Take the Small/99-Seat Theatre Survey

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Brenda Varda has asked LA FPI to participate in her Small/99-Seat Theatre Survey and to help get the word out about it.

Ms. Varda is doing a trial version of this survey to look at arts participation in the intimate theatre scene in Los Angeles.  She is writing some academic analysis on the cultural and personal functions of the Scene and getting more participants (women) would lend some more credibility to the exploration. If you are attached to any companies, tangentially or integrally, that would help the cause.  You can take the survey at one of the following links:

The Pain Principle

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This is a blog post about an acting class, a play being turned into a screenplay, and some flying Chihuahuas.

I had acting class two nights ago.  I love my acting class.  My acting class is my therapy, social hour, Barbie dream house and spiritual retreat in one three-and-a-half-hour time slot.  When I come out of my acting class all I want to do is act, but the next day, well, I have to write.  Correction: I don’t have to, but that’s what I do, right?  I’m a writer.   And yet I crave that instantly gratifying experience that gets me out of my head and ends with people applauding.  Or saying “Cut.  Nice job.”

I am turning a play of mine into a screenplay.  It’s not easy — and by that I mean the writing.  Any writing, lest we forget.  To sit alone and let these characters of our own making speak, especially if no one really cares if they do or not — no easy feat.  And this has been particularly tough for me.  It’s not just that I’ve had a taste of a storytelling process that doesn’t involve one of the most dangerous people I know (me) playing with one of the most dangerous weapons I know (my brain) — it’s that I’m still waiting for that flow, that zone.  And forty pages in, it’s nowhere to be found.  The usual sinister ramblings of the writer mind whisper in my ear: the character is boring.  The story is boring.  The tone is off — one minute flip, the next maudlin, depending on my mood.  And the worst: how does this in any way contribute to the general good of the world?  Particularly if this gridlock puts me in such a crappy mood that I’m pissed off at everyone I come into contact with?

So yesterday, having had one too many of such moments, I decide to shake things up and really contribute.  Give back.  I don real clothes, as opposed to sweats, and head to the animal shelter to volunteer.  This is where the Chihuahuas come in.  I go to help an organization fly twenty of them to New Hampshire where they’ll be adopted as opposed to euthanized.  On the car ride over, I consider the possibility of “taking a break” from writing and devoting my life to being of service full-time.

Anyone been to the county-run animal shelter lately?  Let’s just say it’s not for the overly sensitive and highly hormonal.  But I help.  Get my clothes dirty.  Give and get love and do my best to implore each of those little creatures to hang tight, because a beautiful life is on the other side of six hours in a cargo hold.  I also run into the bathroom every half hour to sob my eyes out.

Three and a half hours later — as long as an acting class but not quite as euphoria-enhancing — I come home.  I uncork a bottle of wine to put things in perspective.  It dawns on me: Who am I kidding?  I can’t put the pen down.  I’ll wrestle this script to the ground if I have to.  Besides, while I certainly think volunteering is a fantastic way to spend time, isn’t this my contribution, my gift to the world?

If I had to find a moral to the story — and being a writer I always try to — I’d say that in some way we writers are like those flying Chihuahuas.  We sort of have to sit with the discomfort and understand it’s not a permanent state.  Somewhere on the other side lies something beautiful.

Or not.  But we have no choice but to go through it.  Or we die.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star

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Reflecting this morning after the Thanksgiving I enjoyed with my family yesterday, I realize November is my favorite month of the year. I love the colors, the scents, the food, the California weather, and coming together.

 

November feels different than other months to me. I love the symbolism of the coming winter solstice. For although I wish the days lasted forever, I feel an ache of anticipation for new beginnings.

 

New beginnings, November leads to December. Then, because my school calendar breaks for winter, I look forward to being at home writing the rough beginnings of a new play. Other months do not seem to gift me the same opportunity.

 

New beginnings, as I realize I’ve got a 10-minute play selected for publication and a second short in consideration for another. I’ve got a musical (or play with music) in consideration for a 2013 production. Another play is being read by two theater companies.

 

Many of my bounties are dreams and will remain there of this I am quite aware. However, I have been writing plays for over ten years now, and I’m getting better at it. My themes are expanding beyond myself and beginning to take on a global scope.

 

I haven’t met up with most of you for a while due to time, distance, and disability. However, I always look forward to my turn as blogger so I can in some small way communicate with you. I write this post with the hope that your Thanksgiving is as quietly joyful, reflective, and filled with a million bounties.

 

Somewhere Over The Rainbow performed by Carly Rose Sonenclar, X Factor 2012

 

Taking off my playwright’s hat

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It’s been four years since I last directed a stage production, not counting working with students. While I received excellent reviews back in 2008, the experience itself was questionable. Since then, I have been fortunate to participate in the process of several staged readings of my works and I am eternally grateful to the directors, Tam Warner and Cyndy Marion, for those wonderful experiences.

My 10-minute play, “A Waffle Doesn’t Cure Insomnia”, was selected for a staged reading by the OCPA Discoveries series and will be presented at the Empire Theatre, the home of Theatre Out, on December 1, 2012 at 3:30 pm. And I am directing. And the process has been fabulous. Although I will admit to some insecurities, apparently, I haven’t driven my actors crazy, but inspired them.
Occurs to me, it’s all about expectations. Having none, other than showing up ready to work, is a healthy way to start. Over the last four years it seems I’ve learned to put aside the play in my head and respect the actors’ instruments in front of me and adapt my expectations to their physicality and musicality. I say I would never direct a production, but who knows, you know?

So, now, I’m a playwright?!

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After pronouncing I would dedicate myself to writing only full-length plays, I wrote a 10-minute play, “A Waffle Doesn’t Cure Insomnia”, in the summer/fall of 2011, and promptly forgot about it. I did remember it in time to revise it and submit it around this fall.

I received word last week that the play was selected for publication in the Best American Short Plays 2011-2012 along with a contract and a request for a bio, production history, and my inspiration for writing it. I am going to receive some money and two copies of the anthology; hard copy and paperback. So, now, I’m a playwright. Wow!!!

I am so excited I can hardly stand it for I will be “legitimately” included in my college library collection and university and college libraries around the country; the library where I work has collected this series since 1990…
So, should I scan the check and cash it or frame it? Or should I exchange the check for a bill and frame it? Or should I exchange the check for a bill, scan it and frame it, and spend the money on a piece of equipment or software? Or buy something frivolous, like a new pair of boots? What do you think?

Alpha Beta

LAFPI, News, , , , ,

I just read this article, through a tweet from Etta Devine. It is truly not to be believed.

“I don’t want to publish reviews of films where women are alpha and men are beta.

where women are heroes and villains and men are just lesser versions or shadows of females. 

i believe in manliness.” 

Read in full:

http://blogs.suntimes.com/foreignc/2012/11/post-2.html

Video interview w/ Jen Bloom: Dramatizing the Complexities of an Abusive Relationship

Audience, LAFPI, , , , ,

Talk with Santa Monica Rep’s Director & Actor

“Love Story, Tragedy or Epic Tale of Survival?:
Dramatizing the Complexities of an Abusive Relationship

Mid-run of How I Learned to Drive, there will be a post show talk back with Gail Myers, MFT, a therapist panel and director Jen Bloom
Should this story be onstage? In 1997, Paula Vogel’s play How I Learned to Drive showed us how empathy and pedophilia can exist in the same conversation, and that storytelling as a form of reclaiming memories can be a tool towards self-empowerment. Ms. Vogel stated that she didn’t want her audiences to know before coming to the theater what the story was about, that she wanted them to “take a ride they didn’t know they were taking.” This Saturday, Santa Monica Rep will host an all female panel of three child and family therapists who work with sexual abuse trauma cases to facilitate an audience talk-back after the play. Join a discussion around the actual facts and gray areas of child sexual abuse and PTSD. Weigh in on whether or not you think this kind of story should be on stage and why or why not, and what are the responsibilities of the audience and the theater maker about supporting, producing or attending this type of potentially dangerous traumatic content. This should be a fascinating and provocative evening of theater and discussion. The conversations around the show have already been illuminating; audiences have stayed in the theater and spoken in small informal groups about their reactions and artistic/therapeutic concerns every night for almost an hour. Read more about the panel discussion after the performance on Nov 17 at 8pm.

The Bechdel Test Talks continued

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The Bechdel Test Talks began HERE, on LA FPI, in June.

Now a monthly series where my co-hosts and I look at various types of entertainment through the lens of The Bechdel Test. Etta Devine & Caroline Sharp join me every month!

The Bechdel Test asks 3 basic questions for every story (originally applied to film):

1. Is there more than 1 female character (with a name)?

2. Do they talk to each other?

3. About anything besides men?

These perimeters are not meant to be judgement calls, but simply starting points for discussion.

Today at 4pm PT, we’ll discuss Fantasy & Science Fiction!

[Video link available at 3:55pmPT]

Watch Bechdel Test Talk Ep3: Children’s Stories

Watch Bechdel Test Talk Ep4: Who’s Breaking the Gender Glass Ceiling?

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See the full schedule

Subscribe to YouTube
http://bit.ly/theCMJstoriesBLOG

Facebook.com/theCMJstories

Don’t miss a segment @CindyMarieJ

Leaving LA

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Recently, a writer friend and I started talking about LA. Do we really need to be in LA? We asked each other and ourselves.

The beauty of being a writer is that you can write anywhere and you don’t have dress to go to work. You just need a place that inspires you. So what do you do when LA is no longer inspiring? What do you do when the bright sunshine is too bright and the lack of rain is a little obnoxious? What do you do when sitting in traffic is no longer amusing?

Is there a point when you should leave LA? Someone once said that you should leave New York before you get too hard and you should leave LA before you get too soft. I don’t consider myself a bathroom towel, but is there some truth to that?

Really, what is here? No matter how much we try to build it up, it is a theatrical hinderland. Sure, there’s probably the largest pool of actors in the world here, but how many can really do stage acting? Sure, as a dramatic writer, you can work in film and TV. Nice work if you can get it.

Yes, there are theatres and writer groups. There are odd spaces with strange parking and plastic cups of cheap white wine. There are little cliques of self-congratulation and tiny bubbles of hot air.

Folks don’t come to LA to do theatre. Folks come to LA to surf and get famous. I’m not famous and I don’t surf. What the heck am I doing here? What else is out there?

Talkbacks

Audience, Playwright, playwriting, ,

I recently saw Samuel Beckett’s great short play Krapp’s Last Tape with John Hurt at the Kirk Douglas Theatre. It was a production from the Gate Theatre in Dublin. Hurt was so precise that his performance could balance on the tip of a pin. He respected the silence and made the audience respect it too. This production didn’t reach out to the audience. It brought the audience into it. It was my kind of theatre.

But enough about the production. I want to talk about the Talkback. Beckett might not reach out to his audience, but the Center Theatre Group certainly does.

As soon as my ticket was scanned, I realized I had entered a way too happy carnival. In the lobby, you could record and listen to your own audio recordings. There were tables and chairs and a wall of Irish writers in an area called Sam’s Pub. It was ghastly.

Still, I felt celebratory about seeing a Beckett play. I settled into the lobby with a plastic cup of champagne and noticed a flat screen with a twitter feed on it. I fought the urge to not to read the changing screen containing absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, I heard a theatre guy all in black announcing to some older patrons that there will be a Talkback in the lobby after the performance.

It’s only fifty-five minutes, and it’s so absurd, so you can talk about it in the lobby after the show. The bar will be open.

I listened as he said it again and again as he went from group to group. The part about the bar being opened intrigued me.

So the play happened. I won’t go into the superlatives. After a quick trip to the ladies room (champagne, glorious champagne) and a hand wash in the Ladies trough (if you’ve been to the Ladies Room of the Kirk Douglas, you know what I mean), I was back in the lobby just in time for the beginning of the Talkback.

It was moderated by a twenty-something theatre girl all in black who obviously had been given a list of talking points. Whenever there was a silence she added a new point. My favorite was when she pointed out that John Hurt looked like an older Beckett. Uh-huh.

I left. I had to go. As I walked away, I went to my negative place. Oh God, what horror, what awful terrible horror. The Talkback.

When did theatre become a democracy? When did it become okay for the audience to discuss their feelings? This is Beckett, not therapy. Just because you have an opinion, madam, doesn’t mean you have express it. Is there any place these days without a comment field?

I don’t care how my plays make you feel. Okay, I do a little. I like it when folks laugh and clap and give me money. I don’t want to hear how my play relates to your life. That’s between you and the play. When the play’s over, clap and leave. Thank you, good night.