All posts by Jen Huszcza

Another Effing Family Drama at the Hollywood Fringe Festival

News

 

Two months ago, I was asked if I would be interested in blogging about the Hollywood Fringe Festival. Sure, I said and proceeded to find plays by women at the Fringe to blog about. This led to a very long list of plays and solo shows by women. In order to keep my sanity, I narrowed the list down to five plays written by women.

Because I chose these five plays, I’m writing not from a place of critical thought but from enthusiasm. I can say that each play is worth checking out, so this week, I’m going to talk about the Fringe.

The first play I saw was Catherine Pelonero’s Another Effing Family Drama. I was excited to see this play because I read the stage directions and did a parrot voice when the play had a reading at the Actors Studio.

Another Effing Family Drama is part parody of kitchen sink melodramas (a kitchen sink is even brought on at one point) and part circus in a dysfunctional space. The play centers on a family named Effing and their neighbor, Eleanor, whose daughter June has come home to dredge up the past and find closure. However, June has walked into the wrong play as the Effings take over her drama.

The Effings defy all logic and sanity. They know they’re in a play. They know the plot points and character maps they have to follow, but these theatrical rule-breakers are great fun to watch. There’s an American bounciness to the play, and I enjoyed watching absurd self-awareness dance with a drive for revelation.

After I saw the play, Catherine emailed me with an anecdote that she’s allowing me to share with you all:

As a woman in theatre, I thought you might find this interesting. Last night after the performance of Effing Family, a man came up to me and said, “What a great play! That was such a good play, I can’t believe a woman wrote it!” I am not kidding. He then followed up with, “Especially a gorgeous woman!”

Another Effing Family Drama has two more performances at the Fringe Festival on Saturday, June 25th at 3pm and Sunday, June 26th at 5pm at Fringe Central at 6569 Santa Monica Blvd. Tickets are $10 and you can call 323-455-4585 or go to the Fringe website, www.hollywoodfringe.org.

You can also go the plays website at www.sharpcocktail.com

Good Play/Bad Play/Bad Play

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Last fall, I saw three plays over the course of three days. Two were full-on theatrical productions, and one was a reading. They all involved people I know, and since I strive to be diplomatic, I won’t name names.

The first play I saw was a good. Oh hell, it was great. It was one of those plays where you sit there watching it and thinking, yes, yes, yes, yes, oh whoah, oh, oh, oh, there!, yes! ahhhhh.  It made me play drunk. When it was over, I wanted the actors to do it all over again, but they had to go home.

Then. . .the morning after. . .hangover.

First, I went to a reading which left me curling under my seat in a fetal position while holding my hands up to my ears. Oh make it stop! Make it stop!

There was no character, no dialogue, no play. The reading was just people reading words.

As I tried to block out the noise, I noticed my two friends next to me. One had his hand over his eyes as if he had a terrible headache. The other friend had her hand over her mouth as if she was about to vomit.

At least I did not suffer alone.

The second bad play was a full production that was all over the stage in its bad bad baddyness. I ran from the theatre.

Now you might be thinking, now Jen, surely there was something salvageable or redeemable in the bad plays. Surely, you could learn something about your own writing from the mistakes of others. Surely, you could be nice because art is hard (sooo hard). Surely you could be supportive of your fellow writers putting themselves out there.    

Surely, no. There was nothing salvageable or redeemable. There was nothing learnable.

Why do bad plays annoy me more than bad movies or bad television? Is it because the actors are right there on the stage, and they could stop that awfulness if they were asked to politely? Is it because plays are a dying form, and the bad ones make one wish the form would die faster? Is it because my time and gas (which is expensive) are being wasted?

Maybe I shouldn’t be so negative.

Maybe I should just focus on the good. Be positive. Okay. Okay. Positive. Yes.

What made the good play good?

It had simplicity. It didn’t need a lot. The characters were there without a lot of explanation or fuss as if the writer knew that the audience didn’t need all the junk that writers get told the audience needs. Maybe it’s just a matter of cleaning out the theatrical clutter.

And there was something else to it. Something in the stuff not shown. I’m not talking about illusions. I’m talking about the world beyond what one sees, that powerful other place in a stage play. It might be offstage or just beyond the spotlight. It might be moving between the characters. It’s the stuff of angels. Be kind to them or they will disappear.

And on that metaphysical note, I’m heading to the movies.

See you next time,

Jen

Writing Men

playwriting

Okay, I’ll just come out and say it. I love writing men.

Phew! Glad I got that off my chest.

That other gender fascinates me, amuses me, and delights me endlessly.

I used to kill off my male characters a lot. I’m not sure if this was some unconscious hostility or just a love for good tragedy. Now, I don’t kill the men so much. In fact, I’ve even had a male protagonist a few times. I guess I’m evolving as a playwright.

How do I approach male characters? Is there a trick? There is, but I’m not giving away all of my playwriting secrets.

At the end of the day, male characters are just characters with hopes and dreams and wants and needs.

Playing with Time

Audience, playwriting

 As playwrights, we (I’m assuming a collective we because playwrights are probably the only readers of a blog about women’s playwriting) are shapers of time.

By time, I’m not talking about THE TIMES. Instead, I’m talking about the time that an audience is sitting on their backsides and watching a play. It’s the magic hour between dinner and late night cocktails or perhaps between cocktails and late night dinner.

Like sculptors, we have different knives to cut through time. We could show some nifty characters, maybe put them in conflict with each other. We could show flash and sparkle. Or we could show nothing at all but turn it into something magical. We could have dancing and singing. We could have kissing—people seem to like the kissing parts.

Whatever we decide to do, the audience is sitting there. Sometimes they’re eating snacks. Sometimes they’re drinking water out of plastic bottles. Sometimes they’re sleeping. Maybe they had some wine in the lobby before a performance. 

Maybe some are secretly texting their lovers. Maybe some are getting live updates of a championship game they are missing in order to see the play they were dragged to. Maybe some are making a mental to-do list for the next day.

Maybe, just maybe, some get sucked into the play in spite of their best intentions to remain aloof and cynical about the proceedings. After all, it’s just actors pretending on a stage. Or is it?

What is the play’s relationship to the audience? How can the playwright slow down time? Speed up time?

 Why do people spend their time watching plays? It’s something to do, I suppose.

Props!

playwriting,

 

My next play will have no props! No props except for a few cans of beer!

I resolved internally at some point between making a typewriter out of a priority mail box and drinking some really cheap German sparkling wine so we could use the bottles.

This was all for a recent staged reading of my play, Let’s Go, at the Blank, and I was working with actors who were so good that I wanted to give them everything they needed. They were so good that they made me look good. They were so good that they should all be rich and famous

The play itself had a lot of props. There were cups of tea, bottles of booze, papers, cigarettes, and general clutter. Sure it could all have been mimed, but once you bring in one thing, you suddenly want another thing and another thing. Before you know it, you’re making a phonograph out of a cardboard box.

Now that I’ve gone to one Prop extreme, I think it’s time to go to the other. Cans of beer. Yes, that will work. I won’t even have to empty them. The script specifically states that they get cracked onstage.  

And who are these actors who should be rich and famous because they are so good? They are: Alena Von Stroheim, Joanna Kelly, Matt Crabtree, Tad Shafer, Karen Jean Olds, and Emilia Vitti.

I give them all props in all definitions of the word.

Bad Playwright

Playwright

guess who’s back, guess who’s back, guess who’s back, guess who’s back. . .

I’m a bad playwright. I never learned the lingo for conversation in playwriting settings. I probably should talk about myself more, but I’m thinking of myself most of the time in the making of said plays, so in playwriting settings, I would rather not talk about myself. I want to talk about baseball or kittens. Just not about me.

Another reason that I’m a bad playwright is that I don’t dress right. Sure I wear a lot of black, but I never liked the colorful patchwork clothes or mismatched socks that I’ve seen playwrights wear. I also can’t afford to spend thirty dollars on cool t-shirts with hip sayings on them. I’m sorry. I just can’t.

Also, if you come to see my play, I will ask you what you think. Yes, I know. Awwwkward. It’s okay. Just lie because if you say something negative, I will carry that around for a week while compulsively tearing off my finger nails.

I can’t stand bad plays. Sometimes I wish the audience would just riot and storm the stage to put the actors out of their misery. I know, I know, I should be supportive. I will go into the experience of bad plays later in the week.

I never know what to say to playwrights or actors or directors I admire. I remember over a decade ago I was at event and a playwright whom I admire was there as well, and damn if I could figure out what to say. Your work feeds me as an artist seemed a bit much for a cheap wine and cheese event.

I will say this. I’m good at disguise. I can be at a party or an event, and no one would know I’m a playwright.

In Reality

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Recently I was looking through the guidelines for a play contest. Play running 90 minutes. Check.

Actors must play only one character. Ouch. That hurt. One of my aesthetic pleasures of theatre is watching actors play multiple characters. It’s like watching a trapeze artist go from bar to bar. First, he’s a butler, then he’s a doctor, then he’s an undertaker. Watch him hurl himself from one role to another role and another and another.

Okay, so I wouldn’t be entering this contest.

Then, the final requirement for the play was: The play must exist in reality.

Don’t all plays exist in reality? There’s a reality called a stage. It’s the place where actors come out, do stuff and create. That reality could be centuries before now or centuries after now. It could be another country, or it could just be a reality never seen before. 

Nowadays I feel that with everything being filmed and videotaped and photographed, we are becoming too literal about reality and losing our collective imagination. What is our reality these days? 

Yes, I am not totally naïve. Obviously the theatre company is looking for kitchen sink naturalism.

I recently wrote a kitchen sink play. The kitchen sink spoke. It said some interesting stuff.

And on that note, it’s been a pleasure blogging this week, and I’ll see you all next year.

Jen

A Material World

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Today is Black Friday in States. This is the day where all the good little consumers get out and spend, spend, spend in order to keep the economy afloat one more year.

I thought this playwriting quote would be appropriate for today.

Recently in a room full of playwrights and directors, a wise old playwright stood up and said this:

I don’t like my plays to be called material because I’m not a tailor. I’m a playwright. I write plays. 

This led to a round of applause from the playwrights in the room. A few directors looked baffled. 

Please directors, it’s a play. It’s not material. You’re not making a dress. I made the dress. Now, you get to style it. 

I might be a material girl, but my play is not a material world. 

Gosh I love the old school Madonna references. HeeHee!

Mentors Mentoring

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On this Thanksgiving day, I want to say a public thank you to my playwriting mentor. 

Yes, I have a playwriting mentor. We’ve known each other for years, and I still go to him for advice. He still gives me books to read. He was reading my work when no one else was. 

I won’t embarrass him by giving out his name. I’ll just call him The Coyote (not Coyote—that’s a Joni Mitchell song—The Coyote). I hope he gets a kick out of being called The Coyote. It reminds me of a 1960s British spy thriller. Beware The Coyote.

Back when I was a young playwright learning to walk, I gave my first play to The Coyote. This was the play that blew it all open for me artistically. I threw everything I had into the play. A week later, The Coyote told me he had read the play several times, but he didn’t have much to say about it.

–You should get it produced, Jen. He said.

–But what about the ending? And the beginning? And the middle? I asked.

I had questions. Lots of questions. I was young. I was supposed to have questions.

–No Jen. GET IT PRODUCED. The Coyote howled.

The play was produced, and The Coyote was right. All my questions were answered in rehearsal.

Fast forward to now. Or this past June. I mentored a young playwright for the Young Playwrights Festival at the Blank Theatre.

I read her beautiful play over and over again. I had no notes for her. We needed to get it into rehearsal. I spoke with the playwright on the phone and asked her where her play came from. She sounded older than her years as she talked about her inspiration. She knew what she was doing. In fact, she could teach me a few things about playwriting.

Still, I felt like I was a bad mentor. I supposed to help her. I was supposed to give her guidance. I was supposed. . .

Then I remembered The Coyote.

Sometimes mentors mentor by not mentoring at all.

And I hope the Coyote gets to eat plenty of turkey today.

On Comedy

playwriting

 

Don’t write funny plays.  

That’s my advice for the day, young playwright. Don’t write funny plays. You can’t win.

Write serious plays.

Serious plays are taken seriously, but funny plays are dismissed as laughable.

So when writing a play, remember the mantra: Serious, Serious, Serious.

There is a famous quote about comedy: Dying is easy; comedy is hard. A google search revealed that this quote was said by Sir. Donald Wolfit on his death bed. He’s dead now. 

Comedy is hard to write and to play. I’ve sat with a dead quiet audience for one of my funny plays. Ouch. I’ve had plays where I thought I was taking on heavy and serious things, and the audience was laughing hysterically. I’ve given up trying to predict the funny in my work. 

To me, the history of playwriting has three gods of comedy: Shakespeare, Chekhov, and Beckett. Shakespeare for his ear, his wit, and his timing. Chekhov for his eye for behavior and brutality. Beckett for his physicality and sense of destruction. 

I spent about sixty seconds in the comedy world. All everyone seemed to ask was is it funny? is it funny? Personally, I would rather ask deeper questions.

I can’t help being funny. I was just born that way. Some days, I wish I was born a wealthy super model.

I think Steve Martin said it all when he said, comedy is the art of making people laugh without making them puke. 

Words to live by as we head into Thanksgiving.