Not
every Starving Artist is given the opportunity to have a second go-round with a
role, nonetheless a kickass role in a kickass play.
Oh
man. It's the greatest.
It's
like the world just says "OK, hey. Here's this again. Try it
once more, and do it better. See what else you can find. You're
different, you're older, that shouldn't be hard."
We
just opened our Twelfth Night two
days ago, but I first did this thing when I was in grad school and had...an
"important" experience with it. Not "good", not
"bad", "important".
So,
for actors, grad school is a purely selfish place, right? It's this place
where you have three years to investigate yourself, figure out precisely who
the hell you are, know it for definite, and then walk out into the world with
it.
I
was still figuring all of that out when I played Olivia the first time. I
was actually in the thick of it. I only knew how to be a quirky likable
girl; I felt comfortable being a little weird and feared being ordinary, I
couldn't bear the thought of the audience not having my character's back (slash
not liking ME), and I was youngish and super wide-eyed. Henceforth, when
my director (the same man you yelled at me for saying "Yes" to
everything, openly hated my bubbliness and frequently called me a
"Flake" specifically to piss me off...which worked...he was a peach),
when he said "Angela, your first steps onstage in this play need to be the
steps of a solemn high-status woman who refuses to get out of mourning," I
thought:
Ummm...I didn’t understand a word you just
said. Could you repeat that?
I
legitimately had no idea what that meant. In terms of Me, I didn't.
At all. It sounded like the complete antithesis of everything I was and
I, therefore, had no idea what to do with it.
So,
I played with her, determined to figure something out.
Every day, he told me “No”. Every day, I got shot down. Every day, I got a little more confused, and every day, I
broke apart a little more.
“Angela, she’s a woman.”
I know.
“You’re still giving me a girl.”
I’m working on it, I know.
“And she’s in mourning.”
OK.
“She’s stuck there.”
…OK.
“But, she’s a clown!”
Uh…
“Don’t forget that.
She’s a clown, in love.”
…I’m confused.
“What is so confusing about that?!”
(EVERYTHIIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!!!)
I hated everything.
I would run home, tear my hair out, vent to that guy I date…make-out,
watch Rock of Love on VH1, and pass out no less confused than I was hours
before.
“Angela, you need to listen to the people onstage with you.”
I am, I honestly honestly am.
“Then why aren’t you getting it?!”
I don’t know!!
Every day.
“A mourning clown in love, Angela! That’s it!”
Wait. “That’s
it”?!
“Yes! But
you’re a woman, not a character!”
But. OK, but,
I’m a clown?!
“WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR YOU?!”
Every. Day.
Finally, one night, I went home, sobbing. Embarrassed. We were getting ready to start teching and I was lost, and
terrified that I was going to make a fool out of myself.
That guy that I date and I had only been together for like 3
months, and already, he’d mastered the art of talking me off a cliff. (Saint.)
“Baby. I think
you’re trying too hard to do everything he’s asking of you.”
Well, of course I am.
Olivia’s apparently all of those things. To him.
“Or she’s not.”
…What?
“Or she’s not.
Maybe they’re all just suggestions. Maybe you need to take everything he says with a grain of
salt instead of taking it all directly to heart and trying to do…all of it.”
But, I feel like I’m not doing any of it. And I can’t figure out a way to
effectively do any of it.
“Well. Then
maybe ‘taking what he says with a grain of salt’ really just means ‘don’t go
out of your way to do what he wants.’ ”
…What?
“Take the essentials of her, the essentials that he’s
suggested, but interpret them only in the ways that you’re capable of doing
them.”
…Oh.
“You are enough.”
Oh.
“Always.”
And so the next day, I walked into rehearsal, pissed and
determined. I threw every note of my director's out of my head and stared directly at him with “Fuck you”-eyes every time I
had to deliver a soliloquy. I felt
like I had lit a fire under my ass and just started running, erratically, but
running just the same.
I was exhausted.
We sat on the floor for notes after the run.
“Before we begin…Angela.”
Yeah?
“Where the HELL has that girl been all this time?!”
… … …(And I smirked.)
“No less than that.
Ever.”
OK.
And thusly went my first hand at Olivia. A thing that worked in the end, but one
that I never really felt was “mine”; a thing I always knew could be better.
And so, here I am, five years later, and I have this
opportunity to try her again. A
completely different director, completely different ensemble, interpretation,
environment, city…and I feel like I know this bitch.
I feel like I have been through enough heartbreak in my life
at this point to know how one can walk around with it every day.
I know what it means to be both a woman and a fool, a
clown….because I’m pretty sure that’s who I am in my every day life.
I have been betrayed by friends, I have been hounded by
assholes, I have aggressively pursued things only to be shot down…and only for
me to turn right around and pursue it again, harder.
These are “Olivia”-things.
And so, I walked into the rehearsal process ready to own
her, ready to make her mine, and our director is the coolest guy in the whole
wide world, so he gave us all space to figure out how to do that, how to own
our shit. He would reign us in
when necessary, but would otherwise say “Yeah yeah yeah, great, keep playing,
now try this.”
It felt. So
good.
And it felt like work, but, like, the best work, and I knew
that I was walking into this Opening Night of this Twelfth Night
offering something different…both for myself, and for the audience.
This Olivia was new to me, and unique to me, and I felt with
every fiber of my being that the audience would feel that, too.
And I was jazzed.
We pretty much have the most badass playful ensemble
imaginable, and our funky unique little production (in a legit cabaret house in
the Upper Upper West Side, it’s the shit) went off without a hitch the first
night. Of course it did. People went nuts, couldn’t stop talking
about how much fun it was, totally non pretentious, absolutely 100% all fun all
the time.
…So, that feels great.
We went out, celebrated, turned right around and brought it
again the second night, killed, went out, celebrated. And I felt awesome.
And then our first review came out, our first glowing
wonderful review with a headline that read:
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!)
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The writer is totally with us, totally thinks the production
is a blast: a “razor sharp”, “deftly-executed physical comedy” that is both
“relevant” and “engaging”.
(THESE ARE ALL GREAT
THINGS!!!)
“Fancy West London theater, this is not.”
(THAT’S GREAT, TOO!!!!)
“…this isn’t your typical theater experience, you might be
in for a bit of a shock when you are accosted by an aggressively seductive Olivia or realize you are drinking the same
beer as Sir Toby Belch.”
(YOU’RE GODDAMNED
RIGHT!!!!!)
“For those who want to languish in the artistry of
Shakespeare’s syntax, you may be better off elsewhere, as this interpretation
focuses more on the comedic aspects of this screwball romantic comedy. Don’t expect Olivia to be too mired in
mourning or for Malvolio to hold a grudge for long.”
(THAT IS CORRECT!!!
NEITHER ONE OF US WILL DO THOSE THINGS!!!)
The writer loved the music, loved the concept, loved the
fact that we were openly having a ridiculously good time, mentions three of my
cast mates as having particularly kicked ass (because, let’s face it, they do,
hard)…and then, the self-concerned sporadically self-conscious actress in me,
that one who hasn’t done a play in a year and a half, that actress read the
article a second time. Read it,
and thought:
Oh. But, where’s my
name? She mentioned my character,
but not my name. …Does this mean I actually sucked?
…I did. I
thought that. I went to that
place.
Dumb.
And then, I realized that that was my “grad
school”-place. That place in my
stupid actor brain where I need obvious and undeniable approval of what I’m
doing in my role. Publicized love for
who I am and what I bring to the table.
That place where somehow, I will not know if I’m doing well unless
someone tells me as much.
I hate that place.
Living there isn’t healthy.
Reviews are great, reviews are an awesome pick-me-up and a
super gauge of how what you’re doing is reading to the masses. I will always read them, always. I will.
But. I won’t
live by them, won’t let them add or detract from what I’ve brought to the
table. I can’t. And just shouldn’t.
When you own something, no one else needs to tell you how
great it is. You already
know.
Isn’t that why you took ownership of it to begin with?
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