Every once in a while I like to talk about something that makes me spitting mad. And this article on the NY Times arts blog got me thinking about my #1 pet peeve in theatre: the pointless mastery of accents.
I can’t imagine a bigger waste of time than having a broad range of accents and dialects at your disposal. And yet many actors spend their precious life energy -- time they could be using to learn judo or tap dance or something else that actually enhances your stage presence -- learning how to do just that.
I know many people think that without someone speaking a perfect Irish accent the audience will not enter into the world of The Lieutenant of Inishmore. But I have found the opposite to be true. And I just don’t get why you’d care.
Actually I do get why you might care. That’s why it bothers me. Because when I was in college I spent hours listening to British and Southern and Irish dialect tapes. It was something I could easily master and write down on audition forms and display at parties as an example of Something I Know How To Do. And if I was cast in a play I could spend all my time focusing on the easiest, most graspable aspect of it: the accent.
In my present life, I don’t need to master an accent because I do not act in plays that require them. (I act in plays that require you to be yourself with quotation marks, which I’m sure some people find equally annoying). But I do still watch plays in which actors are speaking in accents, and I always find it distracting and I always wish the director had decided to not bother with it. Good accents have never made me love a performance. In fact there is nothing more annoying to watch onstage than an actor who has effortlessly mastered a dialect (except of course for an actor who is painfully butchering one). There’s a flair and a self-consciousness in their delivery that says LOOK AT ME, I’M SPEAKING PERFECT BRITISH. Or South African. Or god help us, Russian.
It’s just a waste of time, in my opinion. For everyone involved. And then to justify that waste of time, actors inflict their mastery on innocent people at parties, people who are just trying to have a conversation and don’t want to hear you launch into guv’nor, fancy a bite to eat, what for NO REASON AT ALL.
Honestly, I’m trying to think of one reason why speaking in an accent would improve the quality or depth or intellectual merit of a play at all, and I can’t. The only reason I can think of is to show off. And if you want to show off, I’d much rather you dress head to toe in sequins and sing me a show tune. Well… as long as it isn’t this show tune. (that is another pet theatre peeve: fifteen year old girls singing On My Own at musical theater auditions. But I can’t in good conscience rail against that since that’s how I spent my adolescence).
UPDATE: see, the Guardian agrees with me.
Showing posts with label incoherent rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label incoherent rant. Show all posts
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Holiday Stress, and other cliches
So. I am experiencing holiday anxiety. Also known as a BEING A LIVING BREATHING ORGANISM. You can tell I'm anxious because I'm expressing most of my emotions in ALL CAPS and use the word FREAKING a lot. Though if that's my criteria than I guess I'm anxious all the time.
Point being, I have not bought a plane ticket yet and my family is cheerfully expecting me to be in Dallas in five days.
Dallas is where my sister, my aunt and her family live. My parents are driving down from Michigan to convene upon it.
And Jonathan’s family, down in Corpus Christi, are expecting us on Christmas Eve.
Every time we visit Texas I forget how FREAKING HUGE it is, so once again I blithely thought we could fly into Dallas, swing down to Corpus, hit Austin on the way, drive back up to Dallas – everyone would be happy. Awesome, road trip! But I forgot that Corpus Christi is a six hour drive from Dallas.
So the reality is: we will fly into Dallas, spend two days there, on Christmas Eve drive six hours down to Corpus, spend two days there, then drive back up to Dallas, stopping in Austin to see some old friends, then fly out early in the morning so we can be back in Portland for a rehearsal. (oh yeah, we’re flying to New York on January 4th). Are we even going to have time to stop at a BBQ joint? Side note, I love writing BBQ. I wish more long words had 3-letter abbreviations. Like, instead of full-blown panic attack I could just say I’m in the middle of a FBPA. Wait, that’s just an acronym. How about HYPVN8 intead of hyperventilate? It’s not the same. BBQ is in a class of its own.
Anyway, the real reality is, (see opening sentence – I’m on a continuous loop) I haven’t bought the tickets yet, and they’re insanely expensive, and I am engaging in what is the most extreme case of denial yet in a long and storied career of practicing denial.
I know, I’m sounding whiny. And this is the most boring post ever. But right now tickets to Dallas are around $700 and it’s way cheaper to fly into Austin. But if we fly into Austin… oh dear lord. That adds a three hour trip that looks something like this:
Austin --> 3 HOURS --> Dallas --> 6 HOURS --> Corpus Christi --> 6 HOURS@#%&$%!!! --> Dallas --> 3 HOURS --> Austin (in time for a 6am flight).
THAT IS MADNESS. But if I tell my parents this is too expensive and complicated for me to handle this year, they’ll alternately shout and sob hysterically about how the family has fallen apart and life will never be the same and what’s $1400 compared to SAVING THE FAMILY?
When will the day come where people come to me for the holidays? I know, I know. When I have a baby. Which sounds less complicated right now than trying to figure out all these travel details.
UPDATE: ok, I just talked to my parents and we came up with an alternate plan where they meet me in Austin on the 26th. And they did not shout or sob hysterically. So I was just being a big old stressball for no reason.
UPDATE #2: Did I mention that I have not bought (or lovingly handmade) any presents yet?
UPDATE #3: I bought the tickets. The thing is, I don't know if in 7 days I will be (a) rolling on the floor laughing with my sister saying THANK GOD I BOUGHT THOSE TICKETS or (b) on the road exhausted and too broke to buy a taco saying WHY IN THE NAME OF SWEET JESUS DID YOU LET ME BUY THOSE TICKETS. To my poor long suffering partner who is asleep on the couch right now. He was so happy an hour ago when he thought I'd decided, screw it, not worth it, this time we're staying home for the holidays.
Anyway, I'll let you know in a week whether it goes direction a or b. Unless it swerves madly in an abab bcbc cdcd ee pattern in which case I will express my feelings in the form of a sonnet.
Point being, I have not bought a plane ticket yet and my family is cheerfully expecting me to be in Dallas in five days.
Dallas is where my sister, my aunt and her family live. My parents are driving down from Michigan to convene upon it.
And Jonathan’s family, down in Corpus Christi, are expecting us on Christmas Eve.
Every time we visit Texas I forget how FREAKING HUGE it is, so once again I blithely thought we could fly into Dallas, swing down to Corpus, hit Austin on the way, drive back up to Dallas – everyone would be happy. Awesome, road trip! But I forgot that Corpus Christi is a six hour drive from Dallas.
So the reality is: we will fly into Dallas, spend two days there, on Christmas Eve drive six hours down to Corpus, spend two days there, then drive back up to Dallas, stopping in Austin to see some old friends, then fly out early in the morning so we can be back in Portland for a rehearsal. (oh yeah, we’re flying to New York on January 4th). Are we even going to have time to stop at a BBQ joint? Side note, I love writing BBQ. I wish more long words had 3-letter abbreviations. Like, instead of full-blown panic attack I could just say I’m in the middle of a FBPA. Wait, that’s just an acronym. How about HYPVN8 intead of hyperventilate? It’s not the same. BBQ is in a class of its own.
Anyway, the real reality is, (see opening sentence – I’m on a continuous loop) I haven’t bought the tickets yet, and they’re insanely expensive, and I am engaging in what is the most extreme case of denial yet in a long and storied career of practicing denial.
I know, I’m sounding whiny. And this is the most boring post ever. But right now tickets to Dallas are around $700 and it’s way cheaper to fly into Austin. But if we fly into Austin… oh dear lord. That adds a three hour trip that looks something like this:
Austin --> 3 HOURS --> Dallas --> 6 HOURS --> Corpus Christi --> 6 HOURS@#%&$%!!! --> Dallas --> 3 HOURS --> Austin (in time for a 6am flight).
THAT IS MADNESS. But if I tell my parents this is too expensive and complicated for me to handle this year, they’ll alternately shout and sob hysterically about how the family has fallen apart and life will never be the same and what’s $1400 compared to SAVING THE FAMILY?
When will the day come where people come to me for the holidays? I know, I know. When I have a baby. Which sounds less complicated right now than trying to figure out all these travel details.
UPDATE: ok, I just talked to my parents and we came up with an alternate plan where they meet me in Austin on the 26th. And they did not shout or sob hysterically. So I was just being a big old stressball for no reason.
UPDATE #2: Did I mention that I have not bought (or lovingly handmade) any presents yet?
UPDATE #3: I bought the tickets. The thing is, I don't know if in 7 days I will be (a) rolling on the floor laughing with my sister saying THANK GOD I BOUGHT THOSE TICKETS or (b) on the road exhausted and too broke to buy a taco saying WHY IN THE NAME OF SWEET JESUS DID YOU LET ME BUY THOSE TICKETS. To my poor long suffering partner who is asleep on the couch right now. He was so happy an hour ago when he thought I'd decided, screw it, not worth it, this time we're staying home for the holidays.
Anyway, I'll let you know in a week whether it goes direction a or b. Unless it swerves madly in an abab bcbc cdcd ee pattern in which case I will express my feelings in the form of a sonnet.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Rant #2: Emerging Artists
Ok, you know what drives me crazy?
When people say things like: you are lucky to be an emerging artist. If you were a big old established arts organization you’d have all these PATRONS and FUNDERS and MILLION DOLLAR BUDGETS dragging you down. You are light and free! You can do whatever you want! NOBODY TELLS YOU WHAT TO DO!
You know why that is? Because we (by we I mean the crazy performance troupe I’ve worked with for ten years) are our own bosses. So we’re telling ourselves what to do. Except we don’t know what to do. How do you retain audiences? How do you split up the administrative work? How do you market your work to the people who will like it most? Who are those people? And how do you get those people to bring their friend who inherited a family fortune and could maybe give you some MONEY? And oh yeah, how do you do these things at a pace faster than GLACIAL?
We have figured a lot of things out. We’ve hired consultants and we’ve been smart and frugal and we know more than we did ten years ago, yes. For instance: do not put a nineteen year old pyromaniac in charge of fire for your touring outdoor spectacle. That is something we learned the hard way.
But we still don’t know how to pay ourselves anything near a salary. And it is getting harder and harder. We work our asses off, and for what? It is fun and we are free to do whatever we want. But… come on! We aren’t 24 anymore so we need some effing money! Isn’t there a middle ground grant, for when you reach your 30s and you’re not an art star genius yet but you’re doing pretty good? Could someone please support me while I figure out how to jump to BADASS PROFESSIONAL from the current spot I’m in, which is MUDDLING THROUGH SOMEHOW AND OH BY THE WAY I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A BABY?
So, point is, I’m not feeling very LIGHT AND FREE at the moment. Not feeling like we can do whatever we want. Not feeling drunk on freedom and artistic integrity. I’d like less integrity and more MONEY. And maybe some health care. Which maybe sounds kind of blasé and hip but trust me, it’s just weary and boring except I’m not 86 yet so I can’t wear an old lady turban and smoke endlessly while talking about the daggers of life. I’m 32. If I try that I’ll just look like an asshole. Which would be fine if I had money but no one wants to hang out with a poor asshole with a victim complex who can’t even buy them an effing beer. (Unless she's wearing a turban... note to self: TIME TO START ROCKING THE OLD LADY TURBAN).
Ok, so, like all good rants this is not particularly coherent. All I’m saying is: don’t talk to me about the joys and glories of being an emerging artist. I've been emerging. I'd like to stop emerging and start GETTING SOMEWHERE.
When people say things like: you are lucky to be an emerging artist. If you were a big old established arts organization you’d have all these PATRONS and FUNDERS and MILLION DOLLAR BUDGETS dragging you down. You are light and free! You can do whatever you want! NOBODY TELLS YOU WHAT TO DO!
You know why that is? Because we (by we I mean the crazy performance troupe I’ve worked with for ten years) are our own bosses. So we’re telling ourselves what to do. Except we don’t know what to do. How do you retain audiences? How do you split up the administrative work? How do you market your work to the people who will like it most? Who are those people? And how do you get those people to bring their friend who inherited a family fortune and could maybe give you some MONEY? And oh yeah, how do you do these things at a pace faster than GLACIAL?
We have figured a lot of things out. We’ve hired consultants and we’ve been smart and frugal and we know more than we did ten years ago, yes. For instance: do not put a nineteen year old pyromaniac in charge of fire for your touring outdoor spectacle. That is something we learned the hard way.
But we still don’t know how to pay ourselves anything near a salary. And it is getting harder and harder. We work our asses off, and for what? It is fun and we are free to do whatever we want. But… come on! We aren’t 24 anymore so we need some effing money! Isn’t there a middle ground grant, for when you reach your 30s and you’re not an art star genius yet but you’re doing pretty good? Could someone please support me while I figure out how to jump to BADASS PROFESSIONAL from the current spot I’m in, which is MUDDLING THROUGH SOMEHOW AND OH BY THE WAY I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A BABY?
So, point is, I’m not feeling very LIGHT AND FREE at the moment. Not feeling like we can do whatever we want. Not feeling drunk on freedom and artistic integrity. I’d like less integrity and more MONEY. And maybe some health care. Which maybe sounds kind of blasé and hip but trust me, it’s just weary and boring except I’m not 86 yet so I can’t wear an old lady turban and smoke endlessly while talking about the daggers of life. I’m 32. If I try that I’ll just look like an asshole. Which would be fine if I had money but no one wants to hang out with a poor asshole with a victim complex who can’t even buy them an effing beer. (Unless she's wearing a turban... note to self: TIME TO START ROCKING THE OLD LADY TURBAN).
Ok, so, like all good rants this is not particularly coherent. All I’m saying is: don’t talk to me about the joys and glories of being an emerging artist. I've been emerging. I'd like to stop emerging and start GETTING SOMEWHERE.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
RANT #1: Taylor Swift
Hello. I would like to talk today about one of my biggest pet peeves: Taylor Swift. (Not to be confused with my other peeve: naming a human being Taylor.)
If you listen to country radio or read Perez Hilton, you know who Taylor Swift is. If you are my Dad, you don’t. For those of you who are my Dad, let me lay it out for you: Taylor Swift is a nineteen-year-old singer who has made a splash on the country charts and currently tours (I swear to god, I saw this with my own eyes) with an entourage of something like FORTY-SEVEN semi-trucks with her face splashed gigantically across them. But underneath all that, she’s just a little girl with a big smile, a big dream and long shiny hair. And long shiny legs and long shiny eyelashes and a fair-to-middling voice. (See: Miley Cyrus, Hillary Duff and the original Teen Exploitation Queen herself, Ms. Britney Spears).
As in previous models, what drives me crazy is not Taylor Swift herself but the Taylor Swift Machine. The Machine markets Taylor Swift according to the accepted formula: one part pretty little virgin songstress, one part sexy rocker hair, one part business woman.
I wish I could find the photo of Taylor getting doused by a waterfall onstage.
Here are some quotes from articles about Ms. Swift:
The world's biggest new pop star is a little bit country, a little bit rock & roll, and all control freak. What's behind her drive for success?
"While other girls were drawing their wedding dress, I was drawing stage dimensions," says Swift, whose 55-city tour turns her junior-high fantasies into reality: "We have giant turrets that raise during 'Love Story,' and elaborate costumes," she says.
As it turns out, Swift is a rare blend of goofy teenager and polished saleswoman, which has let her tap into a huge market of country-loving teens.
See what I mean? They love in profiles like this to take two opposite traits and smack them up against each other. Case in point: Taylor Swift loves pink and purple but she is also a tooooootal control freak, guys. Whoa, come again? CAN SHE BE BOTH OF THESE THINGS? A professional, and yet a little girl? I too have two opposite traits contained within my dainty form, and thus I love her.
Our society loves that shit. I admit, part of me is jealous because I would love to be able to rig up a live waterfall in my own performances. Goddamit! How come I can’t end my show with a fucking WATERFALL cascading over my nubile flesh? That’s what I get for going into weird performance art instead of hot country.
Even in the circles I move in, though, many people want to see you this way as a solo artist, to see a contradiction embodied. They want you to be a high art savant crossed with a tough as nails, take no prisoners, clickety-clack red nails and heels businesswoman. They want you to be Bjork but inside be Sigourney Weaver from Working Girl. Pretty pink on the outside, blue steel on the inside. Maybe they just know that you have to be both to succeed.
But back to Taylor Swift. I worry about her. Like other incarnations, she was plucked from obscurity not because of her songs or her voice but because there is something about her that people respond to, and basing a career off charisma and charm and likeability (not to mention virginity)? We all know where that’s headed.
But if we all know where it’s headed, why are we so drawn in? Why are we ever-hungry for more teen queen victims? Why is there always such an appetite for the newest sexy little moppet? It can’t all be from preteen girls, can it?
Whatever, my rant is losing fire. It just makes me tired. Maybe she’ll make it out okay. Maybe her sharp as nails business acumen will save her a la Madonna or Shania Twain.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
My "mission statement"
Actually I have this thing where as soon as I write a "mission statement" I divebomb it. It just feels so self help-y and/or corporate and/or self aggrandizing. But I feel like I should communicate with clarity and focus, and so a "mission statement" (I can't even write it without quotes!) it is.
+ I am and always have been a Very Sensitive Person. There are good and bad things that come with being a Very Sensitive Person. Good things: I can get on other people's wavelength easily, I can tell pretty quickly when someone is bad news, I live in a wondrous fairyland of imagination and possibility. Bad things: I cry every other day, and if someone criticizes my hairstyle I take it to heart, wondering if there is something wrong with my sense of style and my character and my humanity. So. I'll be talking a lot about holding onto balance and perspective as a SENSITIVE PERSON IN A COLD HARD WORLD. And I'll try to do this without being too earnest and annoying and self-obsessed.
+ I am interested in contradictions. I want to dig them up, spread them out on a blanket and see what they’re made of. And then maybe place them gently back into the earth to see what grows. And hope that what grows is not a 600-pound turnip/gorilla cause maaaaan I do not want to mess with a turnip/gorilla, I learned that the hard way.
+ I am a performance artist which provides a particular challenge for the sensitive person -- I clearly crave connection with others in the heightened world of live performance, and yet this world provides heightened blows and knockdowns. So I'll be exploring that as well.
+ I'll also throw out random manifestoes, rants and inspirations as I see fit.
+ I am and always have been a Very Sensitive Person. There are good and bad things that come with being a Very Sensitive Person. Good things: I can get on other people's wavelength easily, I can tell pretty quickly when someone is bad news, I live in a wondrous fairyland of imagination and possibility. Bad things: I cry every other day, and if someone criticizes my hairstyle I take it to heart, wondering if there is something wrong with my sense of style and my character and my humanity. So. I'll be talking a lot about holding onto balance and perspective as a SENSITIVE PERSON IN A COLD HARD WORLD. And I'll try to do this without being too earnest and annoying and self-obsessed.
+ I am interested in contradictions. I want to dig them up, spread them out on a blanket and see what they’re made of. And then maybe place them gently back into the earth to see what grows. And hope that what grows is not a 600-pound turnip/gorilla cause maaaaan I do not want to mess with a turnip/gorilla, I learned that the hard way.
+ I am a performance artist which provides a particular challenge for the sensitive person -- I clearly crave connection with others in the heightened world of live performance, and yet this world provides heightened blows and knockdowns. So I'll be exploring that as well.
+ I'll also throw out random manifestoes, rants and inspirations as I see fit.
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