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.

I’ve Never Had A Middle Gear

Don’t tell me about my great passion. This is who I am and who I have been for my lifetime to date.

Scenario A)
The gun goes off and you run as fast as you can for as long as you can.

Scenario B)
They give you the ball and you crash into whomever or whatever happens to get in your way.

Scenario C)
The pitcher made the mistake of being a little too high and tight with the last pitch. You get back up, and on the next pitch you stand in there with as much reckless abandon as God might allow and you swing as hard as you can, from the heels as they like to say.

The question is: Why A, B, or C?

The answer is simple: Exaltation!
You, yours, you’ve.
You were from birth, through childhood, and on and on forever and ever until death do you part from whatever it is we part from.
The charge of what you have to offer to any and all, never fearing the consequences of what may or may not happen.
Born with a middle gear missing.
While some can slow long enough to taste and remember,
I, of course, without choice.
No middle gear to slow the process.
None either to break down at an untimely moment.
Timely or untimely,
No thought about there being a difference between the two suppositions.

What I knew to be true was the sound of the gun going off, the excitement of being in first place, if only for a moment. But in that moment, they viewed my back, and I not theirs. Those with a middle gear could not share my experience.

Nearing the leaders never offers the ability to lead them!

Behind that larger than life teammate, the ball clutched with a strength equal to one's last chance to survive. Suddenly, you move aloft as never before equaled, as over the goal line you dive. There is then a solitary moment, which will remain only yours, you’ve flown by those with a middle gear. You will always know what it feels like to be alive.

That day when he chose to knock you down may have turned out to be different if a middle gear was to be found. What happened then was a simple thing.
The boy got up from the ground, swung his bat a few times dug his spikes back to exactly where they were before he went down.
And then the ultimate pitch came his way.
A crack of the bat, his moment to hear them scream; No middle gears that day, only all out living of a young man's dream.
Suggested from an idea inspired by

The actresses there to see me.
Kathy, Annie, and Jill
Monday, October 25, 2010
Three women there to see me!

Blog Anniversary

Hey, happy anniversary, da harv. This blog is number forty-five. In just one short year I’ve had the audacity of taking up the amount of time is required for you to read sixty-six thousand and five of my written words. One could say what makes this fact tolerable is that my writing is similar to the ingestion of small quantities of poison. In small doses, a person may build up immunity. Since my average blog boils down to approximately fifteen hundred words per dose, I guess the fear of expiring while reading what I have to say most likely won’t occur, or be detrimental to your health. However, if you should experience a light-headedness, which lasts for more than four hours, stop reading immediately. But not to worry, it will not have any effect on me continuing to write. You see, since none of you are paying me to write this stuff, and so few of you are willing to admit your reading my work (anyway) I really don’t worry about agree, or disagreement with what I have to say.

And speaking of agreements; I made one with myself many years ago, when I laid down the sword and picked up a pen.

And so, if you’re interested in methodology, carry on.

Every Day (24/7)

Each and every day I view something cut from a new cloth. A new commercial predicated on a futuristic theme of what it will be like five hundred years from now, or maybe tomorrow.
I find myself challenging the presumptions being asserted to by people who are just like myself, no more, but many a great deal less. Now doesn’t that sound contemptuous of me? Sound like? I mean there’s no question about it. While in general, I do get along with people pretty well, the number of those I can’t stand to be with or listening to is growing at a faster rate than I can keep pace with.

(I can’t call it an alarming rate because I have long since discouraged my conscious or subconscious from allowing the norm to be either shocking or alarming. I do however admit to more than occasional surprise over mans indignity towards fellow man.)

It’s getting more and more difficult for me to remain a totally honest man. I will admit to not being politically correct or incorrect for that matter.

(In my humble opinion) Voice over remains the most unbigoted theatrical profession in existence today. Short, tall, fat, skinny, ethnicity, or degree there of, it doesn’t matter. As casting directors, we follow a pattern set forth by the people who hire us. They set out the guidelines of what they are in search of and we attempt to bring in the most skillful actors or actresses we can find. I might add, void of all humility, at Kalmenson & Kalmenson we’re exceptional at what we claim we can accomplish.

It should be noted, the brightest pennies may be found amongst the Los Angeles acting community.

But actors oftentimes find themselves in an unwanted bind. There are topics not to be discussed in open forum. Discussing political preferences is one of the big no-no’s in Hollywood.

But we also find within our community a deep fear. Many actors find themselves watching what they say around certain people. What some refer to as "political correctness" is an impossibility for me to live with. I am not a restricted man. By that, I mean I follow my heart. I am a professional director. That’s what I do for a living. I am paid to tell and give people my professional opinion. Regardless of their preferences or what God endowed them with. I get a script, we call in the actors, and they read for me. As an example, tomorrow we will be bringing in Portuguese men to read for a deodorant commercial, which will run in Brazil. If the Hollywood Reporter says Harvey Kalmenson was telling a group of Portuguese guys what to do in a rather strident fashion, well then so be it. Who cares if I was politically correct? I don’t! I resent that portion of Hollywood folks who think because they have supposedly arrived at some form of pinnacle in their careers, they're allowed to restrict the livelihood of others! These folks should reexamine their stance; their pinnacle may be a precipice. Backing who you feel will be the best political candidate seeking office will have absolutely nothing to do with whether or not you are called in to audition at Kalmenson & Kalmenson.

Almost without exception, every actor finds himself or herself in search of the magic, which will propel their destiny to the stars.

To Make It:
◊ You must be able to read well.
◊ You must be an accomplished actor or actress.
◊ You must be flexible enough to cope with the whims of the industry.

Leave your political bent at the doorstep!

An observant reader may have noticed I made no reference to gender, age, race, or creed. I will admit I am guilty of having spent a little more time with some of the drop dead beautiful women who have come in to audition for me. But they too arrive in all races and creeds and, by the way, good looks will not hamper ones career at Kalmenson & Kalmenson; not whilst I still breathe unassisted.


"If you'd like to thank a veteran, vote!" - hk

Books Are My Friends

Books are my friends, my true friends. They give, and give, and continue to give.

When I only want to concern myself with my needs, and wants, and joys, and perhaps even fantasies or dreams, books are there just for me; selfish da harv. My books are old and new. They are my stewards. These are the friends offering help and guidance when I so often seem to need it. I have long since given up newspapers, except on Sundays when they provide more of a local atlas than anything else. Newspapers just can’t provide me with the same trustworthiness I get from my books. Newspapers pile up and make a mess. Books never look messy. Good books are left out for people to enjoy. I would never think of lining a birdcage with one of my books.

Books cater selfishly to what I need to have them cater to. Wow! It’s all about me. That isn’t to say there is a predetermined mindset. Certainly I know what I like to read, but that doesn’t mean at a very young age I knew or even understood the psychology behind what I was up to. I would describe myself as a freewheeler. I mean, much of what I read as a kid, was determined by what I could afford or get my hands on. My older sister, six years my senior, was a veracious reader. Don’t get the idea I ever wanted to be like my older sister. The truth is I wanted to be better at anything and everything she was attempting to be or do. Everything, that is, with the exception of school. My sister broke her butt studying. I, on the other hand, rarely showed any interest in schoolbooks, especially in the early grades. I think it stemmed from me hanging out with my Dad so much. Early on, I resented teachers telling me what to do by way of controlled reading assignments.

Between the ages of nine and thirteen; still unaware of the impact books would ultimately have.

In actuality, a pretty strong troika had been put in place for me. Books, radio, and the movies fostered who I was, and definitely influenced what direction I might take in life. Altogether, the three formed as the strongest culprit responsible for feeding the flames of my already vivid imagination.

While I had a vast array of early heroes, none could ever match the exploits of my own special guy, the one and only “Frank Merriwell.”

Frank Merriwell is a fictional character appearing in a series of novels and short stories by Gilbert Patten. Merriwell excelled at football, baseball, basketball, crew and track at Yale while solving mysteries and righting wrongs. He played with great strength and received traumatic blows without injury.

Merriwell originally appeared in a series of magazine stories starting April 18, 1896 ("Frank Merriwell: or, First Days at Fardale") in Tip Top Weekly, continuing through 1912, and later in dime novels and comic books.

The Frank Merriwell comic strip began in 1928, continuing until 1936. Daily strips from 1934 provided illustrations for

the 1937 Big Little Book.

Radio

The Adventures of Frank Merriwell first ran on NBC radio from March 26 to June 22, 1934 as a 15-minute serial airing three times a week at 5:30pm.

After a 12-year gap, the series returned October 5, 1946 as a 30-minute Saturday morning show on NBC, continuing until June 4, 1949.

Film

A film serial entitled The Adventures of Frank Merriwell was created by Universal Studios in 1936.

Note: Radio was an everyday event, seven days a week. The heroes were endless. I listened to their stories on the radio, watched their film exploits in the movies, and read about them in short stories and comic books. And today I find myself recalling the era of my heroes and writing about them.

I don’t remember ever having a library card in my preteen years. My interests moved in indiscernible waves. Suddenly, I was a teenager at the helm. My reading became extremely sports oriented. It was then that I first began to question the veracity of the author’s pen.

I was there for the Jackie Robinson introduction to the Dodgers. I witnessed the variety of reactions, and then wondered if what I saw and heard was as real as I thought it was. It was my wake up call. I abruptly discovered not all writers see things the same. This wasn’t a “Frank Merriwell” short story. This was supposed to be the truth. How could what I experienced first hand myself be so inexplicably different when being described by someone with his or her own agenda. Ah, the naiveté of youth. It was there for me to see and read about. From that moment on, intellectually, my life has never been the same.

From age twenty-one, and for at least the next ten years, this young man's only books were in a non-fiction genre. Specifically, I found myself in a full ten-year cycle of reading nothing but biographies, auto, authorized and unauthorized. It was long before the days of computer research at one's fingertips. A person had to actually read and take notes with regard to their next selection.

Today, while online doing research, it’s an easy task to click on a person's name and see an array of encyclopedic information.

Here’s an example of what I had to do during my formative years. Let's say I was reading the life and times of Stanislavski. In this particular book, the author was dealing with the depiction of a specific time period. I would make note of certain persons mentioned in the book, and then look for biographies of their life and times. What developed for me was a historical conversation between people of the past who ultimately became part of my own life and lifestyle. I can’t recall how I fell into a biographical scheme, but I do remember one of the first was the life of Albert Einstein. What amazed me was how lucky we were as Americans to have the man become a member in good standing in our American way of life. My God, I thought this man was like so many others who were fortunate enough to immigrate to our shores. George Gershwin and Albert Einstein could have been ships passing in the night, or they could have been taken from us by one of this world’s most despotic narcissists, Adolph Hitler.

The books continued. It was commonplace for my wife to return from our Encino library with two shopping bags filled with my reading requests. I was traveling to all corners of the world and learning about my favorite topic: People. I marveled at and was totally conscious of what I was learning. These were the opinions being shared by the very same people who one way or another would be an influence on my life. The people I read about, especially the leaders, had sweeping similarities. Of most pertinence to me at the time (becoming privy to their personal revelations) was what they shared as human beings. Most of these leaders believed in some form of divine power. While many of them had unbelievable confidence in themselves, they nevertheless shared in the belief of a higher power. They never felt above all others in the world. The stories of George Washington refusing the title of king exemplify his nature as one of the greatest leaders of all time. Reading the biographies of his cohorts spells out who George Washington was as a human being. Saying Washington was being tested as few before him had would be as much of an understatement as I could possibly conjure up. Hamilton, Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, John Hancock and Patrick Henry, to name a few; all in testament to another man's greatness as a leader. All of this and so much more in the books I have read as my own form of attesting to man's sanctification.

And then there are the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Long before anyone dreamed of doing a TV show with them as the subject matter, people were writing about these folks at great length. I found myself reading about the silent movie era, and then the really big stars of the silver screen, and then back again to the biographies of Hollywood’s founders; the immigrants who became the movie moguls. Admittedly, these were the stories which titillated and stimulated my vivid imagination. Again, I found myself identifying with the names of big wigs that immigrated to this country just as my family did.

Without exception, someone of immigrant stock founded every major movie studio. What amused me the most was their courage or what some would call unequalled “chutzpah.”

chutzpah |_ho_tsp_; _ kh o_tsp_; -spä| (also chutzpa or hutzpah or hutzpa)

Shameless audacity; impudence.

ORIGIN late 19th cent.: Yiddish, from Aramaic

"Truth is stranger than fiction" goes right along with another fact of life in the early days of Hollywood: Truth is also a great deal funnier as well. The biographies of these immigrant movie moguls bore a marvelous resemblance to one another. Besides the Goldwyns, and the Cohens, and Louie B. Mayer’s they’re also existed a parade of unknown soldiers responsible for the unbelievable transformation of California and, in many respects, the character of the United States. The exploits of these stalwart new Americans became legends to be shared with the world by way of millions upon millions of words printed in every language known to man.

◊◊◊

It was of great interest to me that one of the first portrayals of a character in a movie serial was that of my earliest favorite, the one and only “Frank Merriwell.” The story was picked up by a B-movie producer from a comic book being read by one of his kids. These serial depictions were usually shown as Saturday morning fare for the hordes of children who treated the outing as a religious ritualistic social event (this was, of course, before we had the ability to text). If you’re interested, the cost of a double feature and a short, as they were called, was ten cents. One dime got a kid almost a full day of entertainment.

One episode I loved the most involved Frank Merriwell rescuing a damsel in distress. While out running in a local forest, Frank catches sight of this rather voluptuous, scantily clad young woman fifty yards from shore in a canoe without a paddle. Of course the canoe is racing its way towards a waterfall. The kids can be heard all over the theater questioning each other in extremely emotional terms, “What’s Frank going to do?” I mean, we were all seriously concerned for the girl’s welfare. Not to worry. Frank quickly looks around and finds this long piece of rope along side the path he’s on. Frank ascertains he will need about fifty yards of rope: “That’s half the distance of a football field,” he says loud enough for all to hear. Frank ties one end of the rope to his trusty football; he never goes anywhere without it. And then, with the preciseness of the best punter in the history of the game, kicks the ball fifty yards in the air, landing perfectly in the canoe. The girl takes hold of the ball and Frank heroically pulls her to shore. She thanks him profusely as he jogs off without so much as asking for her phone number. Many of us guys in the audience discussed his antics when we were alone in the schoolyard. Us guys agreed we would have treated the end of the adventure a little differently than Frank Merriwell did (if you get my drift).

Frank Merriwell’s name, according to the writer, meant honest, happy, and healthy.

"If you'd like to thank a veteran, vote!" - hk

Expression

It is healthier to express than repress; reduce the protagonist's stress by being the protagonist who echoes the embodiment of his or her life’s burden, be it real or merely symbolic. Encourage those around you to enjoy your suffering, and to share in what appears to be impossible angst.

And for many close enough to allow them the ability to read, but not necessarily cipher the meaning of what I have to say; take solace in knowing what has been proven over many years; so much of what I have disseminated has been just that; offered without fully understanding the true meaning of this author's generous intent.

What the actor must or must not do by way of expression belongs solely to that actor, whether his or her character is an antagonist or a protagonist.

Display what you are feeling as you would turn the pages of a book which, by way of reflection, details the story of your life. This is your personal gospel.

Your personal gospel, as learned by you during your formative years, will be governed by the environment which promoted what you have genuinely grown to be today. If yours was a family of sharing emotions visibly, than similar display will be readily available for you to adopt as an actor. In truth, you won’t be portraying, you will be sharing your lifetime. Naturally, there will always be the necessity of gradations covering the final expressions required for the display of your character's deportment. Joy, anguish, grief, and shades of emotions of every respect come with the dictates of how an individual's character would actually respond in any of life's situations.

Grief can be somber or a wild and uncontrolled display. A smile may turn into raucous laughter. But neither grief nor laughter will be appropriate if the nature of the emotion isn't natural for the environment in which it is being depicted.

I’ve often been asked…

1. What are the odds?

2. Do you think I’ll ever win one of these?

3. How many years before I will be able to make a living doing nothing but voice over work?

Be advised, the end will ultimately come, and while this is an absolute fact of life, another fact, if it is sincerely told, is the possibility of living a full life without making it in our world of voice over.

So then the next question to be answered is: What does making it mean? In my humble opinion, the key to making it is totally in the mind of the person posing the question (to me).

Many moons ago I had an actor say to me about a project we were working on together:

"You know, Harv, this stuff really makes my heart sing!"

And another was heard to say:

“I can’t believe they're paying me to do this!”

And of course, there’s:

“I’m living the dream!”

Are you living the dream? Are you genuinely enjoying the process?

If your driving force is to just make money, then stop driving.

Almost without exception, every actor finds himself or herself at one time or another in search of the magic, which will propel their destiny to the stars.

I lost my tomato
Someone squeezed her in the park
She was a ripe thing She was
Real deep color
Hard and dark
My only tomato
Squeezed in the park

If I truly cared
Would we have been in the park?
Only aiming to please her
Forsaken, unfortunately I teased her
Which caused my loss
To an unknown someone
Who found my tomato
And squeezed her in the park!

But before complete desperation took hold
There’s a call for you
I was told
Clamoring, I rushed and responded
Arriving at last
I was given a few words to say
And told money would be on the way
Then another, and another
No longer any time for tomatoes
Be they hard or soft
I was a voice talent
Now I was the one they questioned
Reaching down to them and answering
For now I was aloft.
My heart was heard to sing!

-hk

"If you'd like to thank a veteran, vote!" - hk

Valuable Lies or Assertions

Confucius says:
(or maybe he didn’t)

“Women who really don’t like to do it should marry a very old man.”

(Those women); They’d be best served however if their search for a marriage partner stayed clear of any resemblance to my family lineage fowarded on by my mother's side.

Long before the advent of Viagra, or the advice emanating from your television set suggesting you visit a gal named “Cialis,” or recommended substances referenced as "sexual enhancers," my mother's side of the family had as its stem a very long line of Romanian gypsies. Mom's people found their own special way of adding delight to their already spitfire lifestyle. Medically, they all defied scientific reason for their extreme longevity.

My mother's father, Sam Siegel, spent the greater part of his adult life chasing down any and all of the opposite sex he deemed available. In his mindset, I do believe that meant anyone who could walk unassisted. As Sam Siegel spoke no English, he did his philandering almost entirely by making use of his animal magnetism and a set of the most piercing green eyes ever seen in the borough of Brooklyn. Samuel Siegel emigrated from Romania to the United States some time in the late eighteen hundreds. He was one of eight children to make the long ocean cruise. It was this same Sam Siegel who managed to teach a seven-year-old child to play cards; specifically “Pisha Paysha,” and “Casino,” the games of his choice.

Pisha Paysha - (Yiddish) a card game for two players one of whom is usually a child; the deck is placed face down with one card face upward; players draw from the deck alternately hoping to build up or down from the open card; the player with the fewest cards when the deck is exhausted is the winner.

Cassino, also known as Casino, is an Italian fishing card game for two, three, four players in two partnerships, or even theoretically five players. It is the only one to have penetrated the English-speaking world, via Italian immigrants to America. First recorded just before 1800 (1797), it seems to have been heavily elaborated in 19th century American practice. It is mostly played by two with a standard deck of playing cards, being the object of the game to score 21 points by fishing up cards displayed on the table. It is very similar to and probably descended from the Italian game, "Scopa."

Sam’s closest friend was his next-door neighbor and barber, an Italian immigrant who, like Grandpa, was unable to speak a word of English. Their life together was family, food sharing, non-stop smoking, drinking, and playing cards. How in the name of hell they were able to pull it off, I’ll never understand. While Grandpa was able to converse in an assortment of eastern European languages, Jimmy was strictly Italian speaking. (I never knew Jimmy’s last name. To me he was always “Jimootz”; that’s what Sam called his friend, and so to was how I referred to him.

'Til the day he died, Sam called his card games “Kerosene” and “Scopa.”

Since he was illiterate in the English language, he became dependant on those around him for what was thought to be a correct pronunciation. His source for up to date information was word of mouth from the relatives, and a literary dose from the Yiddish newspaper “The Daily Forward.”

Even at seven years of age, grandpa relied on me as his teacher. In many ways, I became far too advanced for a child of seven; if you get my drift. But when it came to numbers, my grandpa Sam could cipher with the best of them, regardless of the coinage, denomination or the country's realm. Sam knew money. In retrospect, I can see now what a great contradiction he must have been to his Jewish immigrant friends.

From the time the Siegel clan landed on the shores of these United States of America, the total assimilation began. They strove to learn the language and to take part in the cultivated dream almost all of them shared. Why Sam resisted learning how to speak English is a difficult thing to comprehend. Perhaps because he was so surrounded and inundated by people there at his beck and call, speaking English was not a necessity in order for him to survive. From day one in Brooklyn, New York, the capitalist approach fit him to a tee. Work hard, make the money, raise a family and be free to worship and take part in whatever you wanted to, with one exception: Socialism. This was in itself the most difficult thing for the newly-arrived family to understand.

Many of those eras' immigrants were skilled with needle and thread. The sweatshops became a source for survival for many of the neighborhood families. The ability to run a sewing machine wasn’t a useable trait for any of my grandfather’s siblings. They made it by buying and selling used furniture, and ultimately graduating into the world of collectibles and fine antiques.

It was not yet the turn of the century when a less than sophisticated populace struggled with much of the pain they had first experienced in Europe. The difference between Europe and the United States was enormous for the Siegel family. They quickly learned how to play the capitalist game. They all worked long hours, and still managed to play hard. None of them were remotely interested in anything resembling what they had run away from in Romania; especially not anything that smacked of socialism, or communism.

The Daily Forward

The publication began in 1897 as a Yiddish-language daily issued by dissidents from the Socialist Labor Party of Daniel DeLeon. As a privately-owned publication loosely affiliated with the Socialist Party of America, Forverts achieved massive circulation and considerable political influence during the first three decades of the 20th Century.

I found out from an older cousin, the two reasons for Sam Siegel reading the Daily Forward. One, it was printed in the Yiddish language, and two, Sam could make good use of it for lining the birdcage he always seemed to have. (Another of those things I can’t tell you too much about. He liked canaries. What can I say?)

I know for sure my grandfather didn’t agree with the newspaper's editorials. One of the English words he picked up along the way was “bullshit.” I always knew when he was ready for a card game. He’d finish reading the paper and I'd hear him say, “Bullshit.” Consequently, I find myself doing the same thing. While I never turned into a skilled card player, I did master the use of the word “bullshit” as passed on to me by Sam Siegel.

If you could see my face as I write this piece, you’d perhaps understand what fun the old guy brought with him.

And as one final recollection I offer another visual :)

Late one afternoon on an early autumn day I headed over for a card game with you-know-who. As I arrived at his house; the first level of a two-story building, situated on top of his two furniture stores I found Sam and Jimootz on the top level of the stoop, holding court (having a party) with four rather attractive older women.

It turned out, the ladies had each brought a sampling of their own cooking to the party for the boys (Sam and Jimootz) to enjoy. They welcomed me as I was simultaneously given a heaping plate, and motioned to sit down. It only took a moment or two for even a very young kid to figure out, these partiers were having a great time while not being able to converse in the same language. I guess a genuine smile is an effective communication skill regardless of the language.

Many years later, I became privy to an article having to do with life expectancies; the differences between men and women and the era they lived in. Low and behold right there before me was the year 1940;the year of Sam and Jimootz’s party on the stoop in Brooklyn. And here are some of my discoveries:

* Women considerably outlived men (perhaps explaining the number of older women who seemed to always be around my grandfather).

* Most men had very long and arduous workdays. Few of them could spend their days sitting on the stoop.

… and about the movies you might be interested in the following:

(1940)

* February 7 - Walt Disney's animated film Pinocchio is released.

* February 10 - Tom and Jerry make their debut in the animated cartoon Puss Gets the Boot.

* May 17 - My Favorite Wife is released.

* May - A reproduction of "America's First Movie Studio", Thomas Edison's "Black Maria," is constructed.

* July 27 - Bugs Bunny makes his official debut in the animated cartoon A Wild Hare.

* October 15 - The Great Dictator, a satiric social commentary film by and starring Charlie Chaplin, is released.

* November 13 - World premiere of Walt Disney's Fantasia, the first film to be released in a multichannel sound format (see Fantasound). The film also marked the first use of the click track while recording the soundtrack, overdubbing of orchestral parts, simultaneous multitrack recording and lead to the development of a multichannel surround system.

Top grossing films (U.S.)
Rank Title Studio Actors Gross
1. Fantasia* Disney/RKO Deems Taylor $98,000,000*
2. Pinocchio* Disney/RKO $84,000,000*

Academy Awards
* Best Picture: Rebecca - David O. Selznick, United Artists
* Best Actor: James Stewart - The Philadelphia Story
* Best Actress: Ginger Rogers - Kitty Foyle

And so it proved out as not just a memorable year for a very impressionable child, but arguably the beginning of the major animation industry as we know it today.

And so, all of that being said, if I were reading the aforegoing piece and I didn’t know the author, perhaps there would be a degree of wonder over what it all, or part, had to do with acting, or specifically voice over. Well, the bottom line for me is a simple one. Reflection, pure Stanislavski, and recapturing moments of what I refer to as “silent joy.”

“Silent joy,” is what comes to me when I float or sometimes even charge back to an era of complete calm. Like so many children of the depression, our parents and grandparents took the brunt of the suffering. But to most of them, the life and times of the depression lifestyle were far less painful than what most of them left behind in what they all referred to as the "old country." These turn of the century brand new Americans lived, bred, and bore the children of our greatest generation ever. My creative skills stem from much of my “silent joy.” What a blessing to recapture moments to serve me 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.