Mamet and Lithgow: The Pleasures of the City

Yesterday I finished reading the very short True and False: Heresy and Common Sense for the Actor, by David Mamet. I picked it up on a whim at the library a week or so ago.

You know Mamet even if you don't know him, a playwright and director: Glengarry Glen Ross, House of Games, State & Main (love this movie, quote it constantly), and a quick IMDB peek reveals surprises like Hannibal, The Postman Always Rings Twice and lots of other stuff.

I haven't read much text on acting or screenwriting or anything of that nature. I've been a consumer of the end product, not the what goes into creating the product. So I think I need a little more context in order to judge what Mamet is saying in this book. Though I think I can safely say the following:

1. Mr. Mamet DOES NOT WANTS Method acting.
2. Mr. Mamet believes stage to be superior to all other forms of theatrical presentation.
3. Hawkeye Fierce could not keep the phrase "smug bastard" from what passes for my mind while reading this book.

Again, while I've been exposed to some of his work, I haven't read his work. Or anything else by him. So I don't know if the tone of this book was his usual, or a variance. It seems very pedantic, very patronizing. One gets the feeling that, had he his druthers, Mamet would dispense with the bothersome actors all together and just read the plays aloud to you, allowing the True Brilliance of the Writing to overshadow the nasty foibles of the Interloping Interpreters. But maybe I'm getting him wrong.

One thing I cannot fault him for is this: he exhorts the actor to to be honest. It's an interesting choice, and one I've pondered on myself.

(In the main, any advice to be honest and direct is usually good advice. If you find it to be bad advice for the situation you are in, you should probably reconsider the kind of situations you get in. Honesty is the best policy, and fostering it in oneself is the way to go. I have to believe this, in order to believe in any hope at all for mankind.)

One way to characterize acting would be say that actors are in the business of being credible liars. The best lies, which are also the worst because you can't ever really be rid of them, are the lies which contain a kernel of truth. Enough of a hook on which to hang the rest of the story.

So it's not an incredible leap to suppose that the best liars are the ones who tell a bit of the truth. Honesty in acting may seem a contradiction in terms, but I think, I feel, that it's not.

Now, to be completely indulgent and self referential, I was engaged in an exercise of the life planning variety the other day. One of the tasks was to identify and list 5 things that make you unique--five traits that separate you from others, individuate you.

I was generally stumped, and as I'm wont to do, called my mother. She's very reliable in finding nice things to say about me.

But I did have one thought, unbidden, spring to mind at that question. And the thought was this: I'm honest.

There is a related conceit I've had about myself for some years now: I'm honest even when I'm lying to you.

And some of those who have met me may have heard this response if they asked me to tell them the truth: I'll only lie to you if you ask me to.

I don't suppose it's a newsflash to anyone out there that quite a lot of people would like you to lie to them. They just don't have the balls to ask.

************

With a much needed kick in the pants from my glorious friend, the Austrian Princess, a few of us collected ourselves and made our way down to the Mark Taper Forum to see the stage production/one man show John Lithgow: Stories By Heart.

So, after finishing a tome that cried out for dedication to story, I found myself in a room with a man who wanted to explore storytelling. What a fantastic choice.

It's fair and fitting to say that I will never look upon John Lithgow the same (the 'gow is pronounced like "show," vice the "how" like way I've said it for years). His idea is simple and brilliant--he wants to tell you two stories that he had the pleasure of hearing in his youth, and tell you a little about the circumstances of his life in relation to those stories.

I don't know how many actors have done this, but to me it's pretty damn ballsy. He didn't take things written for an actor. He took actual short stories and acted them out. Wonderfully. Amazingly.

We were treated to two published stories in two acts, along with several personal anecdotes and a folk song right up my alley called "Eggs and Marrow." If I can find a copy, it's going on the same playlist that houses "Delia" and "Country Death Song."

I knew we were in for a treat when he revealed the author of the opening story was P.G. Wodehouse. "Uncle Fred Flits By" is classic Wodehouse, and sternly reminded me that I have half a series of unwatched Jeeves and Wooster left to work through. As Lithgow told the story, its easy to believe it was a family favorite. It also touched on my memories of the silly yet serious ritual of storytelling in my own family, and the incredible delight it brings us to this day.

A bathroom break and a little singing later, Lithgow unleashed "Haircut" by Ring Lardner.  It's a single person narration, which he enlivened by creating a pantomime of what the speaker's business would have been while talking. Bless his heart, he even added in sound effects. I could tell you that the story and the character are creepy and unsettling, but that does Mr. Lithgow and Mr. Lardner a disservice. They are not deliberately perverse, they are simply true, and that truth is part of the underlying perversity of America.

We dined at Fred 62 (?) which turned out to be absolutely necessary, as we were all starving and didn't know it. I was lucky enough to hitch a ride with their friend, K-Bell.

I like her. She drove past the Scientology building twice because she liked the way I spazzed out when I saw it. From the heart, I can appreciate that kind of sadistic streak in person. We can smell our own.

At that point it was very late, and she and I had one of those inane conversations on the care ride home that can only be had late at night. I'm not sure why we were laughing so much, or why I was talking so loudly. But I do know that the phrase "hand assery" was used as summary. And it made sense at the time.

************

And there you have it, well more than your daily dose of required blather. Today I am a hermit. There are things I want to and need to do, but something in my mind bids me stay by the hearth and attend to matters here. And maybe that's where I will always be: stirring the coals of the home fires, while you kids are off in the world.

Just remember every once in a while to stop back by and fill me up with your stories. I'm always looking to add to my collection. And I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.

6:30 am is a piss poor time to wake up

But what makes it worse is that I will be sleepy again around 9 am. Go fig.

Blech.

New Hypothesis: Sensual Anemia

Coincidence, synchronicity, hypotheses, ideas and theories have a way of seeming like they spring from nowhere. Oftentimes, though, if you stand back you can see the long leading roads and conscious deliberation that bring one to a summary thought or concept.

Many years ago I was extolling the virtues of my mother, who should surely be canonized. I know lots of people feel that way about their mothers, but you’ll just have to take my word for it: with mine it’s true. I feel sorry for everybody else, because there’s just no way your mom was as awesome as mine.

During this long ago conversation, I was listing the diverse ways she had cared for me and expressed her affection. I surprised myself by concluding that this incredible devotion was probably the reason I would never be happy in any relationship: no one was ever going to love me with the fervor and attention to detail my mom had shown me. Literally no one else was ever going to love me *that much*--and therein was the rub. Having had unconditional, expressive, emotive love, would I ever be able to be satisfied with less?

Recently, I’ve been thinking about something that, until a comment by orchidlover, I had not connected with my earlier experiences. But of course, there is nothing new under the sun, and with that connection in mind it finally motivated me to throw this one out there, incompletely sorted out as it may be.

I posit that a large portion of American society is suffering from a severe lack of positive sensory input; that we are, in fact, in a state of deprivation. Perhaps it can be characterized as a sort of sensual anemia.

We are isolated. In our culture, physical contact falls into rigorous, unspoken categories and rules. There is very little in the way of acceptable casual physical affection. Most *allowable* or even desired physical contact is crammed into a few limited types: sexual/romantic, parental, or purchased therapeutic.

So it’s okay for your partner to brush your hair from your face, clasp your hand, or stroke your arm. Because they are your sex partner. Yet it would be considered odd for a good friend to hold you close. It would be pushing it for them to massage your feet. There is our constant unnecessary sexualization of touch, and our fear of all touch having sexual connotations.

It’s okay for a parent to cuddle and hug their child. But not so okay for siblings to cuddle each other. Really not okay if they are of the opposite sex. Something fine between a parent and child cannot be translated to a peer to peer exchange. Again, I think most people would identify a fear of sexualization of these actions as the primary cause of discomfort/avoidance.

Then there’s what you are willing to pay for: massage, acupuncture, manicures, facials, pedicures, waxing. In some of these situations, people expose themselves (literally expose) more than they do even to their sex partners. But because this falls under the awning of “paid services,” it is allowable. This may seem like an exaggerated statement, but anybody who knows what goes into a Brazilian wax realizes that the waxer has as much if not more up close anatomical knowledge of a client than the average gynecologist.

So, what’s the big deal? If all these categories are how it boils down, then it must be what we want, right? Well, setting aside any discussion/argument about our Puritanical sexualization of touch, there’s another aspect to consider.

This self imposed sensory isolation is the exact opposite of the typical childhood experience. Think on the trajectory of a child’s physical stimuli from birth to about age 5.

Now, I’m the first to admit that I’m pulling these observations right out of my ass, totally anecdotal and observational. But doesn’t it seem that children are in a state of constant positive, reassuring, pleasing touching for the majority of their early development?

Babies are constantly cuddles and coddles. They are randomly kissed, hugged, squeezed, and petted. Perfect strangers stroke their faces and dandle them on their knees. Toddlers are apt to receive a casual caress from anyone they careen into, whether fond family member or random shopper in a grocery store. Hair is ruffled, noses tweaked, children swung around by their arms and tossed into the air—always safely caught and returned to earth.

Without asking, without exceptional extenuation circumstances, children are constantly stroked, petted, kissed, hugged, and touched.

Before you ever have a chance to form an opinion, establish an identity, or even register the entire color spectrum, you are bombarded with physical stimuli. Pleasurable physical stimuli that is a part of your everyday existence.

Until it’s not.

So, how does the human psyche deal with this? With the gradual, then full-stop, removal of something that was there before you could even remember? 

Furthermore, you are faced with a world that is set up to deny you the recreation of that environment. Like I said before, the categories are limited and strict.

It leaves me wondering. What if part of the common malaise is this subconscious search for something we don’t even realize we are missing? Is there a measurable correlation between the increase in “spa” services and an increase in personal isolation? Is there a connection between the pursuit of violent or extreme activity and the lack of casual physical contact in the average American’s day to day life?

There have been proposed links between the development of sociopathology and unexplained infant deaths and a dearth of physical contact for the newborns.

Are there people out there who are unhappy because they are longing for something they were never told about, but were given and had taken away?

There are ten million offshoots to a question like this. And I haven’t presented it in the clearest way, I’m afraid. But I wanted to get it out there because I think it was just going to percolate endlessly.

This is not an essay about solutions. I’m not advocating that we try and recreate our relationship with our parents as the base model for other interactions in our lives.

I’m just wondering at the forces that work on us when we aren’t looking.

It's Better in Context

But it's still damn good as an excerpt. The following paints, so very beautifully, the quiet moment in life that both fulfills us and leaves us with an inescapable ache. Then it gives us the truth that we know but struggle with anyway:

What Jack remembered and craved in a way he could neither help nor understand was the time that distant summer on Brokeback when Ennis had come up behind him and pulled him close, the silent embrace satisfying some shared and sexless hunger.

They had stood that way for a long time in front of the fire, its burning tossing ruddy chunks of light, the shadow of their bodies in a single column against the rock. The minutes ticked by from the round watch in Ennis' pocket, from the sticks in the fire settling into coals. Stars bit through the wavy heat layers above the fire. Ennis' breath came slow and quiet, he hummed, rocked a little in the sparklight and Jack leaned against the steady heartbeat, the vibrations of the humming like faint electricity and, standing, he fell into sleep that was not sleep but something else drowsy and tranced until Ennis, dredging up a rusty but still useable phrase from the childhood time before his mother died, said, "Time to hit the hay, cowboy. I got a go. Come on, you're sleeping on your feet like a horse," and gave Jack a shake, a push, and went off in the darkness. Jack heard his spurs tremble as he mounted, the words "see you tomorrow," and the horse's shuddering snort, grind of hoof on stone.

Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless, charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives.

**********

There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can't fix it you've got to stand it. 

--Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain

There are several passages from this book that haunt me. With me for life. It's a short easy read, and very worth it.

If you don't know the above described feeling, I'm not sure if you should be pitied or envied. Once you've visited that place, that in between where nothing is asked for but everything possibly desired is given, I think you probably spend the rest of your life longing to return, consciously or otherwise.

It's Not Different At All, Is It, Steve?

I missed work yesterday.

I'm back today. My daily meeting with the OB are. . . pointless. One day it's red, the next it's black.

I sneakily kept a portion of information he had told me to delete. Good for me, because he asked for it today. My reminder that he had asked for its deletion was met with "No I didn't."

The overarching theme to that and every exchange is this: I can't make any suggestions that are taken seriously. When I ask for a chance to give input, my input is never reviewed.

When I pursue a problem solving approach, I'm asked to re-submit what I've already sent or given blank marching orders and told not to ask for input, so we can "see what you come up with."

Well, that would be the thing I marked up before and gave to you. Or should I say "things," since I can only go so far before I need input from either the person who is ultimately authoring and enforcing these processes, or just somebody who knows what the hell to call something.

This is nothing new. I don't know why it's more soul crushing here than the place I was before. Maybe it's because, even with all the things I don't know, the entire set up is still completely predictable.

In the myth of Pandora's box, there's always a part at the end where the box is shut just before a final thing escapes. Many stories I read labeled that thing as "Hope,"--saying than mankind got to retain that. That doesn't quite make sense, though.

I read one version where the thing trapped in the box was "precognition." The reasoning was that if mankind could foresee all the evil that would befall it, everyone would fall into despair and life would be meaningless. In a sense, then, if everything could be known, life would be hopeless.

Greetings, from Hopeless. The weather is beautiful, but the climate sucks.

Poetry, in various forms

I'm boring and redundant. Let's hear from some others.

First off, the lesson I'm still trying to learn. I don't know the author of this fable, nor do imagine does anyone else.  For my co-conspirator in chatting, texting, and searching for beauty.

Two monks were on a pilgrimage to a neighboring province. They came from an austere and strict order, and both the younger and the elder followed their vows with intense observance.

They came to a river which had begun to rise with the spring thaw. At the river was a courtesan, finely dressed and painted, her robes the softest silk.

Even though the river was not higher than a man's waist, her elaborate and heavy garb made it impossible for her to cross without being weighed down and swept away. This was evident immediately upon seeing her.

The elder monk bowed to her, offered his help, and bent his back. She climbed atop his shoulders, and he carried her across the river and deposited her on the other side. Bowing again, he resumed his path.

The two monks continued their trek for many miles, and the younger monk seethed and simmered with barely tamped frustration. Finally, he could take no more and he burst forth.

"You have broken some of our most sacred vows! You have spoken to a woman! Worse yet, you have touched her! And more horrible still, she was a woman of ill repute. All things forbidden to us. How can you have done these things and walk beside me in silence and contentment? What have you to say for yourself?"

The older monk did not pause in his stride, as he replied, "You speak of the courtesan we met many miles ago. I put her down by the riverside. When, brother, will you put her down?"

Secondly, for some reason I have a stack of printed poems that came in a book shipment the other day. Those who know me have already seen this one, but I do love it so. It's perfectly funny and horrifically true. That those traits somehow exist together is wonderful.

'The Drunken Driver Has the Right Of Way'

by ETHAN COEN

The loudest have the final say,
The wanton win, the rash hold sway,
The realist's rules of order say
The drunken driver has the right of way.

The Kubla Khan can butt in line;
The biggest brute can take what's mine;
When heavyweights break wind, that's fine;
No matter what a judge might say,
The drunken driver has the right of way.

The guiltiest feel free of guilt;
Who care not, bloom; who worry, wilt;
Plans better laid are rarely built
For forethought seldom wins the day;
The drunken driver has the right of way.

The most attentive and unfailing
Carefulness is unavailing
Wheresoever fools are flailing;
Wisdom there is held at bay;,
The drunken driver has the right of way.

De jure is de facto's slave;
The most foolhardy beat the brave;
Brass routs restraint; low lies high's grave;
When conscience leads you, it's astray;
The drunken driver has the right of way.

It's only the naivest who'll
Deny this, that the reckless rule;
When facing an oncoming fool
The practiced and sagacious say
Watch out — one side — look sharp — gang way.

However much you plan and pray,
Alas, alack, tant pis, oy vey,
Now — heretofore — til Judgment Day,
The drunken driver has the right of way.

Hullo, Little Priest

Pop quiz time!

Which of these is cooler?

A. Getting to see The Rite for free two days before it opens nationwide.
B. Getting the nickel tour and wandering around the Warner Brothers studio for an hour before the movie.

Trick question! The answer is C. The ensuing conversation with my companion, Gunkle Blip.

Me: You know how to get my old man to see this movie? Tell him Rutger Hauer is in it. He has an unhealthy obsession.
GP: That was Rutger Hauer?
Me: Yeah.
GP: Shit. I didn't even recognize him.
Me: Yeah. We're a long a way from Bladerunner.
GP: Oh, they filmed that in the studio we just passed.
Me: Get fucked. 

It was a magical moment. I'm all tuckered out, but I'm sure I'll feel inspired enough to blah blah blahg away on the movie later.

P.S. I so spelled Rutger Hauer right on the first try.