Sharks
Orinally posted on Friday, January 15, 2010

One of my guilty pleasures is Project Runway. I just love Timothy Gunn swanning about his NY Fashion Ave workroom pouting “Designers... how are you doing? Work with me. “ .... His unctuous voice dripping concern.... And then what’s her name, Heidi Nazi Klum, with her litte ego- cutting code line "You’re out, Auf Weindersehen”. My first week at Philippe Gaulier has been the Parisian version ( only much much nastier) of Project Runway. Imagine the Line-up of Shame at the end of PR when the losers face their worst nightmares: public humiliation, excoriation, evisceration.... told that their work is SHIT, and then..... YOU”RE OUT!!! This is the psychic equivalent of the Romans feeding the Christians to the lions. The taste of blood in some mouths is sweet. Simon Callow is another one.... TV audiences can’t wait to hear what horrifyingly nasty verbal vituperation he has saved up for his next Idol vicitim. And he relishes the cutting.


None of them hold a candle to Monsieur Philippe Gaulier. At the end of each exercise, the participating actors ( usually 8-12 of us) are lined up in front of the rest of the class and he asks “Who was the most boring? Who made you so happy when they left the stage? Who would you like to kill?” One young woman from Romania was told that Ceaucescu should have shot her. I was told I should be killed in Pakistan. A Japanese woman was told that MacArthur didn’t finish his job since she was still alive. It’s truly ludicrous. And while you’re working he screams “ You are so f***king boring, leave the stage immediately!!!” I’ve learned that this invective is actually a challenge to do better, but instead it stuns me into silence and provokes a desire for the earth to open up and swallow me.

He also enjoys physical abuse --- we “play” a game at the beginning of class-- a sort of “Simon says” and classmates turn on each other saying “I denounce Thelma” ... Thelma must either then ‘buy’ kisses from someone or Philippe flips Thelma over by twisting her arm behind her back and then hits her and bends her thumb as if to break it.. I’m really not making this up.

So this week has been challenging, to say the very least. It has not been fantastic. Coupled with the slightly disfiguring black eye, I don’t quite know who I am. I am knocked off my pins. I have met some lovely people, but I now know the rules of the game..... No matter what you do, you are subject to abuse and derision. The only way to look at it is as a game. If you are afraid, you’re dead. Sharks smell fear in the water.


Attention! Big Boobs are no longer funny!

Originally posted on Saturday, January 23, 2010

So,today, finally, I stopped caring. Its ‘a good thing, really, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because big boobs are no longer funny.

I’ve spent an incredibly disorienting two weeks navigating my way around the personality of this sociopath, my teacher, Philippe Gaulier. Richard also has been scrambling to keep up with my desperate phone calls, patiently and with so much love listening to my anecdotes of torture and degradation. AND! I’ve gone back to the Church! . Because, did you know, for each new church you visit you get three wishes? ( Catholic childhood mythology) Each of my wishes at each and every church is for courage.

I continue to ask myself the question: is there something I’m doing/not doing that could turn this around? What is the key, the secret, where is the magic door , or the magic words that unlock the magic door or just the magic bullet I can use to put this maniac out of my misery? I barely survive 10 seconds a try at the improvs he invents. I make an entrance, begin to speak, he beats his drum and says in a bored voice: “Horrible. Paula Plum, very nice woman, but so boring. Have a piece of cake. Adios.”


I have summoned all the survival lessons I have learned in 56 years on this planet... Recalling for instance, the light shed by Victor Frankl in Man’s Search for Meaning. Frankl’s wisdom and philosophy always serves me when times get tough. Essentially he says I have the freedom to choose an attitude toward the inevitable suffering of life. So I’m trying to choose an attitude. ( not caring) Richard suggests “ironic detachment” , treating this as a sort of -out-of -body experience, watching from a distance without emotional involvement. Unfortunately emotional detachment is not in my gene pool. I usually jump feet first into the deep end. It also does not serve when summoning the passion for the work. At night I think, “Hey , it’s really OK. It’s only three hours a day. I can handle that. “ Then in the morning it takes all my stamina and denial just to get myself to the train.

Anecdotally, doesn’t this sound fairly pathetic? Even as I write this I’m thinking, I’m a Fox Grant recipient? I’m a Distinguished Alum of Boston University? Would a Pulitzer Prize make this any less painful? How about an Oscar?

So: Why I stopped caring. Last weekend we had monsoons in Paris. Saturday, in the deluge, I hunted down costume/mask stores in the Marais district and for a mere 100 Euros assembled a mess of supplies to complete my mask-making assignment. ( Gaulier: "Make three masks. Something funny, a nose.")

I was also heartened in my soggy solitude to suddenly have a wave of inspiration for a scenario for my mask group. A silly idea, but silly is good, no? ...I was in Monoprix in the lingerie department and voila: enormous “soutiens - gorges” ( soutiens = “holding under” = brassiere in French. Amusing, non? ) Suddenly life seemed sunnier. I had masks to make and a workable funny idea for our group mask scene: two women hanging out their lingerie on a clothesline with obvious differences in their pulchritude as demonstrated by said lingerie. All right, a little déclassé, but this is CLOWN people, and low humor has always been the order of the day. I mean, it started with enormous phalluses , OK? Big boobs is not such a leap.

You know the rest of the story. Gaulier hated it, said it was “a horrible moment, boring. We were scandalized by bras in the 60’s but today it is boring.” Boring boring boring. “Boring” is his favorite word. Go ahead. Google “Gaulier boring”. I dare you. Anyway, my group of four women had followed my lead and my idea failed. There was not one laugh. Amongst ourselves, we called it “Le Flop”. He gave us a zero. This is his other favorite thing, screaming in the most exaggeratedly bad Pepe La Pue accent “ You get a zero!”
Msr. Gaulier


The Innocent Masks

Can I just say a word about masks here? ( Remember, We’re doing this lingerie scenario in gigantic white masks) These masks are enormous and enigmatic and graceful and clumsy and astonishing. There is a childlike wonder in their expressions. The masks are innocent and each has a ‘spirit” ; one is led by the ‘spirit’ of the mask. The mask leads you, directs you. If you show your will, the mask dies. You and the audience discover the mask together.

Physically, however, all poetry and art aside, the mask sits on your head like a vice. There is a pair of -- literally-- PIN holes for eyes so you are virtually blind AND can’t breathe because the mask covers your head and there’s no ventilation. If you have the slightest inclination toward claustrophobia, masks are not your game. So while you are blind and suffocating you summon your “esprit” and go for it. The poetry, I mean. Yeah, go for the poetry, be simple, be subtle, and try not to die or have a heart attack.

So: why I stopped caring. Well, partly it was the big boob debacle. Then there was this:


I discovered I loved the mask-making project . We were to use half masks cut off just below the nose , so no suffocation. ( AHHH !!! That’s me taking a breath), and basically, the expression can be whatever evolves in your experimentation with clay, plastic and papier mache. I really got into it. At home in my little flat, I made an Alfred E. Neuman face with big ears and a goofy expression. Then, what I liked to think of as the “Mean Concierge” emerged-- a pale blue/gray hooked nose kind of witch stereotype , but with a little French Attitude. All told, I spent about 20 hours creating these two pieces and I love them. Wednesday I

gathered costumes for my two characters and flew to school thinking, “Yeah, OK. Masks.”


So , Mme Mean Concierge is offstage about to make her entrance,in my pencil skirt, black sweater, boots and turban with a terrifying bug brooch pinned into my headpiece. I have ideas for improvisation, but nothing is set, because the secret is to “deconner”-- to be willing to fool around with the audience. It’s about --as always- being in the moment . I make my entrance. I say something ---( I honestly don’t remember what) and he screams “ No! this is NOT the voice of this mask. You have to talk with a Texas accent. You are American.” I shout back, “I am not Texan, I am French Canadian!” ( I am, actually) He screams , “Start over this is horrible and you don’t want to show your elastic (the elastic that holds the mask to your head) when you exit! Idiot!”

I scream back “ No, I want to show my ASS when I exit.” ( Ha, Got him...... Pause) He says, “That is a very important part of the body” I want to say, “Yeah and you can kiss mine.” As if reading my thoughts he screams “Exit quickly QUICKLY!!!.” I say “ I will exit at my own speed”, and do.


Offstage. Breathe. Reenter immediately. I begin again. “So...” Gaulier beating on drum, more screaming: “NO, Adios. Leave the stage IMMEDIATELY. Horrible. No voice..You get a ZERO. .” Twenty hours of work, 30 seconds on stage. Zero. And as I put my witch mask on the bench, and cross back to my seat, he ends with “Your mask is kind of a self-portrait, no?”

Handling the Hot Moments

Handling The Hot Moments
Originally posted Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Bob Saoud and I as Helene Nadler and the Fabulous Mr. Charles in "New Century"







Potty- mouth Dorothy Lintott in "History Boys"









Alright ,I’m up at 3 AM l unable to sleep, thinking that I have jumped into the middle of my story without exposition. Bad playwriting. So while the clock ticks in the dark corner of my room. at this ungodly Parisian hour, let me give you a morsel of blog background about how I got here. It will take my mind off of school.

The first act of this comedy-- and I like to think of it as a comedy, even though I often play it like a tragic disaster ( I’m talking about my life, here, just ask my husband) -- is that, about a year ago 2009, I was experiencing a ‘dip’ ( euphemism) in my career as a ripely sexual middle aged actress and wondered where my bliss was leading me. One day in April, out of the blue, Paul Daigneault ( Artistic Director of SpeakEasy Stage) emailed asking if I was interested in applying for a Fox Actor Fellowship with SpeakEasy as my host theatre. ( Instant shot of adrenaline.) I had performed in two very rich productions the previous year with SpeakEasy, History Boys, directed by Scott Edmiston, and New Century, directed by Paul. I was thrilled and honored to be asked to partner SpeakEasy in this venture.

I have never written a grant. Grant writing always seemed to be one of those mysteries of life , like the stock market or health insurance , or balancing my check book, ie, not really within my ken. Julie Otis, to the rescue! Julie is SpeakEasy’s Development Director, a completely upbeat gal with endless amounts of positive energy. She brainstormed.with me over coffee and in five minutes we had a plan, a hundred ideas and were simultaneously electrified by that mysterious spark , Possibility. It took me about a month to write my proposal and Julie coordinated my work with the theatre’s narrative and we submitted the joint proposal June 15, 2009. The awardees were to be announced Aug 10.

Cut to August 21, London, 10 PM , the Marriott Hotel in Grovsenor Square. Paula & Richard are on vacation. As I wring out my underwear in the sink, I’m thinking, “Huh I probably didn’t get that grant.”

The phone rings.


The Fox Actor Fellowship is awarded to five candidates a year who wish to strengthen their relationship with a host theatre by developing their skills as actors. I proposed to study with Ecole Philippe Gaulier in Paris for three months, six weeks in movement and mask classes at the D’ell Arte School and two weeks at Ecole de Mime in Montreal. I have also been writing a play about Edna St. Vincent Millay for a year or so and thought the story of her sexual experimentation with women in the 1920 might be a subject interesting to SpeakEasy audiences. Part of my proposal, then, was to finish writing this play and teach classes based on my experiences at Gaulier, Dell Arte, & Ecole De Mime. Finally, ( and I don’t know where this idea came from, but I still love it,) I proposed to teach a class entitled “Handling the Hot Moments” on the subject of managing those tricky sex scenes on and off-stage. Nothing in my background qualifies me for this, except for a stint as a Sex-ed teacher in the late 70’s at Buckingham Brown & Nichols Middle School, Cambridge But I’ve always found the subject of infidelity as it relates to on-stage love affairs to be particularly common and yet unspoken. How many real-life relationships have been threatened by the on-stage kiss? How does one manage to balance reality with fantasy? This question belongs both in the physical realm and the existential. And, even more directly, how DO you handle the discomfort /excitement/ confusion around physical intimacy in a play?

This will be the subject of my workshop.

First Day of School
Originally posted Tuesday, January 12, 2010


Get up early to meditate , do yoga to be focused and ready for Philippe Gaulier. As I am doing the ‘breath of fire”, exhaling through the nose vigorously, count of 40, then one big exhalation rolling energetically head down to the floor, SMASH, head hits table right at eyebone, and I reel backwards onto the bed thinking, “What’s the French word for concussion?” Enormous egg forming on my forehead, the bruising already collecting around the eyelid. And off we go to school!

My mother, every first day of every shool year, would call out the screen door to my brother and me as we ran to catch the bus, “Get A ! And recite in class!.” That was the magic formula then. Magic would have come in handy today. Black magic.

Its’ not that I hadn’t been warned. Tina Packer ( who suffers NO fools) told me that Philippe Gaulier was “ a dicator” Others testified :“a monster” “ a tyrant” “ a sadist”---- I was not disabused of any of these impressions during my two classes with him today. Essentially he rules by intimidation and humiliation. I jumped into the fire and tried a solo improv ; he stopped me and told me I should be killed in Pakistan. I was unable to do anything fun or truthful for the rest of the class.

So I went home and wondered how to turn this into something positive.

I also wondered why I hadn’t heeded the warnings ...

I have several concerns: One, because I am “sensitive”, “porous” , sometimes “fragile” I absorb negativity like a sponge. One of my life challenges is to let go of the opinions of others ( L’enfer c’est les autres). The other is that, damn it all, this grant was meant to uplift me, not crush my spirit.

On the upside, all of the kids in the class are lovely. It’s thrillingly international... students from Japan, Korea, Catalan, Spain, a lot of Canadians, Italy, Portugal, Ireland. They are all so young, I am the oldest and I’m sure they’re wondering what Auntie is doing running around the dance floor with them.... And they’re shocked to see that no one does splits like Auntie can! Auntie is also working on a pretty mean handstand, Black eye, French concussion and all!

Pick Your Favorite


1. Paula Plum the Black-eyed Blogger
2. Yeah, my fight choreography classes are... swell!
3. You oughta see the other guy....
4. Paris... it's not for sissies.

Fizzy Bubbles
originally posted Sunday, January 10, 2010


I thought I would be incredibly lonely on my first Sunday in Paris so I launched myself into the cold snowy morning, hoping to find an open church with perhaps some music and people with whom to anonymously and silently mingle Just to hear the Mass in French would have been a thrill. I got it all, stumbling upon Ste Clothilde’s , a church full of well-heeled Parisians and their darlingly dressed tots, some right out of a Kate Greenway illustration ( no Nike/ Baby Gap or Oshgogsh for these enfants) - running across the stone floor at the back of the church in perfect outfits chased by stunningly dressed mothers in their furs and stylish boots. The place was packed- SRO, and I wondered why. Then I realized: the music. The organist was astonishing, he did a riff on the only French Carol that I can identify “Il est nee , le Divin enfant” -- he syncopated the rhythm, then moved it into Phantom of the Opera territory with deep frightening cords, resolving it into almost a lullaby of pianissimo, to which a boys choir picked up the melody and then led the congregation in a soft finale. Thrilling. And moving. To stand in the back of a Church in Paris on a cold January morning and witness the sharing of music and prayer and family life.... I felt oddly privileged. At the conclusion the priest invited us all to partake of the blood of Christ which turned out to be Champagne. Who knew the Holy Blood had fizzy bubbles? “ But the blood of Christ, it is Dom Perignon, Non?” So French.

Roamed Paris in the foggy raw afternoon ( I was warned, Paris is gray in the winter) but still so amazed to be here, the weather hardly matters.... and wound my way to one of my favorite temples of the spirit, Ste Chapelle. I never cease to be amazed by the vividness of color and the complexity of storytelling in those windows. ( Fifteen of them, 1, 123 panes relating the Bible from Genesis to the Apocalypse) I had not known before that this church was built by Louis V , later Saint Louis, to feature ( a twentieth century word) the relics of the Cross. The reliquary was later melted down by the rowdies of the French Revolution . The relics of the Crown of Thorns survived and are now stored in Notre Dame.

I am not ashamed to say, after two hours of walking, all I wanted was a Starbucks, and Paris did not disappoint. I am, however SAD to say, there is practically a Starbucks on every block. I sat for an hour with my latte, reading a St. Vincent Millay biography, watching lovely young French women flirt in gangs with their seemingly uninterested boyfriends.

Tomorrow is the first day of school and I am mildly terrified and .... of course , sleepless.