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Radio Rick Is on the Air . . .
Jul. 10th, 2006 02:47 pmFor those who haven't already followed this link courtesy of George Hunka (thanks, George), here's almost an hour and a half of Richard Foreman, being interviewed by Charles Bernstein, reading from his prose, and reading from his plays. I'm still listening to it now, and have plenty to get through yet, though I listened to some of the shorter play excerpts.
If you haven't heard Richard read his own work -- other than the short pieces you may have heard in his shows -- it's valuable to hear him do it. He's a great reader. I've been lucky enough to audition for him twice, which involved wandering around part of his loft acting his text with him, and he's also a terrific actor (I wish there was a bit more of the quality he has an an actor in these readings here as opposed to his "narrative" voice as heard in his shows, but it somewhat splits the difference).
I still hope to get a chance to act for Richard someday. With his new direction, I don't know if he'll have a place for me anymore, though he's said repeatedly he hopes he'll have something for me someday. The first time he auditioned me, it was to replace an actor who had dropped out of his show (Tony Torn in Now That Communism Is Dead . . .), and he said he would have used me, but Tony decided to do the play after all. We had a good time at that audition -- he had me do the first four pages of the play with him in various accents and demeanors. First he asked me to try something like a "Southern used-car dealer," which is how he had pictured it with Tony, but when that didn't work on me, he asked me for more of a "Blanche DuBois-type," which fit me very well. I forget what other cul-de-sacs we went down, but the best way we did it was with me doing a stereotype "Indian Convenience Store Clerk" voice, apparently deferential but slightly sly and controlling to his more central figure (he asked me to throw in "Sir" and "Most Honorable" to the lines as I felt it this way; I think I also got in a "Mem Sahib"). So, didn't wind up in the show, damn, but had a great time acting with Richard one afternoon.
(He also that day said to me as he escorted me from his loft, in his quiet but intense Voice Of God tones, "You know Ian, there's no good reason you shouldn't be making a living as a working actor," which bounced around in my head for two years or so until it was finally responsible partly for me making some big changes in my life, in the realization of how I was going to have to change the way I lived in order to be not only a happy human being in this world, not only a useful human being in this world, but ultimately to be myself, once and for all, for better and worse, in this world, and follow my own path -- I need to thank him for that sometime . . .)
When that show didn't turn out, he said he was thinking of me for the central figure in his next play, Transcendental Race Car Drivers, but later apologized to me and told me that rather than doing that text with a man and two women, he had decided instead on three women (it became Maria Del Bosco). Damn, again.
He called me in again for King Cowboy Rufus Rules the Universe, when again an actor had to drop out (it was a strange experience hearing from Richard that it was partially because the actor in question was going through a divorce, as I had been close friends with, and had directed several times, that actor's wife several years before, and hadn't heard about it otherwise). Odd way to get an audition -- Richard called me about another matter, intern suggestions or something I think, and suddenly realized on the phone he should call me in for the part (he was reading about six very different people as possible replacements). After the first great audition with Richard, I went into this one feeling overconfident, and wound up not doing very good work with him this time. I just obviously didn't find the groove. Floundered. Relied on pretty vocal stylings. T. Ryder Smith got the part. Damn damn damn.
Well, he did give me his 1966 play Harry in Love: A Manic Vaudeville to design/direct in its world premiere, as he thought I'd be good in the title part (a "straight" boulevard comedy, it had nearly wound up on Broadway with Vincent Gardenia in the main role) . After he saw that show, though, from the way he complemented me on my performance, I got the impression that it was partially because he simply thought I was capable of a piece of difficult physical business Harry has to perform in the play (which he said he was positive Gardenia couldn't have done).
See . . . at one point in the play, Harry picks up his wife Hilda in his arms, and carries her around for a while. In reading the play, I hadn't really paid attention to how long the "while" was. At the first cast reading, Josephine Cashman, who played Hilda, looked at her watch as we came to the moment when Harry picks Hilda up and then runs frantically around the stage, spinning and being manic (as he is, in fact, throughout the three-hour-long play). When he finally puts her down, she checked her watch again and mouthed very clearly at me the words "Twenty minutes." Oh, dear.
Luckily, Josephine is very svelte and (to my horror when I found out later) decided to diet to make things easier on me. Yeeesh. And the scene wound up being merely (!) fifteen minutes long. So I pulled it off each time, with difficulty only at one performance, where, for some reason, I had to keep leaning on chairs and a wall.
I'd like to bring that play back again soon, with pretty much the original cast. Maybe next year? Can I still carry Josephine for fifteen minutes? Have to find out.
Always interesting to have things on stage that have an element of "stunt" or "magic trick" or "endurance test." That live feeling of danger, of what might go wrong, of eventual triumph. Of course, it can backfire, as in one show I acted in (and made some films for), Michael Laurence's The Escape Artist. At the end of the first act, the title character HAS to escape from a straight-jacket right there in front of you. Tim Reynolds, in this part, learned to actually do the escape for real, and did it . . . except for one night, where he got stuck. Kinda changed the whole play that night, unfortunately.
Now that I think of it, it was just about as difficult as carrying Josephine as to eat a whole box of chocolates in a short period of time in that same play, which I also had to do. Okay, an actual piece of craft advice this entry: If you are in a play where you HAVE to eat a whole box of chocolates on stage very quickly, chocolate-covered cherries are the way to go, trust me. I tried many things. Of course, avoid nougats.
Maybe it was eating all those chocolates in Act III Scene 1 that enabled me to carry Josephine around in Act III Scene 2 for that long. Sugar rush. Maybe Richard had considered that.
Hmmmn. Or maybe Richard gave me that play to do because he was trying to kill me, so I wouldn't produce any more festivals or productions of his work.
And, oh, that reminds me, have to email Tim (Timothy these days, it seems) Reynolds about reading him for the part of Fistula in Temptation, which he said he so wanted to do. And everyone else I want to read for that show, for that matter. Set that up for when I get back.
Next play. Tonight, type the whole Havel text into the laptop so I have an electronic "director's draft" of the script, set up in the format I prefer. Next step.
If you haven't heard Richard read his own work -- other than the short pieces you may have heard in his shows -- it's valuable to hear him do it. He's a great reader. I've been lucky enough to audition for him twice, which involved wandering around part of his loft acting his text with him, and he's also a terrific actor (I wish there was a bit more of the quality he has an an actor in these readings here as opposed to his "narrative" voice as heard in his shows, but it somewhat splits the difference).
I still hope to get a chance to act for Richard someday. With his new direction, I don't know if he'll have a place for me anymore, though he's said repeatedly he hopes he'll have something for me someday. The first time he auditioned me, it was to replace an actor who had dropped out of his show (Tony Torn in Now That Communism Is Dead . . .), and he said he would have used me, but Tony decided to do the play after all. We had a good time at that audition -- he had me do the first four pages of the play with him in various accents and demeanors. First he asked me to try something like a "Southern used-car dealer," which is how he had pictured it with Tony, but when that didn't work on me, he asked me for more of a "Blanche DuBois-type," which fit me very well. I forget what other cul-de-sacs we went down, but the best way we did it was with me doing a stereotype "Indian Convenience Store Clerk" voice, apparently deferential but slightly sly and controlling to his more central figure (he asked me to throw in "Sir" and "Most Honorable" to the lines as I felt it this way; I think I also got in a "Mem Sahib"). So, didn't wind up in the show, damn, but had a great time acting with Richard one afternoon.
(He also that day said to me as he escorted me from his loft, in his quiet but intense Voice Of God tones, "You know Ian, there's no good reason you shouldn't be making a living as a working actor," which bounced around in my head for two years or so until it was finally responsible partly for me making some big changes in my life, in the realization of how I was going to have to change the way I lived in order to be not only a happy human being in this world, not only a useful human being in this world, but ultimately to be myself, once and for all, for better and worse, in this world, and follow my own path -- I need to thank him for that sometime . . .)
When that show didn't turn out, he said he was thinking of me for the central figure in his next play, Transcendental Race Car Drivers, but later apologized to me and told me that rather than doing that text with a man and two women, he had decided instead on three women (it became Maria Del Bosco). Damn, again.
He called me in again for King Cowboy Rufus Rules the Universe, when again an actor had to drop out (it was a strange experience hearing from Richard that it was partially because the actor in question was going through a divorce, as I had been close friends with, and had directed several times, that actor's wife several years before, and hadn't heard about it otherwise). Odd way to get an audition -- Richard called me about another matter, intern suggestions or something I think, and suddenly realized on the phone he should call me in for the part (he was reading about six very different people as possible replacements). After the first great audition with Richard, I went into this one feeling overconfident, and wound up not doing very good work with him this time. I just obviously didn't find the groove. Floundered. Relied on pretty vocal stylings. T. Ryder Smith got the part. Damn damn damn.
Well, he did give me his 1966 play Harry in Love: A Manic Vaudeville to design/direct in its world premiere, as he thought I'd be good in the title part (a "straight" boulevard comedy, it had nearly wound up on Broadway with Vincent Gardenia in the main role) . After he saw that show, though, from the way he complemented me on my performance, I got the impression that it was partially because he simply thought I was capable of a piece of difficult physical business Harry has to perform in the play (which he said he was positive Gardenia couldn't have done).
See . . . at one point in the play, Harry picks up his wife Hilda in his arms, and carries her around for a while. In reading the play, I hadn't really paid attention to how long the "while" was. At the first cast reading, Josephine Cashman, who played Hilda, looked at her watch as we came to the moment when Harry picks Hilda up and then runs frantically around the stage, spinning and being manic (as he is, in fact, throughout the three-hour-long play). When he finally puts her down, she checked her watch again and mouthed very clearly at me the words "Twenty minutes." Oh, dear.
Luckily, Josephine is very svelte and (to my horror when I found out later) decided to diet to make things easier on me. Yeeesh. And the scene wound up being merely (!) fifteen minutes long. So I pulled it off each time, with difficulty only at one performance, where, for some reason, I had to keep leaning on chairs and a wall.
I'd like to bring that play back again soon, with pretty much the original cast. Maybe next year? Can I still carry Josephine for fifteen minutes? Have to find out.
Always interesting to have things on stage that have an element of "stunt" or "magic trick" or "endurance test." That live feeling of danger, of what might go wrong, of eventual triumph. Of course, it can backfire, as in one show I acted in (and made some films for), Michael Laurence's The Escape Artist. At the end of the first act, the title character HAS to escape from a straight-jacket right there in front of you. Tim Reynolds, in this part, learned to actually do the escape for real, and did it . . . except for one night, where he got stuck. Kinda changed the whole play that night, unfortunately.
Now that I think of it, it was just about as difficult as carrying Josephine as to eat a whole box of chocolates in a short period of time in that same play, which I also had to do. Okay, an actual piece of craft advice this entry: If you are in a play where you HAVE to eat a whole box of chocolates on stage very quickly, chocolate-covered cherries are the way to go, trust me. I tried many things. Of course, avoid nougats.
Maybe it was eating all those chocolates in Act III Scene 1 that enabled me to carry Josephine around in Act III Scene 2 for that long. Sugar rush. Maybe Richard had considered that.
Hmmmn. Or maybe Richard gave me that play to do because he was trying to kill me, so I wouldn't produce any more festivals or productions of his work.
And, oh, that reminds me, have to email Tim (Timothy these days, it seems) Reynolds about reading him for the part of Fistula in Temptation, which he said he so wanted to do. And everyone else I want to read for that show, for that matter. Set that up for when I get back.
Next play. Tonight, type the whole Havel text into the laptop so I have an electronic "director's draft" of the script, set up in the format I prefer. Next step.
