The hour badly spent

Well. So. My playwriting class kinda disliked Laramie Project. Let’s walk through some of their issues.

First. Costumes: We agreed that everyone’s shirts looked kinda dirty. I noted that the costume designer put little logos and symbols on everyone’s grey shirts, but the thing is, the audience couldn’t really see the logos, which renders them pointless. It’s even worse when you can _kind of_ see the logos, but not clearly enough to make them out, so that they just look like dirty spots.

The uniforms and their, uhhh, uniformity, was also confusing to the class. It was confusing to me at first too. A uniform would make a speech, disappear, and another uniform would come back out. After a while I realized that the play was organized in a way that kept story arcs distinct even if characters weren’t. No one else in the class seemed to realize this. Ha ha ha, I’m more sophisticated than everyone else.

Second. Act II dragged. Yeah, they’re right with this one. After the scene with the big-ass band of angels, the other loose plot arcs felt so minor that I wasn’t even concerned with them.

Third. There was a sense that it was too preachy? In a literal sense, there were a lot of priests as characters. But my classmates were annoyed that sometimes the interviewers distracted from the monologues. Like, when talking to negative characters, the interviewers would pace and frown.

I say: so what? Were they supposed to be ‘neutral?’ And if so, why? As someone who’s done a tiny bit of journalism, my best interviews — the ones that yield the most information — are the hostile ones. Like when people feel insulted that they have to answer such a dumb question, or they feel that they’re under attack and have to articulate their positions better. But that’s all beside the point. The point is that the actors are, in fact, not journalists; they’re characters too. Their characters are _acting_ the way a gay man or woman would act confronting a haughty, adversarial religious figure. Can I get an amen?

Fourth. One student (Patrick) said he saw the Laramie Project performed, years ago, at an "International Thespians’ Conference," and that their performance "blows this one out of the water." He mentioned several times that he had been to the International Thespians Conference, from which I believe he meant to make it clear that he is a Pretentious Literary Douchebag. Every English class has one of these, and usually it’s me, but not this time I guess.

Okay, good points:

When I heard about what the play actually was — a series of monologues based on interviews — I was pretty sure it would be boring. But it’s not! Tectonic actually managed to frame some story arcs out of what information they gleaned, and they managed to make an overall story arc out of it, which was pretty rad.

The play builds a sense of "going there," of approaching something and almost arriving but not quite. Even acting out the confession feels lacking; something dire has been excised from the narrative. That something is Matthew Shepard. That, in its subtle way, is the point. He’s gone and can’t say anything, no matter how badly we want to hear from him.

I saw the dress rehearsal, obvs, and that wasn’t bad. There was a long moment, after Reggie found out she might have AIDS, when Mackenzie looked me dead in the eye. I couldn’t turn away, and she just wouldn’t. After a few moments I felt something strange. I….I think some dust got in my eye. Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, I thought her performance would have been powerful and moving without that eye contact. But with it, I felt, just for a moment, that there might actually be more to life than just martinis, girls, and guns, that I have a higher purpose, and that maybe I should live to love more deeply and fully. Then her scene was over and I had a cigarette and was back to normal. THAT WAS A CLOSE CALL.

Before I saw the second performance, the Grey Lady told me she found out how to really make a better emotional connection with her character(s). It sounded like some art-fag nonsense, but then I saw the performance a second time, and she was absolutely right! I kept hoping for her to make eye contact with me, but it’s a good thing she didn’t, because then I might have, ahem, had more dust in my eye. People would have gotten the wrong idea.

The Grey Lady tipped me off about a clandestine performance of The Pillow Man in K-State’s Purple Masque Theatre two weeks ago. Having no idea what the hell it was, of course I decided to check it out that very night.

I donated three bucks and picked up an orange program. Act 1: 80 MINUTES!!?? What if I get hungry? A child’s voice over a loudspeaker warned the audience, "no texting, you crap-bags." Ooh kay.

The play starts off with an interrogation; one one smartass good cop (Ariel), one toughguy bad cop (Tupolski), and the detainee. The dialogue in this interrogation scene, though snappy and upbeat with yummy the Orwellian overtones (it takes a long time before we find out why Katurian — a short story author — is being detained in the first place), moves along very slowly .

By and by, we find out that the mousey author has a dark past. In his childhood, he and a pillow were involved in two deaths. As a man, his short stories reflect on and play with the gruesome events of his yesteryears, most notably a story he wrote called, "The Pillow Man," from which the production takes its name. He re-relates the tale while locked in a cell with his brother, who has brain damage stemming from a rough childhood. You see the room they’re kept in, with nothing but the bed and the pillow, and you know what’s coming eventually, and then you realize why, exactly, that would have to happen, and who, exactly did what to whom. Kansans seemed to be fond of literature and theatrical works that involve magical gimps. I wasn’t so keen on that, so once I realized what was inevitable and who the real Pillow Man was, my attention started to wander.

Act II wrapped everything up nicely. The detectives, both aggressive and overconfident, started not only to show their chinks but also, propelled by the intuition of Detective Toughguy (who I remember as Tybalt from Romeo & Juliet), caught on, with surprising insight to the full story behind everything. The development of this final interview retains the crisp arrogance of the first one, but plot developments move along quickly enough that the entire play didn’t even feel like 2 1/2 hours. And then, of course, Katurian died. End.

"I need a hug," someone in the audience said. Overhearing it, I immediately turned to the Hipster Elf. "I don’t know about you, but I need a drink."

Another reason to see The Laramie Project.

Led by Rev. Fred Phelps, supporters of Topeka’s Westboro Baptist Church plan to protest the Friday and Saturday night productions of The Laramie Project at K-State.

Ten years ago, Phelps also showed up at [Matthew] Shepard’s funeral.

“We do a reenactment of a Phelps scene in the play,” [Ariane] Chapman said. “It’s interesting that he’s a character in the play and he’s picketing the play,” she added.

In ten years someone will write another play about Phelps picketing a play in which Phelps pickets a funeral. Then Phelps will picket that, and another actor will show up to picket Phelps’ picketing, and then the universe will finally and instantaneously implode only to be replaced by something even more bizarre and self-referential, a universe in which homosexuals have written the Bible, God is a troupe of travelling actors, and all records of the whole thing are just an echo chamber of hyperlinks leading back and forth between each other, starting with this blog. Thanks to Phelps THE HOUR BADLY SPENT WILL BE THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE!! Until the whole implosion thing happens again. I have nothing to do with that.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

In the process of reviewing Dancing at Lughnasa, I noted that one of the sisters was hot. "Hottest," in fact. I hear the actress’ significant other flew into a rage and and wanted to go all Hulk-smashey on The Hour Badly Spent. Well, where I come from, we distinguish between idly admiring a girl for her looks, complimenting her on a sort of striking beauty which is glaringly obvious to everyone anyway, and actually hitting on her.

These subtle nuances are apparently lost on Kansans. Fine; since I have no way of actually knowing who’s boinking whom, I take back the compliment. Everybody in the theatre department is ugly. And not just ugly, but extremely ultrahideous. And not just extremely ultrahideous, but so miserably appallingly haggard that the mere sight of any of you makes me want to repent of my sins and bathe my eyes in battery acid.

Glad I got that off my chest. So what did you think of Mud, River, Stone? I don’t remember too much of it, because I’m not drunk like I was when I saw the play way back in February, but I remember liking it.

In it, a bunch of richly-storied characters, starting with an annoying NYC black couple (they were from NY, right? I hardly remember), were thrown together at a quaint off-the-beaten-path South Africa hotel. Bells and alarms started going off the moment the couple stepped on stage, because I used to watch Friends, a show that proved there are no black people in New York.

Immediately, Sarah Bradley starts bitching because she can’t charge her iPod or something. Which was awesome. My favorite frenemy - Ama Cyllah’s actress - agreed.

My Hair Thinks Its Famous: What did you think of Sarah?
The Hour Badly Spent:        So persistently snotty. So relentlessly catty. Exactly what I look for in a girl.
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: I know. She acts like that in real life too. Isn’t she hot!
The Hour Badly Spent:        Yes!
[Ed. note: I meant no, because as we just established, everyone’s too fugly].
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: You should get her number.
The Hour Badly Spent:        You kidding? Actresses are scary. And I’m not that drunk yet.

Mr. Blake, an affable Englishman — wait, no, a white African with a British accent — wait, no, leader of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen — translates the spit of the country that raised him into a wise, pithy sort of polish. "There is no telephone, no running water, not even a road. Just perfect martinis," he once said (a note on martinis: they are all perfect). Blake is graceful whether he is being conciliatory or aggressive; in fact, his confrontations often move the plot along when it veers into stagnation.

Left stranded at the hotel as part of a peacekeeping envoy, Simone Frick stammered through her part like a mouse talking her way out of a tiger pit. Her crisp uniform and radiant, hyperblonde hair underscored how out-of-place the character felt. Silly Ms. Frick! When you visit a war zone, you’ve gotta do like I do, and walk up in there like you fucking own the joint. You’d be surprised at how far a pimp roll will take you, literally and metaphorically.

There were other actors too. Whatever. Eventually, cabin fever really sets in. Everyone starts to get kinda livejournalley; going through all their character histories, their oedipal issues, proving how "African" they truly are or something. We are given an education that, however self-indulgent, is also insightful and unromanticized. Then someone shoots someone else, and he pretty much deserves it for taking hostages and being a chronic ass. Oh Mr. Blake, why couldn’t you take me too?

There has apparently been some sort of show running at Nichols for almost two weeks; Little Red Romeo & Juliet or something. I guess it’s such a big deal that the Collegian did a little write-up on it.

It included a profile of Romeo’s actor. "The roles he has played in the past have been more aggressive, and Romeo’s character is exceedingly vulnerable."

"I bring passion to the table," he said. "The role calls for a lot of passion, and I’m a hopeless romantic." More or less the same as every other handsome, slender, chiselled, actor-type I envy.

Juliet’s actress also got some inches. "I’m usually in musicals, and Juliet’s role is serious and emotional. She was sad, in love, frightened, angry and happy throughout the show. The range is so much broader than any other emotional range I’ve had to go through in a show before."

"Her character’s only 13 and I’m 21. I didn’t want to come off as too old." Ergo, she took Teddy Ruxpin with her on stage, a fact that the article seemed to omit.

Also omitted: everything else that happened on the stage. Fighting. Dancing. Tybalt’s outfit. Mercutio. MERCUTIO, dammit! We already know Romeo and Juliet are characters in this thing, because we read the title repeatedly, sounding it out very slowly, rolling the R’s and softening the vowels so they swim up and down in the air. Also, because everyone knows they’re in it. Everyone also knows fervor and emotion overtook the stage as Romeo enveloped Juliet’s face in his hand, tenderly kissing her as he gazed desperately into her eyes and recited the classically romantic verses that symbolize infatuated young love.

That harlequin-romance prose is in the brochures. Apropos of nothing, I have no idea what a Harlequin romance is, because I’ve never read any romance novels, not that I know it’s a brand of romance novels or anything. So how could Jenna Scavuzzo discuss the event and NOT MENTION any fabulosity particular to the performance (I’m looking at you, Mercutio). Could it be that she didn’t even see the performance at all? In that case, nice touch with the "gazed desperately into her eyes," but that doesn’t sound like Shakespeare’s style.

So far I’ve gone to see Stop Kiss, the Modigliani String Quartet, Huck & Tom and the Mighty Mississippi, Too Many Sopranos, Brian Pemberly’s poetry reading, Dunya Mikhail’s poetry reading, Denise Lowe’s poetry reading, Allison Wallace’s memoir-reading, and lots of other fun stuff, all independent and date-less. But Thursday night’s performance of Romeo & Juliet was different. I’d been looking forward to this since last semester. I needed someone — and not just ANYONE, but someone special: another hyper-literate bastard, to sit with me and make mischief. Otherwise, the whole experience is ruined by constant thoughs of "I’m awesome and everybody else in the world missed out, because they all suck." So, Rhymes With Leather, my favorite nerd, heroically restored my faith in humanity by coming with me to this affair.

The acting was superb all-around. Notable roles:

The lanky Mercutio, of course. He swaggered around with a pimp cane and dick jokes, fucking dominating every scene in which he appeared. Pure awesomeness.

Benvolio delivered his urgent tone with a rich clarity to his voice.

Unfortunately, Romeo couldn’t accomplish this. His lines tripped out over each other at the same high speed throughout his performance; his sense of urgency overpowered, instead of underlining, his emotional expression. No joy, no despair, no delight, no pining adolescent lust, only the same homogenous desperation. Perhaps I was disinclined to like him because of his tousled hair, Ivy League chin, and piercing, intense eyes. But Rhymes With Leather didn’t seem to mind that stuff too much.

He had that kind of angsty, teen aloofness. You know? He reminded me a lot of the way that Leonard Whiting portrayed Romeo in the Franco Zeffirelli version. The fact that he was in love kind of takes over and of course he’s going to go crazy with desperation. His joy was and is Juliet, so–brace yourself–like Edward essentially can’t find his happiness without Bella, Romeo has all of his joy in Juliet. Basically there was no point in finding joy in anything else. This Romeo, I thought, handled that very well, and therefore I was pleased with his performance. He’s a teenager in love; what more can you ask for? You see that Twilight reference I slipped in?

Duly noted. Maybe she should be writing this review.

"It’s a girl thing," she explained during the post-perfomance reception, as I attentively guzzled mimosas. I see what she’s saying. And Romeo truly did a good job of body-acting; gestures, fluid grace moving across the stage — that stuff enhanced his part, and ultimately I did not dislike him.

I was originally disinclined to like Juliet solely on the basis of her pretty blonde tresses. And as The Grey Lady pointed out, Juliet held a doll with her in a lot of scenes, reminding us that she’s playing a 13-year-old, which we didn’t really want to think about. Nevertheless, it was clear early on that the actress really inhabited every scene she was in. Her voice was clear and pleading. She delivered her lines at a musical pace. Every word hung in the air, like the last line of a song refrain. And as she spoke she would move to and fro, across the stage or across the balcony, starry-eyed, clutching her hands and pivoting gracefully on her heeled shoes, putting a lot of body movement, along with the words, into delivering her character to us. Tres magnifique.

All in all, I was on the edge of my seat, the whole time, taking in every movement on the stage (some scenes had a lot of activity; fighting, dancing, more fighting. Those were a real treat) and every word that fell from everyone’s lips. I tip my hat to the pretentious bastard who actually threw the script together.

I have no idea what an assistant stage manager does. However, I know that the assistant stage management of Dancing at Lughnasa was excellent, because that was pretty much the talk of the town after the play was over. I thought I was the only person impressed with the assistant stage management I know nothing about until I overheard two of my friends raving over it:

"What did you think of it?"
"The stage was unbelievably well managed. Assistantly."

Of course, those friends were imaginary, as are all my friends (the conversation, however, feels real). I’ve given up on asking actual people to go with me to these events, because either I’m 100% socially inept or you all suck. And as it turns out, you all do not, in fact, suck; Dr. Donna Potts, hanging out in the drizzle in front of the theater, got sick of waiting for one of her lame English 310 students to show up, opting to give me that student’s ticket - the last one available for opening night!

Whatever, so I’m inept. Back to Lughnasa: a snapshot of a 1936 Irish family holding together long after the passing of its parents; the turmoil of five lively sisters staring into a canyon of spinsterhood that’s staring back at them; and the return of their brother, a wild-eyed barely-there misfit, after 25 years of missionary work in Africa.

The dialogue felt fresh and immediate. Much of my enjoyment came from hearing the accents; the nearly-rolled Rs, the brisk Ts dotting word endings; the long "I" that glides into an "o-i" dipthong ("cider" sounds like "soyder"), the overall birdlike, musical pep of conversation.

Each sister’s inner tensions were barely held in check, always balanced against the concerns of the other siblings by the pious, heavy-handed oldest sister, Kate.

With that dynamic, another strength of Lughnasa, even better than the cute Irish lilts, was the sisters’ interior tumult. It came out most strongly twice. Second, when Kate, distraught over the apparent disappearance of the flighty Rose, angrily demanded that Agnes confess information Agnes have. So angry, she slammed Agnes against the furniture.

But it came out first when they boogied.

They sang and danced at every chance, devouring music like it was soda bread. Would that they could just dance their cares away forever! They really gave it their best shot during an early-on, more joyful outpouring of passion. For a brief time, during this hasty portrait, during a few minutes of music belting from their moody radio, they were all fluid like the sea, all crashing against each other and coming together again.

Michael, the seven-year-old son of Chrissie (the hottest sister — for real, homegirl’s a ringer for Rachel McAdams), largely observes from the periphery, but occasionally interrupts from the point of view of a grown-up narrator to reveal flashes of information on the fate of the family. Despite his upbeat delivery - Michael is genuinely excited about his family and all its quirky, tragic characters - it’s all kind of a downer for everyone, which, as more is revealed, sharpens the nostalgia, the value of this snapshot, the desperate importance of this summer, 1936, in a house on the Irish countryside. This summer is the last time the family is a family before people up and leave, people lose jobs, people die, peoples’ Peter-Pan father figures jaunt off with unsatisfying explanations then it turns out (spoiler!) all along they had another family way down south in fucking Wales, and general disappointment and failure set in for everyone.

It’s all hinted at during the play. Underneath obligations, bickering, the soothing chirp of a Marconi wireless, smoldering behind it all lies an inability to share each others’ sorrow, and deep yearnings that will simply. Not. Pan. Out. But for this one last summer, Time would let them dance and be Golden in the mercy of his means. **

 

** I’ve been waiting forever to unload that pearl!

 

Since I haven’t blogged in a few days, that chart shall serve as a benchmark while I recap the week:

Monday: really don’t remember much, except for a couple of bloody marys. That is not a euphemism.

Wednesday: I made a new friend! A supercute 28-year old redheaded geek girl. No, not that supercute 28-year-old redheaded geek girl. Come to think of it, "romp" makes the whole thing sound way more sordid than it really was, which entailed going to Auntie May’s for happy hour, where we bought each other beers and made small talk. Then we walked around for a little bit. The great big city’s a wonderous toy, just made for a girl and boy. We turned Manhattan into an isle of joy! Okay, she walked me to the Digital Shelf, where we drooled over the anime section. One day she will appreciate Ranma 1/2 as much as I do. One day.

Later, I called the Poetess to tell her I made a new friend. She was feeling blue, and wanted company, so I obliged. I drank her box wine and had a long talk with her about the true meaning of friendship. As it turns out, hippies can love after all! Before I left, she let me have one of her uppers.

Friday: I asked Arianna to go a semi-formal dance put on by the Association of Residence Halls. It was held in the Union Ballroom, which is a pretty big place. Because of that, I was expecting to wall-to-wall hotties gyrating in slinky, knee-length dresses. So OF COURSE we arrive and it’s like 15 kids, awkwardly twisting around to the Spice Girls. No, we are not leaving, I told Arianna. She wore these incredibly pointy black shoes that mangled her feet and made movement difficult, but looked terrific. I was deeply moved by her suffering. She and I sat in the back of the room, not-so-silently judging everyone, and talked about the ungodly horror of high school dances, while waiting for the D.J. to play something slow and romantic because that’s why you go to dances in the first place. It didn’t happen, so after an hour, we left to hit up a better party. And OF COURSE as we were gathering our coats and our purses and our, ahem, man-purses, the Old Man Controlling Everything We Hear finally put on a slow number. I might have been able to talk Arianna into staying for three more minutes, but it was a country song, and by then my heart just wasn’t in it.

I had never been to the casa de supernerdy English Major Jimbo; so when I got to his basement, which had a bar and a bigscreen TV and and a bunch of geeks talking about Baldur’s friggin’ Gate and a wall full of action figures and computer circuitboards and a ceiling plastered with movie posters, I didn’t know whether to love Jimbo for having an awesome place, hate Jimbo for having an awesome place, or hate myself for loving Jimbo for having an awesome place, and the whole thing got even more confusing and beautiful after I pulled out the bottle of cheap whiskey I brought.

I met lots of new people, most notably a blonde girl from the theater department, who I thought was cute and intelligent. She was the lead actress in The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, wherein she did this amazing thing with her voice that made her sound like a domineering 1930s WASP. She got bonus points when I found out Cherry hates her. Nevertheless, I am definitely leaving that one alone. Actresses are terrifying.

Saturday was Fake Patty’s Day in Manhattan. The real St. Patrick’s day falls during K-State’s spring break, so Aggieville celebrates it a week early while students are still in town. I fully intended to start the pubcrawl at 9 in the morning, when the bars open, but I was too hung over. I ended up lounging around all day long, then, at midnight, crashing a get-together at Madeline’s in celebration of the coming-to-town of her childhood friend Megan, who has apparently developed into a cute, aloof hipster.

A moment after I arrived, Jenna, Maddie’s awesome roommate; Jenna’s boyfriend Graham, who is also awesome, and Megan, decided to hit the bars. Despite the fantasticity of Jenna and Graham, along with my typically asinine outbursts of wit, we were unable to stop Megan from sitting around, pouting, and looking bored. Thankfully she left and returned to Madeline’s place on her own, before she completely killed my buzz and ruined my life.

This morning snow was falling. On my way out the door I realized I’d gone through the entire pack of Parliaments I bought last night at eleven. How the hell did that happen? Whatever. Last time it snowed I fell 352 times. My Aqua Ducks(TM), comfy, springy, and waterproof as they are, offer about as much traction as a surfboard, so I find myself slipping on snowflakes wherever I go. Fun fun fun! The night of that last snow, Cherry and I went sledding in the street on that hill by her house. Today I don’t feel like sledding so much.

Speak of the devil: I bumped into her on my way to class this morning.

"It’s so cold," she said, grimacing. Button up, I say. For a moment it occurs to me that she is overworked and stressed, fraught with the piling-on of test week and increasing tension for the play she’s in (tonight is opening night).

"I think I’m gonna head inside." She can shortcut through the library and warm up on her way to class. Or maybe this is just an excuse to scamper off the other way.

Yeah, with all that on your plate, I can see how it might be hard to call someone back. If you’re an asshole.

She about-faces through the doors and I go my own way to class.

Thing is, I know I’m gonna see the play tonight. It’s inevitable, like a midterm or an execution. But since I absolutely refuse to go alone I called up Heather. And OF COURSE she can’t go with me. Surprise; she’s sick and overworked. So I’ll be alone for the evening. Should I still see the play?  The crushing certainty of it, the unspoken expectations to guess at - should I linger afterward and say hi? And after that - will she ditch me for a drama party? Will she call? Like hell. I’m not going. There is homework; math, Spanish, physics; an essay to type up, a book to read (ALWAYS a book to read!). And after that? Two-dollar bloody marys. Again. So I guess that’s that. Definitely not going. Another night of self-imposed exile.

So…seven PM. I’m resigned to finish up my homework and head out for drinks. Surprise! Cate calls! You coming to Cherry’s play? Super! Wanna meet us there? Grand! Yeah, I guess there was no avoiding it after all.

Although I got there without much time for small talk, it took her and Arianna about 10 minutes to notice I wasn’t my ordinary self (probably because I wasn’t cracking so many dick jokes). Big whoop, since I’ve pretty much been drifting through strangers in crowds for two weeks and never really worried about being "on." Cate seemed different too. Kind of nervous, kind of withdrawn, kind of unhappy. What’s up with that? During intermission, I beckon her to the empty seat on my right so she can let me in on The Secret, in third person. "Saturday night Cate and Brandon got really drunk and had sex."

I know I was supposed to act surprised - she had kind of been hoping Brandon’s BEST FRIEND - JOOOOSH! - would make a move, for the past FOREVER. But if anyone needed some sex it was her, and at least now I see why she’s been out of touch.

She’s afraid her big crush will never look at her again. Not that she’ll remember what I say, but I let her know that she should probably go talk to Josh right away, like RIGHT NOW, like YESTERDAY, because if too much time passes he’ll get bitter or something, and that’s no good.

Later we went outside to enjoy my last sample of Fine Tobacco Product. There is much more to Cate than I realized. She’s curious about what’s up with me, but I sort of still hate everybody and I’m not quite ready to sing. Don’t get me wrong; I want to, but what exactly would I say? Consider it deflected.

The play, by the way, was really something else. I loved it. The writer tied each character’s background to a relationship with Africa, showing a canny, realistic understanding of African social norms and their recent disruption against the backdrop of myriad civil wars (right, what would I know?). And OF COURSE I couldn’t take my eyes off Cherry the whole time she was on stage. After it was over I hugged her and told her she was terrific, that I really liked the play. And I meant it. So after I got home, I figured FUCK IT! and went out for drinks again anyway, and after that things started looking up, because when I was done, it was Friday.