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.
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