"Let's not talk about the passing time."

Back in London after the few days in Paris. Had a nice time visiting my mom and seeing her for the first time since April (next time, Dad--next time). Thanks largely to the drive of my mother, we visited Victor Hugo's house, Napoleon's tomb, and the Musée Rodin. I requested a trip up to Montmartre (as it is the setting of my favorite noir film), so we went up there on Saturday, wandered around a bit, rode the funicular, bought some creme brulee-type sweets and ate them in the cemetery there. On Sunday we met Caitlin and Heidi (who were in Paris for the weekend themselves) in the Musée de l'Orangerie after seeing the Water Lilies. Overall it was a nice mini-break, and I even got a chance to read some of the planned Orwell and skulk in a couple cafes.

I feel like I should be writing more, telling you about the small snafu that nearly made me miss my train and could have cost me the trip; how I got caught in the pouring rain while trying to find Oscar Wilde's grave; how I saw the most attractive butcher ever (*Insert crude sausage innuendo here*); or how I had "Little Water Song" stuck in my head for most of the trip. But I don't feel like it.

I'm in a bad way right now, and as I've discussed previously, I can't unpack my heart with words here. And lately I have found this forum distracting. I may try tomorrow, or over the next couple days to recalculate a plan of attack for this blog, but at the moment there's just too much going on. What it comes down to is this: I used to know someone who kept a blog, and would on occasion list grievances he had with certain aspects of his life. And that is fine--it is within his right to do so, absolutely. But what began to worry me was that I was finding out more about him from his blog than what he'd share with me in person--we would meet, and I would ask him questions about his life that I knew part of the answers to because of what he posted on the Internet, and he would only half respond. He was my friend, and I didn't understand why it was easier for him to put on the 'net, probably knowing I'd have read it, but wouldn't talk to me about it in person. And in this world, where I seem to in effect be stalking my friends over the Facebook, finding out about babies and marriages and engagements there first instead of from the people themselves--I don't know, it just seems like the wrong order. It doesn't seem right to not turn to the help available to you, to the people available to you when you need them, directly, and instead: opting to hope that they'll follow up on something with you after you've left a huge hint for them laid out in bright, red, flashing neon letters. Not to be too crass about it, but that's just kind of fucked up in my opinion. And I don't want to cut my friends out of my life because I suddenly have a better relationship with them through my blog. That just doesn't seem fair, and isn't how I want to run the business of my life. And of course, it is far distant from the topic of this blog anyway...

...and just what was that again anyway?

I have some things I need to unload somewhere, and I know it can't be here. So I'm going to try to go and do that and come back here when it's settled. Or when I have any news of real note.

And with that: I'm out.

The Pencil Film LIVES!!! (But silently still...)

My little pencil film will have a transatlantic showing this Friday as part of The Tank's Silent Night fundraiser. Basically the venue (home of SLAM!, a weekly competitive playwrighting competition I used to frequent) has been getting complaints from the neighbors about the noise. Yes, those theatrical types can be awfully rowdy. So organizers Stefania and Marley have arranged to hold a fundraiser of completely silent performances. Since the film still exists without a soundtrack (I can't get ahold of an organ--or an organist), I offered it up for the evening's agenda. I've spent the last couple days re-cutting the thing (I wasn't totally happy with how it came out the first time), and I'll post the new version on Saturday, after the fundraiser. If you're in NYC, head down to 345 W. 45th St. at 8PM on Friday, and remember: keep it down!

The longest pause...

Harold Pinter died two days ago. I only found out last night from my news feed on the Facebook, of all places. <--Why is it Facebook seems to be the only way to know what is happening in people's lives? Recently, I had yet ANOTHER friend announce their engagement there before I heard it from them. What is that about? I confess to being just as addicted to the social networking site as much as anyone else, but for frak's sake people, pick a phone already. I want to hear it from you directly, not just because I spent my afternoon stalking you online.

Anyway.

I love Pinter, and I can honestly say that he was the second playwright to actually make me think about what theatre can do, and more specifically how text can shape an entire show/performance. I first read The Homecoming my freshman year in college, and before him no playwright had really left an impression on me other than Shakespeare, who by then I had been acquainted with for about six or seven years. Reading that play blew my mind, and for one of the first times I actually started thinking about how modern theatre could do exactly what classical theatre did for me, but in an entirely opposite way. They say that with Shakespeare the characters live on the line--most classical has this reputation, that there's no "internal life" necessarily, because everyone is running around telling the audience exactly how they feel all of the time, usually using beautiful imagery, etc. But then came Pinter and his pauses, where he showed you exactly how a character was feeling, but in a completely different way: by having them say nothing at all. Or by having them talk around what was happening, about things that didn't seem to be connected to the plot or stage action at all (which may have been one of the reasons The Birthday Party only played eight performances). Actors have to be completely grounded in those characters so it makes sense to them (and hopefully at least some of the audience) why they can do one thing on stage while saying something else. This seems like an obvious point for anyone who's had any kind of acting training, particularly when we talk about any play that we respect as having subtext. But I submit that often, especially with a writer like Pinter, this doesn't happen. Or doesn't happen fully, because he's pretty tough. (Another writer this happens with easily is Mamet, who by his own account seems to completely dismiss the actor in terms of the play, other than being a vessel for his {Mamet's} words. I think that's unfair: when Mamet's plays are done well, it's usually because the actors are smart enough and talented enough to actually understand what to do to make his text completely comprehensible to a spectator's ear. Otherwise, it could turn out to be a real mess. {Sorry Mamet, but fuck off.<--It's okay, he'd find that endearing.}) But when it does, oh what theatrical magic! What resonant moments that can happen on stage! What interesting stylistic choices! I just love it.

A more personal reason for lamenting the loss of Pinter is that this past October he was named president of Central, having also been an alumni of the institution. In a way, we belonged to him, and he belonged to the students who were running around in his old house, so to speak. We are meant to carry on the reputation of the school, part of which he established, and we thought he'd be around to shepherd us a bit. I'm sad we won't have that opportunity. I am interested to see what kind of memorial or tribute the school pays to him when we get back--he already has his name on one of the steps, so I'm sure that won't be it. I also wonder if his passing will re-inject his theatrical sensibility in any of the work my peers and I come to generate. Maybe the most fitting tribute would just be subjecting an audience to watching two characters stand in silence.

He might.

Like.

That.