provide a historical record of what throbbed through the
pulse of our country’s most famous and courageous generation. With just a few
titles, we become at one with the unbelievable longing shared by an entire
country.
“I’ll Be Home for Christmas,”
“Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else But Me,”
“Good Night Sweetheart,”
“I’ll Be Seeing You,”
“Moonlight Becomes You,”
“Now is the Hour,”
“On the Sunny Side of the Street,”
“Temptation,”
& “Thanks for the
Memory.”
All
the song titles applied to the men and boys thrust into the surreal; kids
letting their neighborhoods know they were accepted into the Army, Navy, Marines,
Air Force, or Coast Guard thrusting those left behind on what would be known as
the Home Front – women and older men – doing the jobs no longer manned by their
brethren. It was a time when each and every American knew the words of the
feature songs on the most popular radio show of the day, “Your Hit Parade.”
And,
as the radio disc jockeys stalwartly cranked out over and over the music of the
day, often the songs became supplanted by the hotly disputed topics of the day:
who was a better singer – Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra?
Truth
be told they shared an equal ray of the limelight. The lyrics to the songs they
warbled wrapped avid listeners in a blanket that warded off the ever-present
chill of despair gripping families all over America.
But
above all else, the music they listened and sang along with became the marching
tunes of our country’s survival and ultimate victory. Against all odds, we
again moved to higher ground and predominance as the world’s history would
report: The United States of America would last and remain the most successful
and vibrant republic in the history of the world (as we know it to be).
***
“The Old Lamplighter”
A Time Remembered
A little boy moves in unthinkably close to his family’s radio, perhaps in an attempt to bring the characters he hears to life. He visualizes in living color as he creeps closer. After an indistinguishable period of time, it becomes a new scenario to be shared with his Dad. Middle class personified them - a world war may have been raging but on these nights, a man and his son were above it all.
“A cloud of dust and a hearty High Ho Silver!”
They
smile together as the little boy and his Dad join forces, pulling for the
masked man and his trusted sidekick to win out against the bad guys. Neither of them knew what the name
“Kemosahbee” meant, except for the fact it definitely had to be something good.
A
quick half hour evaporated and it’s time to change stations. There were no
channels. Television would remain in the future, at least until the war came to
an end.
It’s
a hard thing for the kids of today to comprehend – a world without television.
Families were forced to do things together. Things like reading books and then
having discussions about what the words really meant. Going to a baseball or
football game was a dream come to life. The ballparks carried an unbelievable
aura from corner to corner. Just being there at the park was an event. And,
while on the way to the park, by train, bus, or car, they talked and listened
to one another. They talked about baseball and about maybe being able to get a
hot dog at the game.
Then,
came one of the most special times in the little boys life – his first night
game.
It
was magic.
The
park was aglow like he had never seen it before. The infield clay appeared as a
carpet put there just for the special athletes to play on. And was more than
special for an event that would change our country forever.
Miraculously,
the war came to its end. Younger and healthier men again occupied the towns and
cities and those who returned home were never to be called boys again. Believe it or not, there were no
complaints or… if there were…none were ever heard.
Those
troops coming home never referred to themselves as heroes. And although the
uniforms of the country’s service were discarded, those who served would carry
the vacancy of time stolen from their youth forever. They returned to their old
surroundings and lives to find differences unable to be explained. They
married, had children, and rebuilt as best they could.
It
was a world going through change.
The Time Frame
The great world war had been over for two years…
1947: Jackie Robinson is brought to play for the Brooklyn Dodgers and becomes the first African American on a Major League Baseball team. That same year, he is named 'Rookie of the Year' and featured on the cover of Time magazine.
It
was sixty-five years ago, from the city of Pasadena in a place called
California, when the baseball world grudgingly gave in to God. Under a more
pressured environment than any human being should ever have to compete within,
strode an athlete and man equal to any hero our little boy would ever see
reprised in his lifetime. No person had ever entered and performed while
experiencing the piercing slings and arrows heaped on the broad shoulders of
Jackie Robinson.
Our
little boy was overcome by the magnitude of Jackie Robinson. That night his
skin color – magnified by the white flannel of the Brooklyn Dodgers’ home
uniform – was a surreal emphasis on fortitude never since equaled. Jackie’s
presence as he warmed up, seemingly in perfect harmony with the organ music
being played by Gladys Gooding was over powering.
The
normally verbally effusive little boy was stilled and overcome with emotion.
A Piece of Brooklyn Dodger
History
May 8, 1942 - At Ebbets Field, with more than 24‚000 fans on hand‚ nearly $60‚000 is raised for the Navy Relief Fund‚ as all the proceeds are donated. Everyone‚ including the ball players and umps‚ pays their way into the park. The Dodgers also debut a celebrated rookie: Gladys Gooding who plays the "Victory Calliope," the second organ played in MLB stadiums. Gooding will continue playing for the Dodgers until 1958, when the team moves west.
And,
of course there is one more thing…
To
many, recapturing the thoughts of a little ten-year-old boy is too far out
there to serve a realistic purpose. But perhaps, if the same little boy was to
function as a bookmark of an important time gone by, his recollections of the
people of an era (demanding such unbelievable courage) could serve as a usable
vitality for what is desperately needed today…
If
only there was a way to bring back the old lamplighter…
In
the beginning God said, “Let there be actors,” and so without reservations –
meaning any forethought, or real thought at all – they came forth in search of
what ever it is expectant actors seek.
Chapter Two
Finding out what a voice over is.
It
appears shortly after God’s summoning the soft of head, people learned to speak
to and at one another. The first line of communication was thought to be muddy
and hard to decipher. Early on it became apparent that it wasn’t the sound
equipment causing the problem; fact is, there wasn’t any sound equipment to
deal with. It was a gifted child born to one of the cave families whose first
words were the beginnings for solving the communication problems.
In
the form of screams he yelled, “Listen to me, and maybe you’ll learn a thing or
two”.
The
cave people ultimately acquiesced to the counseling of this special child. It
was during a breast-feeding incident the child learned he could teach his
Mother by inflicting some degree of pain while at the same time satisfying his
hunger pangs. This procedure didn’t last for long. One day, Mother didn’t
return to the cave and our gifted child expired due to what the cave people
thought was the first real hunger strike. It was also the first recorded
incident of child abandonment and simultaneous desertion by a wife leaving her
husband.
The
dramatic incident has been told and retold through the centuries. As
Shakespeare noted, this monumental double dose of angst served as the
forerunner of the American theater as we have come to know it today. As a
matter of fact, many of today’s actors and actresses still bear a striking
resemblance to their earlier brethren – the cave people.
Chapter Three
Being paid to do a voice over. What a
concept!
The
fact that we refer to it as voice over is actually an incorrect assertion. In
the beginning, it was a guy on the bottom yelling up to the guy on top
informing him his shoulders were getting tired; thus, the first nomenclature
for the human voice was indeed a voice under.
As
a point of interest, it was at this very same time the ladder was invented. A
new era had begun with the discovery of the voice under and the invention of
the ladder, later on to be known as the footstool. Through the centuries,
painters from around the globe hailed this as the real and true beginning of
the Industrial Revolution.
The
great philosopher Plato declared, “If not for the ladder, there would be no
wars.
Rather
deep, don’t you think?
***
It
was a dark and dank night in the township of Delather, named after the inventor
of soap, a clean and prosperous town. Delather was the first man to recognize
the meaning of dank could also be applied during the daytime although we rarely
hear anything having to do with a bright and dank day; as an example, the city
of London might be described that way.
But
I digress.
Delather’s
claim to fame was by no means an accident. The man made the best soap in town.
His early problem, as is the case for many prominent inventors, was a lack of
publicity for his product.
The
Village Women (also a well known singing group of the era) made great use of
his soap for scrubbing down almost anything. However, none of them used soap
for anything personal. Instead, a
white fragrant powder used for dusting wigs was the personal cleanser of
choice.
On
a rather quiet business day, Delather found himself deep in thought concerned
with how he could increase his soap sales. His contemplation came to an end as his friend the Town Crier
stopped by to pick up his soap supply.
“You
know I could help you sell more soap”, the Crier said.
Delather
was all ears as he listened intently to his booming friends voice.
Town Crier
“You know how my job is to
read the daily news to our illiterate populous? Well, what if at the beginning
and end of each reading I do an announcement about the wonders of your new
soap?”
That’s a great
idea, Delather replied, but the trouble is…I don’t have a new soap. And
besides, I already sell to every woman in the village!
Crier
“You’ve got to come up with
a new product.”
But all I know is
how to make soap.
Crier
“I’ve got it. Just change
the name.”
To what?
Crier
“Drop the De. From now on call it Lather for the Ladies.”
That’s a great
idea. But I still don’t have another product to sell.
Crier
“Just listen to me.
Remember, I’m also the town publicist. It goes hand in hand with being the town
crier. I’m going to begin with a thirty.”
What’s a thirty?
Crier
“That’s what we’re going to
call our announcement of our new product…
Lather For The Ladies
Lather for your neck
Lather For Your Legs
Lather for your beck*
*Should
be BACK, but it doesn’t rhyme.
Brought to you by the name
you can trust. Delather!”
Sounds good, but
what is all this crying going to cost me?
Crier
“Here’s the deal, Delather
my friend. You pay me fifty cents for the first cry and then, after that, five
cents each and every time I cry out the same message. If you happen to pick a
new message or change the words of this first message you have to pay me
another fifty cents.”
What if it
doesn’t work? What if my sales don’t increase?
Crier
“Then all you owe me is
fifty cents for the first cry.”
This sounds
complicated.
Crier
“Just trust me. I’ll bill
you for my work and you can pay me within four working days.”
So Delather
said, thank you and the Crier closed with…
Crier
“This has been another
documentation of another auspicious occasion.”
***
Another true
industry record, and possible lesson presented by Harvey Kalmenson.
Note: This blog post is in response to Joe Flint's May 7th article, "Stars muffle voice-over actors" in the L.A. Times. Click here to read the article.
Wake
up Joe Flint. You really weren’t listening to what my partner and I had to say
about our industry. After giving you a full thirty minutes of our time you
proceeded to ignore the most salient industry points revealed to you, one of
which being: only 25% of our voice casting business involves celebrities. This
leaves 75% of the opportunities to the non-celebrity voice over talents. If
what you had to say (in print) about celebrities dominating the voice over
world were indeed a fact, the team of Kalmenson & Kalmenson would have long
ago been out of business.
Here are some facts of life, presented by us in
order to clear the air of the gases created by subjective bellyaching.
Since
the first actor strode onto the first boards of a theater, (the stage was
actually a dirt floor in those days) there has been a shortage of work for the
journeyman actor, man or woman alike. Following the progression of Adam and
Eve, all actors, men and women were faced with the annoying proposition of
having to audition. Nothing has changed. The vast majority of commercials, or
any communication form making use of the human voice, more often than not comes
with a degree of competition.
Here’s
the bottom line; Voice Over is, and will remain an acting craft. Call it a
business if you like, but once again heed the bottom line. Lest we forget,
acting is a condition of the heart. As John Houseman put it so very long ago,
quote:
“Be a journeyman actor. If your
driving force is solely the assumption, this creative form will bring you fame
and fortune, you’re seeking in the wrong direction.”
Very
few, since the earliest of days, have developed financial security in
recognition of their efforts as an actor; while many have enjoyed the emotional
lift provided as a result of the heart driven journey of our creative, and
subjective art form. Don’t worry about celebrities. Be a journeyman and enjoy
what you pursue.
And
the actress who auditioned on her iPhone in the ladies’ room at the Miami Airport
actually won the job… and she was not a celebrity.
The
work is there for those willing to commit their time, focus, intestinal
fortitude, and the practicing of their craft.
"I’m not aware if anyone has ever dedicated a blog to his or her father, so if I happen to be the first…so be it. And naming it in honor of my dad will guarantee the highest degree of integrity this guy could possibly muster!"
Words that glide off
the tongue disappear more quickly than those words tending to block a happy
incident of any kind. Saying
something positive and nice usually helps generate moods free of divisiveness. 
