The great thing about volunteering with a theatre company is you get a deeper look at their work than the average spectator. You go deeper into the text and make discoveries that you would miss by just seeing the show once. For a theatre student, this is invaluable.
Timon of Athens is now on his feet. That is, the play is on its feet, Timon himself falls apart during it.
It's really something to see the progression from running lines and hearing an actor's insights, to seeing the show on its feet. So far I've seen the dress rehearsal and ushered a preview performance and the show has developed in ways I couldn't have predicted. I've been chewing this text over and over -- for a play I didn' t initially like I now find it haunting me.
Once again I saw the importance of good casting -- each actor brought their part to life with nuance and elegance. This production seems to have more ensemble work than the others I've seen. The minor characters emerge from the ensemble and dissolve back again, with just touches of costuming to differentiate -- voice and body posture primarily signal the transformations. This gives a contemporary feeling to the show. At times it's like Shakespeare meets the Marx Brothers with the Three Stooges thrown in.
There's also an unintentional hommage to Buster Keaton at the end of Act One that triggers one of the most amazing scene changes I've ever seen in live theatre. I'm not one to go out "whistling the scenery" but I was impressed. And in a show as well done as this, it is not a reason to see the play, but it's a nice bonus.
John Kuntz, who was so brilliant as Peter Quince in Midsummer, was playing the poet, among other characters. He balances between mastery of the verse and total irreverence. He is clearly one of our sacred clowns, in his willingness to play he guides us into the text so we can understand it without being overwhelmed.
The tragedy of Timon is not that he loses his wealth, by this point I feel the core tragedy is he becomes incapable of recognizing the ones who truly love him. He loses his wealth, he finds new wealth. The money is not the point. And it illustrates one of my favorite prosperity points -- money comes from known and unknown sources. He finds enough of a fortune to restore his lifestyle -- and chooses not to. He seems to engage in a process of purification. He is harsh and unsparing in his hatred of the flattering courtiers who disappointed him. The three people who geniunely care for him show up - Captain Alcibaides, Apemantus and Flavius the steward (changed to a woman's role for this production) cannot break through his isolation. Flavius almost succeeds -- there is a genuine affection between the two. Timon appears to acknowledge it but ultimately sends her away. He gives her gold, which she rejects, throwing it back to him. He gives it to her again and she rejects it again.
Personally I think that's a mistake. I don't know whether it's the direction or the actress' choice. From the director's point of view (which is usually how I look at things) I honestly don't think that Flavius would/should reject the gold. I agree that she would put up an initial struggle. But the gold is ultimately a token of Timon's affection toward her and I would think she would accept it under those terms. She should accept it for Timon's sake, not out of greed. If nothing else, the wounded look on Timon's face should change her mind.
But nobody asked me.
It dawned on me -- it was not rejection, Timon is not about rejection, but purification. He is on the path of non-attachment. First he was at the effect of his wealth (his constant avoidance of Flavius' warnings shows that he never really mastered it) then at the effect of his bitterness. He suffers because he was attached to the wealth and flattery. Then, at the end, he is free - "Nothing brings me all things" -- he has attained an almost Zen attitude.
I was pre-disposed to enjoy Allyn Burrows' performance as Timon after all the work we'd put in. I thought - mistakenly - that it would hold few surprises. I had forgotten that the process of running lines is largely intellectual and a performance will take on a life of its own - especially with Shakespeare. It was a perfect counterpoint - the humorous, frequently manic ensemble provides a backdrop for Allyn's Timon to unravel against. And unravel he does -- from dignified affluence down to the depths of bitter madness. There are flashes of danger in his performance along with the Shakespearean attitude of joy through all emotions. Another lesson for me that acting is not about the words - even when the words are this important. That acting takes place through the words and in the silences.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Italian for Window
Teaching Chekhov/Stanislavski at Brookline Adult Ed has forced me to revisit the works of both these men and I have tried to do so with "beginner's mind". I have found that Stanislavski has very little to do with "Method Acting" to the point where I consider "The Method" at worst a corruption and at best an entirely different technique. Method seems to go after emotions, grab them by the throat and shake them till they give over their secrets.
Stanislavski is more subtle -- focusing on one's tasks, on one's goals, the emotions are ignored until, like cats, they come to demand attention. I agree with his opinion that emotions and other elements of the psyche belong to the subconscious and cannot be controlled or forced. They must be wooed. I had a friend in college who was convinced that Chekhov was a comedy writer. There is a key moment in Chekhov's Three Sisters when Irina, the youngest, starts running around screaming "I've forgotten the Italian for window!"
"How can you take that seriously?" she asked me. I already had an issue with Three Sisters, finding the main characters rather whiney, and I readily agreed with her. Chekhov, played for laughs. I had no idea how to deal with this character, who seemed to enjoy a lot of advantages but somehow treated life like a huge crisis.
There was also my other, rather pompous friend who said with great authority, "It's not about three women who don't go to Moscow, it's about three women who fight like hell to get there."
He was quoting someone, I forget who. And I think he was mistaken about what the play means, but more on that later.
Returning to the texts after some distance has helped me understand them better. We are working with three of the plays: The Seagull, Three Sisters and Uncle Vanya. And, yes, we are doing the "I've forgotten the Italian" scene.
I understand now that my classmates were wrong -- Chekhov does not sit easily on one team or another. His works are neither deep tragedy or rollicking comedy. I think what makes them so modern, what makes them part of the foundation of modern theatre is their ambiguity. They are a series of truthful moments, some funny - some sad, like our lives. They can lead us to scorn or compassion depending on how we look at them. And, unlike Shakespeare where the characters tell the audience about themselves, these plays reveal themselves slowly. People speak indirectly and sometimes not very honestly.
Re-examining these plays I am amazed at their hold on us. I think initially a lot of us study these plays because we have to, a good theatre student knows Chekhov and Stanislavski. We frequently pretend to like them, privately wondering what makes them so great. We watch the productions with forced attention and then forget about them. I think it's because we don't really know how to study them. These plays reveal themselves slowly, you need to spend time with them. Working the scenes in class has given me a deeper perspective, as the students become more adept at creating the moment-to-moment reality of the characters. I see that what is written on the page is only a fraction of the communication between them.
For example, in one of our Uncle Vanya scenes, when Vanya took Yelena's hand, our Yelena said, "You're disgusting" - which was the line - and began to giggle. This was not indicated anywhere in the script but rang perfectly true. It revealed Yelena's ambiguity perfectly.
The most powerful lesson I've had about Chekhov was not in a theatre or classroom at all. I was working in the corporate world at the time, as a financial advisor and I was telling a colleague about a play I had worked on. I started to tell her that a character came on from "stage left" but was suddenly unsure which side stage left was. For the record, it is the actor's left, but in that moment I felt a sudden panic, a loss of what I'd always considered an intrinsic piece of information, a part of myself.
It was the same loss that drives Irina when she can't remember her Italian vocabulary. And in my own panic I suddenly understood her, understood her battle and her frustration. I suddenly knew I could direct the play, having had a gut-level understanding of it.
Looking at the play this year, it also revealed a new meaning to me, one that has nothing to do with Moscow. Yes, the sisters all whine about Moscow. But I think the truth of the play is in Irina when she talks about a sense of benediction she feels as she sits for her teacher's exam. And at the end of the play, when her fiance (who she didn't love anyway) is dead, she says,
"Tomorrow I shall go to the school and be a teacher. I will give my life to those who need it."
The core of the play is Irina finding her mission. Who cares if she makes it to Moscow?
Stanislavski is more subtle -- focusing on one's tasks, on one's goals, the emotions are ignored until, like cats, they come to demand attention. I agree with his opinion that emotions and other elements of the psyche belong to the subconscious and cannot be controlled or forced. They must be wooed. I had a friend in college who was convinced that Chekhov was a comedy writer. There is a key moment in Chekhov's Three Sisters when Irina, the youngest, starts running around screaming "I've forgotten the Italian for window!"
"How can you take that seriously?" she asked me. I already had an issue with Three Sisters, finding the main characters rather whiney, and I readily agreed with her. Chekhov, played for laughs. I had no idea how to deal with this character, who seemed to enjoy a lot of advantages but somehow treated life like a huge crisis.
There was also my other, rather pompous friend who said with great authority, "It's not about three women who don't go to Moscow, it's about three women who fight like hell to get there."
He was quoting someone, I forget who. And I think he was mistaken about what the play means, but more on that later.
Returning to the texts after some distance has helped me understand them better. We are working with three of the plays: The Seagull, Three Sisters and Uncle Vanya. And, yes, we are doing the "I've forgotten the Italian" scene.
I understand now that my classmates were wrong -- Chekhov does not sit easily on one team or another. His works are neither deep tragedy or rollicking comedy. I think what makes them so modern, what makes them part of the foundation of modern theatre is their ambiguity. They are a series of truthful moments, some funny - some sad, like our lives. They can lead us to scorn or compassion depending on how we look at them. And, unlike Shakespeare where the characters tell the audience about themselves, these plays reveal themselves slowly. People speak indirectly and sometimes not very honestly.
Re-examining these plays I am amazed at their hold on us. I think initially a lot of us study these plays because we have to, a good theatre student knows Chekhov and Stanislavski. We frequently pretend to like them, privately wondering what makes them so great. We watch the productions with forced attention and then forget about them. I think it's because we don't really know how to study them. These plays reveal themselves slowly, you need to spend time with them. Working the scenes in class has given me a deeper perspective, as the students become more adept at creating the moment-to-moment reality of the characters. I see that what is written on the page is only a fraction of the communication between them.
For example, in one of our Uncle Vanya scenes, when Vanya took Yelena's hand, our Yelena said, "You're disgusting" - which was the line - and began to giggle. This was not indicated anywhere in the script but rang perfectly true. It revealed Yelena's ambiguity perfectly.
The most powerful lesson I've had about Chekhov was not in a theatre or classroom at all. I was working in the corporate world at the time, as a financial advisor and I was telling a colleague about a play I had worked on. I started to tell her that a character came on from "stage left" but was suddenly unsure which side stage left was. For the record, it is the actor's left, but in that moment I felt a sudden panic, a loss of what I'd always considered an intrinsic piece of information, a part of myself.
It was the same loss that drives Irina when she can't remember her Italian vocabulary. And in my own panic I suddenly understood her, understood her battle and her frustration. I suddenly knew I could direct the play, having had a gut-level understanding of it.
Looking at the play this year, it also revealed a new meaning to me, one that has nothing to do with Moscow. Yes, the sisters all whine about Moscow. But I think the truth of the play is in Irina when she talks about a sense of benediction she feels as she sits for her teacher's exam. And at the end of the play, when her fiance (who she didn't love anyway) is dead, she says,
"Tomorrow I shall go to the school and be a teacher. I will give my life to those who need it."
The core of the play is Irina finding her mission. Who cares if she makes it to Moscow?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
The Trouble with Timon
For the last month or so, I've been meeting with Allyn Burrows at the Somerville headquarters of Actor's Shakespeare Project to run lines. He is opening later this month in the lead role in their production of Timon of Athens.
Timon of Athens has never been my favorite play. My first encounter with it was at age 10 in the Lambs "Tales from Shakespeare" where, after I finished reading it, thought, "huh?" put it out of my mind and avoided it whenever I could.
I'm way north of 10 now but I literally cringed when I heard that Actor's Shakespeare Project, my favorite place to volunteer, was planning a production of Timon. I had just ushered for Othello, their latest show. I was on the bus from Tremont, headed to the Hynes subway with one of the other ushers. Together we griped about this decision. He acknowledged it was one of Shakespeare's "problem children." But he pointed out that he'd never seen A.S.P. do a mediocre production of anything, so if anyone could bring out the best in Timon, it would be them.
I agreed with this point, but silently resolved to sit this one out. Then I was asked to help the lead actor run lines. In spite of my antipathy toward the play, I agreed. By this point (way, way north of 10 years old!), I've learned that if I dislike a play that intensely, I probably have something to learn from it.
Also, as a theatre teacher, having the opportunity to witness an actor's process has been a rare treat. Since I'm primarily a director, working with an accomplished actor has provided me with fresh insights. Allyn did not require me to like the play -- in fact he completely validated my initial reaction to it. But having the text under such focused scrutiny and hearing his insights began to change my attitude. It became like having a mini-tutorial on this difficult play.
Timon is a challenging character -- a wealthy, generous man who gives beyond his means and is surrounded by false friends.
I started to see some patterns emerge that related to my prosperity training -- Timon gives and gives, but never accepts anything in return, not even repayment that is due him. There is a sense of discomfort with his wealth - he's not happy unless he's feeding or gifting everyone. There are some disturbing declarations about desiring to be poorer so that he would be closer to his friends. As Catherine Ponder often reminds us our reality is created by our words. And when he does become poor, he himself warns his servant to hold a positive attitude. This is all in keeping with a prosperity practice.
Then, for Timon, it all falls apart. It's like a prosperity lesson gone horribly wrong. And more and more, I asked myself, what did he do wrong?
It seems that Timon's fall is not so much from his financial reversals but from his loss of faith. When his friends disappoint him, his trust in humanity is shattered. By the time he finds a fortune in gold, in one of the biggest moments of serendipity ever (literally, since serendipity means finding gold when you're digging for worms - or in Timon's case, roots) he's so far gone in bitterness, he can't even let it in.
And what's funny is that this is exactly how a prosperity practice works -- what we give out returns to us in unexpected ways. The challenge has always been to remain trusting and receptive. Not to man - which is Timon's error - but to the Universe, to Source.
And this is where Timon goes wrong - not just in his bitterness and curses, but also in being closed off from his fortune, not being receptive. Allyn had pointed out that this is a tragic play and I agree that the fatal flaw of the character -- the inability to receive -- is what brings his downfall. He puts his faith in his friends instead of Source and when they disappoint him -- as people invariably will -- he is heartbroken. To me the tragedy is not his bankruptcy but the rejection of his windfall.
At the end, Timon seems to achieve a kind of satori. Even the rage is gone. He has wisdom and detachment.
The production is shaping up nicely -- I went to an open rehearsal today. We saw the banquet scene with Timon at the crest of his wealth and then two monologues from the second half of the play. It was the first time I'd seen it on its feet and I have to say the work was excellent. It's different hearing the lines practiced and experiencing them acted, a revelation of sorts. To actually hear concern for Timon in the voice of his steward, actually witness the unspoken affection between Timon and his former war-buddy, the cynic Apemantus -- the play is taking on a richness for me that it didn't have before. And the unexpected, wild laughter of Timon when he finds the gold was shocking. While the scenes we saw were more or less a "tease-taste" of the production in the works, I could see a strong foundation had been set.
Timon of Athens has never been my favorite play. My first encounter with it was at age 10 in the Lambs "Tales from Shakespeare" where, after I finished reading it, thought, "huh?" put it out of my mind and avoided it whenever I could.
I'm way north of 10 now but I literally cringed when I heard that Actor's Shakespeare Project, my favorite place to volunteer, was planning a production of Timon. I had just ushered for Othello, their latest show. I was on the bus from Tremont, headed to the Hynes subway with one of the other ushers. Together we griped about this decision. He acknowledged it was one of Shakespeare's "problem children." But he pointed out that he'd never seen A.S.P. do a mediocre production of anything, so if anyone could bring out the best in Timon, it would be them.
I agreed with this point, but silently resolved to sit this one out. Then I was asked to help the lead actor run lines. In spite of my antipathy toward the play, I agreed. By this point (way, way north of 10 years old!), I've learned that if I dislike a play that intensely, I probably have something to learn from it.
Also, as a theatre teacher, having the opportunity to witness an actor's process has been a rare treat. Since I'm primarily a director, working with an accomplished actor has provided me with fresh insights. Allyn did not require me to like the play -- in fact he completely validated my initial reaction to it. But having the text under such focused scrutiny and hearing his insights began to change my attitude. It became like having a mini-tutorial on this difficult play.
Timon is a challenging character -- a wealthy, generous man who gives beyond his means and is surrounded by false friends.
I started to see some patterns emerge that related to my prosperity training -- Timon gives and gives, but never accepts anything in return, not even repayment that is due him. There is a sense of discomfort with his wealth - he's not happy unless he's feeding or gifting everyone. There are some disturbing declarations about desiring to be poorer so that he would be closer to his friends. As Catherine Ponder often reminds us our reality is created by our words. And when he does become poor, he himself warns his servant to hold a positive attitude. This is all in keeping with a prosperity practice.
Then, for Timon, it all falls apart. It's like a prosperity lesson gone horribly wrong. And more and more, I asked myself, what did he do wrong?
It seems that Timon's fall is not so much from his financial reversals but from his loss of faith. When his friends disappoint him, his trust in humanity is shattered. By the time he finds a fortune in gold, in one of the biggest moments of serendipity ever (literally, since serendipity means finding gold when you're digging for worms - or in Timon's case, roots) he's so far gone in bitterness, he can't even let it in.
And what's funny is that this is exactly how a prosperity practice works -- what we give out returns to us in unexpected ways. The challenge has always been to remain trusting and receptive. Not to man - which is Timon's error - but to the Universe, to Source.
And this is where Timon goes wrong - not just in his bitterness and curses, but also in being closed off from his fortune, not being receptive. Allyn had pointed out that this is a tragic play and I agree that the fatal flaw of the character -- the inability to receive -- is what brings his downfall. He puts his faith in his friends instead of Source and when they disappoint him -- as people invariably will -- he is heartbroken. To me the tragedy is not his bankruptcy but the rejection of his windfall.
At the end, Timon seems to achieve a kind of satori. Even the rage is gone. He has wisdom and detachment.
The production is shaping up nicely -- I went to an open rehearsal today. We saw the banquet scene with Timon at the crest of his wealth and then two monologues from the second half of the play. It was the first time I'd seen it on its feet and I have to say the work was excellent. It's different hearing the lines practiced and experiencing them acted, a revelation of sorts. To actually hear concern for Timon in the voice of his steward, actually witness the unspoken affection between Timon and his former war-buddy, the cynic Apemantus -- the play is taking on a richness for me that it didn't have before. And the unexpected, wild laughter of Timon when he finds the gold was shocking. While the scenes we saw were more or less a "tease-taste" of the production in the works, I could see a strong foundation had been set.
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