I started writing my play, Minimum Wage, in 1998. There were two things that inspired me. Here they are:
1. I was working as a delivery driver for a printing company in downtown Calgary. The conversations I had and overheard with my co-workers struck me as compelling and musical.
2. David Mamet's play Lakeboat.
I love the episodic structure of Lakeboat. There's no linear timeline, just a series of vignettes that take place among a group of veteran seamen and a summer student. They talk about sex, alcohol, money, abandoned dreams, but there is a through-line in what happened to the ship's cook who failed to report for duty. I think the play is about how we need to have answers for our most compelling questions and, without any hard evidence, we're willing to speculate and accept those speculations as fact.
Minimum Wage owes a lot to Lakeboat. When I did a public reading of it in Alberta back in 2006, I asked my audience if the structure reminded them of another play. Instantly, three young men yelled "Lakeboat." I was both flattered and annoyed. I'm sure David Mamet has spawned thousands of aspiring playwrights trying to emulate his unique "Mametspeak." I'm of the opinion that a writer's own style will come out regardless of who he's trying to copy.
I'm not David Mamet. Mamet, in his prime, seemed obsessed with the destructive side of the American dream. I'm not interested in that. I'm more interested in how our religious beliefs (or lack of beliefs) shapes who we are and how we affect other people. Minimum Wage is about the universal need for redemption and how we don't always seek to redeem ourselves in healthy ways.
It's my dream to see Minimum Wage performed onstage one day. It has a cast of seven men.
Here is a brief scene between Dylan, a recent high school graduate, and Bart, a veteran courier who's been married and divorced four times. It may be the best thing I have ever written.
-
Bart: My old man was a son of a bitch but he gave me one really good piece of advice. He told me once that before you make any big decision - leaving school, moving across the country, getting married, quitting your job - that what you should do is excuse yourself, go into your bedroom, and jerk off. He said it’s because men make their decisions based on the probability of getting laid and that’s not a good way to live your life. So, what happens, after you jerk off, he said, you have this brief window of time where you absolutely don’t want to get laid and you can see with perfect clarity what is the logical thing to do. (Pause.) You tell yourself that this is a good move or that is a good move and then you jerk yourself off and you realize “No, that’s a stupid idea. I was just gonna do that so I could get laid.” (Pause) That window of time saves your ass. (Pause.) That window of time lasts about thirty seconds.
Dylan: Mm.
Bart: Sure. I don’t know how you feel about my telling you this. I was fifteen when he told me that, and not very comfortable about hearing my dad talk about things like that if you want the truth.
Dylan: Will you pass the salt?
Bart: Sure. But you know what? My old man was right. Lord how he was right. Man, I wish I took that advice thirty-thirty five years ago. I could be a doctor now...
Dylan: Who wants to always do the logical thing?
Bart: What?
Dylan: You want to know how my parents met?
Bart: Sure.
Dylan: My dad was working for this bank up north and he won a week long trip to Vegas.
Bart: Yeah?
Dylan: A trip for two.
Bart: Okay.
Dylan: So he’s single, right? Tries calling some friends but no one can go. Then he finds himself in this restaurant and the waitress asks him what’s new and he tells her.
Bart: Sure.
Dylan: She says she’d love to go to Vegas. He thought she was joking. She wasn’t. So he offers to take her.
(Pause.)
Bart: Your mother?
Dylan: My mother. You see?
Bart: Yes.
Dylan: It was impulsive. It was stupid. But they went and they’re still together today. And I’m here too. (Pause.) Sometimes, I wonder how much of our happiness is due to our idiocy.
(Pause. Bart gets up.)
Dylan: Where are you going?
Bart: Make a phone call.
Friday 21 June 2013
Why I still hate my old acting teacher
When I was in high school, I was stupid enough to pay some quack of a teacher an extraordinary amount of money to "help me become a better actor." I was 16, woefully naive, and believed this man had the ability to inject me with the ability to be "a star."
Acting classes ran almost every evening at his studio in southwest Calgary. On any given night the room was filled with at least a dozen other hopeful actors from every conceivable demographic. There was Natasha, a recent immigrant from Haiti who seemed to spend all her time listening to Janet Jackson. There was Paulette, a thirty-something housewife who tried to get everyone to pay her $10 for a Tarot card reading. There was Abe, a tall and gangling dude who looked like a redheaded Abraham Lincoln (Abe also happened to be 90 per cent blind.) There was Dana, a morbidly obese warehouse worker who never spoke above a mumble. There was Katja and Danny, a teenaged sister and brother duo. There was Bobby, an unfunny comedian who believed our esteemed teacher could make him a comedy superstar.
Every night, our teacher would ask us how much money we'd brought him. He had us all convinced that we'd be earning comfortable livings as actors once we finally paid up. He was a charlatan and a criminal.
The teacher gave us all a dozen monologues (I believe monologues are both useless and boring but that's another post altogether) which we were to memorize and then perform in front of our peers. Our peers would then offer constructive criticism - a process I still consider to be strikingly unhelpful.
One of my monologues was spoken by a gay man who was dealing with his lover's illness. (The man was in his 40s, which makes it pretty stupid to ask a 16-year-old to perform it, but I'll let it go at that.) Anyway, I did my best with the bloody monologue and when it was done, the teacher asked my fellow students if they had any comments. Paulette stood and said: "I'm sorry, but I just don't believe that you're gay."
I actually took it as a compliment.
Still, there was murmured agreement throughout the room. My instructor, who sipped coffee and ate Kentucky Fried Chicken throughout my performance, agreed too.
"It isn't enough to just pretend to be gay," he implored me. "You actually have to be gay."
Good thing I wasn't portraying Malcolm X. My instructor would have told me I have to be black.
I felt like a failure. Later, I got very angry but I didn't realize what I was angry about. I think most people probably have a bullshit detector buried deep in their souls. Sometimes it goes off even though we're not consciously aware of any bullshit being spread. Just being around it can set it off.
Later, while reading David Mamet's Writing in Restaurants, I realized the extent of the bullshit. My instructor, and my classmates at large, were insisting that I had to make myself gay in order for the monologue to be compelling. In fact, all I had to do was commit myself to the words. I had to accept that the words being spoken were heartfelt, that the speaker was not a caricature but an actual human being. Other than that, I simply had to speak loudly and clearly. The audience didn't have to believe "I" was gay. The audience would simply accept that the character is gay because the playwright, the director and the actor give them no reason to think otherwise.
Denzel Washington is not a Muslim but there's no reason to think his Malcom X isn't one in Spike Lee's biopic of the same name.
Alec Baldwin probably isn't a Christian but we believe he is when he channels Jimmy Swaggart in Great Balls of Fire.
And Tom Hanks isn't gay but we believe his Andrew Beckett is in Philadelphia.
Mamet is right. A play should be about a character, not a condition.
In that essay, Mamet talks about the challenge of playing a king. He says the actor's task shouldn't be about trying to adopt a "regal bearing" (which, he rightly points out, isn't necessarily shared by all members of royalty and, in fact, is possessed by those who have no royal blood at all.) Instead, he should simply speak the words, find his motivation, and trust that the audience will accept him as a king because they have been given no reason to not accept him as one.
Kings, like everyone else, have needs and desires that they seek to meet. An actor who goes onstage with the goal of acting kingly will probably fail (and probably bore the audience too.) Instead, the actor should analyze the text to see what the king wants. A service, perhaps. Maybe something as simple as a drink of water.
I wish I could go back in time. I'd kick that old acting teacher square in the balls, take all the money I paid him, and used it to buy a good used car instead. My life probably would have been a whole lot more fun.
Acting classes ran almost every evening at his studio in southwest Calgary. On any given night the room was filled with at least a dozen other hopeful actors from every conceivable demographic. There was Natasha, a recent immigrant from Haiti who seemed to spend all her time listening to Janet Jackson. There was Paulette, a thirty-something housewife who tried to get everyone to pay her $10 for a Tarot card reading. There was Abe, a tall and gangling dude who looked like a redheaded Abraham Lincoln (Abe also happened to be 90 per cent blind.) There was Dana, a morbidly obese warehouse worker who never spoke above a mumble. There was Katja and Danny, a teenaged sister and brother duo. There was Bobby, an unfunny comedian who believed our esteemed teacher could make him a comedy superstar.
Every night, our teacher would ask us how much money we'd brought him. He had us all convinced that we'd be earning comfortable livings as actors once we finally paid up. He was a charlatan and a criminal.
The teacher gave us all a dozen monologues (I believe monologues are both useless and boring but that's another post altogether) which we were to memorize and then perform in front of our peers. Our peers would then offer constructive criticism - a process I still consider to be strikingly unhelpful.
One of my monologues was spoken by a gay man who was dealing with his lover's illness. (The man was in his 40s, which makes it pretty stupid to ask a 16-year-old to perform it, but I'll let it go at that.) Anyway, I did my best with the bloody monologue and when it was done, the teacher asked my fellow students if they had any comments. Paulette stood and said: "I'm sorry, but I just don't believe that you're gay."
I actually took it as a compliment.
Still, there was murmured agreement throughout the room. My instructor, who sipped coffee and ate Kentucky Fried Chicken throughout my performance, agreed too.
"It isn't enough to just pretend to be gay," he implored me. "You actually have to be gay."
Good thing I wasn't portraying Malcolm X. My instructor would have told me I have to be black.
I felt like a failure. Later, I got very angry but I didn't realize what I was angry about. I think most people probably have a bullshit detector buried deep in their souls. Sometimes it goes off even though we're not consciously aware of any bullshit being spread. Just being around it can set it off.
Later, while reading David Mamet's Writing in Restaurants, I realized the extent of the bullshit. My instructor, and my classmates at large, were insisting that I had to make myself gay in order for the monologue to be compelling. In fact, all I had to do was commit myself to the words. I had to accept that the words being spoken were heartfelt, that the speaker was not a caricature but an actual human being. Other than that, I simply had to speak loudly and clearly. The audience didn't have to believe "I" was gay. The audience would simply accept that the character is gay because the playwright, the director and the actor give them no reason to think otherwise.
Denzel Washington is not a Muslim but there's no reason to think his Malcom X isn't one in Spike Lee's biopic of the same name.
Alec Baldwin probably isn't a Christian but we believe he is when he channels Jimmy Swaggart in Great Balls of Fire.
And Tom Hanks isn't gay but we believe his Andrew Beckett is in Philadelphia.
Mamet is right. A play should be about a character, not a condition.
In that essay, Mamet talks about the challenge of playing a king. He says the actor's task shouldn't be about trying to adopt a "regal bearing" (which, he rightly points out, isn't necessarily shared by all members of royalty and, in fact, is possessed by those who have no royal blood at all.) Instead, he should simply speak the words, find his motivation, and trust that the audience will accept him as a king because they have been given no reason to not accept him as one.
Kings, like everyone else, have needs and desires that they seek to meet. An actor who goes onstage with the goal of acting kingly will probably fail (and probably bore the audience too.) Instead, the actor should analyze the text to see what the king wants. A service, perhaps. Maybe something as simple as a drink of water.
I wish I could go back in time. I'd kick that old acting teacher square in the balls, take all the money I paid him, and used it to buy a good used car instead. My life probably would have been a whole lot more fun.
Thursday 20 June 2013
FAMOUS
In David Mamet’s play Lakeboat, a veteran sailor and a college student are talking about why a journalist should never use the word “famous” when writing about a person.
If the person is famous, the reader would have heard of them. If the reader hasn’t heard of the person then he (or she) isn’t famous. In short, famous is a redundant adjective.
I was thinking of that exchange last week when someone told me that “Mark Cullen, the famous gardener” was going to be at my town’s Home Hardware. I had never heard of Mr. Cullen before so I decided that he wasn’t famous. Then again, I am not a gardener. Also, I can’t name one famous gardener. Not one. If I was passionate about gardens, I’d probably be able to name several. But I’m not.
Pardon me, but do any of my readers know who Dai Vernon is? Or Darwin Ortiz? How about Paul Harris, Bill Malone, Steve Dacri, Jeff McBride or Rudy Coby? Drawing a blank? No problem. They’re all professional magicians. But how would one know that unless one is interested in magic?
Well, you don’t have to be interested in magic to know who David Copperfield is. Or Criss Angel or David Blaine or the late Doug Henning. I’m not a cook but I know who Julia Child is. I don’t design cars but I can tell you who Henry Ford was too.
I guess that means there’s two kinds of fame. There’s the fame that transcends its field and there’s the kind that does not. People in the former category probably make more money. The trade off is they can’t really go anywhere in public without being hounded for autographs.
If the person is famous, the reader would have heard of them. If the reader hasn’t heard of the person then he (or she) isn’t famous. In short, famous is a redundant adjective.
I was thinking of that exchange last week when someone told me that “Mark Cullen, the famous gardener” was going to be at my town’s Home Hardware. I had never heard of Mr. Cullen before so I decided that he wasn’t famous. Then again, I am not a gardener. Also, I can’t name one famous gardener. Not one. If I was passionate about gardens, I’d probably be able to name several. But I’m not.
Pardon me, but do any of my readers know who Dai Vernon is? Or Darwin Ortiz? How about Paul Harris, Bill Malone, Steve Dacri, Jeff McBride or Rudy Coby? Drawing a blank? No problem. They’re all professional magicians. But how would one know that unless one is interested in magic?
Well, you don’t have to be interested in magic to know who David Copperfield is. Or Criss Angel or David Blaine or the late Doug Henning. I’m not a cook but I know who Julia Child is. I don’t design cars but I can tell you who Henry Ford was too.
I guess that means there’s two kinds of fame. There’s the fame that transcends its field and there’s the kind that does not. People in the former category probably make more money. The trade off is they can’t really go anywhere in public without being hounded for autographs.
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