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... I saw "Star Wars: A New Hope" for the first time. Do you remember your first? I was six, and it changed my life. Let me set the scene ...
My family had just moved to Brookings, South Dakota from Jacksonville, Arkansas, courtesy of the USAF. We had not found a house yet, so we were renting a small house on a side of town that I don't believe, we ever went back to once we moved. It was a little red brick house. We had very little furniture, as most of our belongings were in storage. I was sleeping in a sleeping bag on a mat in my own room. (One of the perks of being the only girl was I always got my own room.) It was winter, which, if you know don't know what the winter months are like in the northern plains states, watch "Fargo". The insulation in the house was so bad, that in the dead of winter, the bottom 6 inches of the outside lined walls were covered in 2 inch thick sheets of ice, that I slept next too. But none of that really mattered. I was spending my days at Central Elementary in my first grade class. My nights eating mac 'n cheese with my brothers, doing my outside reading, and occasionally, my father would come home with a movie or two that he had bought or rented for us to watch. We didn't have an entertainment cabinet or a giant flat screen t.v. We didn't have a couch, or a coffee table. We had a small 12" t.v. with rabbit ears and a built in VCR, that sat on the floor while we grabbed our pillows, and blankets from our beds and lounged about like it was a slumber party every time there was a new movie. And there was always a new movie. Having a large family, it's hard to find a gift that works for everyone, especially since it wasn't a family of all boys, or all girls. I mean, it was mostly a family of boys, but as the eldest and only female I made sure no one made that mistake. So when it came to treating the entire family, a movie was always the best option. Most nights my father would come in the door with a movie that we would watch that night or the next. Occasionally, he would walk in with a few movies, and we would pour over them and try to figure out which one we wanted to watch first. There would be the initial excitement of a new movie, the debate over which one to watch, and if there was dissent, an argument that was settled by my parents. This night was not like previous nights. My dad walked in with three films. We started our dissection of which one to watch first, when he stopped us. "We're going to watch these movies together. And I'm going to pick the order." This was huge. We had never had him make a unilateral decision when it came to movies, unless he picked one over another, or sent us to bed without one. This was important. These movies were serious business. We needed to pay attention. And we did. After seeing "A New Hope" we were hooked! We all wanted lightsabers, and ran around and fought the Storm Troopers in a house with almost no furniture. After "Empire Strikes Back" we all manipulated things with the power of the force, luckily we only really had pillows and blankets to toss around, and nothing to break. "Return of the Jedi" taught us how to win a war with Ewoks, and they were the coolest, not to mention, they were as big as us, and could crawl around and hide in the coolest places. We had found our niche. A universe unlike any other. As a girl, I could be Princess Leia (and I had the hair for it) and be bossy and in charge, instead of helpless and needing to be rescued. And for several years following, we continued to play as Jedis and rebels. We used old paper towel rolls to fight with, and when Christmas came, wrapping paper tubes. And when we finally got our own lightsabers, we were unstoppable. My parents still have that little 12 inch T.V. And they still have those original VHS tapes that my dad brought home on a winter day in South Dakota, twenty years ago. My brothers and I still occasionally will goof off with an occasional lightsaber or blaster (imaginary or cardboard). It was one of the lightest moments of our childhood. We don't talk about it often. We don't talk about the little brick house. We don't talk about our "indoor camping" as my mother puts it. We were young, and it wasn't until looking back now and remembering exactly the moment when I was introduced to Star Wars, that I realized how dreary that time was for us. But we got through it unscathed, and being that we were young, and cared mostly about having mac 'n cheese and watching movies every night, we didn't notice. I think part of the magic of these films is not just the escapism they possess, but how they are so timeless. They were first released in the late 70s. I saw them for the first time in the mid 90s. There were the prequel films in the late 90s/early 00s. And through it all, the story speaks to us. The new film, from what I hear, is getting mixed reviews. I will be seeing it on Saturday morning at 6am. I will not post spoilers, or try to find any. I will not be on Facebook until after I see this film that people have waited 40 years for. I will not be posting spoilers. I make a vow to allow everyone the chance to be inspired, excited, and surprised by this new installment. I will honor my fellow fans, and I hope they honor my wishes as well. Why? Because I can still watch these films and feel like a kid. I watch these films, and don't remember the ice on the inside of my bedroom walls, I remember watching the coolest thing that I had ever seen on a tiny screen with my (then) tiny brothers, while our world exploded into galaxies, and universes. I remember the movies. The lightsaber battles. The fun and joy that these films brought us. We remember that the force will be with us always. Andrew spent the first hour of our time together on Saturday running up and down a series of pedestals and stairs. Over, and over, and over again. Finally, I called him back over to stand in line with me. I didn't want him to wear himself out. After all, this only hour one of eight we were spending together and I really needed him to be able to walk around the city with me, and manage it with as little complaining as possible. Because if anything can kill a good mood on a gorgeous day, it's a nine year old whining about how his feet hurt, and can't walk. But on the other hand, I didn't need to be chasing down an overly antsy kid all over lower Manhattan. I have to say that my mischievous plan worked out beautifully at the end of the day. But to be honest, I knew what I was doing. This isn't my first rodeo ... or babysitting gig, as it were. And in the midst of watching him run up and down those pedestals I had yet another realization, a vision, a great solid grounded knowledge, that spoke to me and said, you will be a magnificent mother.
This mother thing, it's not a new realization. It's something that I have known all my life. I was two when I told my mother that I wanted to perform on a stage. But I was only a few months younger when I knew that I wanted to be a mother. I know many people have their doubts, and most people don't voice them to my face (quite the smart move actually) that I couldn't possibly know that I wanted that at the ripe young age of 20 months, but I did. You see, I got a baby brother. My first of many (well, not many, but the first of three) and I got hold him, and share with him, and love him. An much to my surprise, over 20 years later, I still do two of those three things. He was a miracle. A chubby, funny miracle. And yes, having a brother, or several, before the age of 5 is an experience that I cherish and realize that not many people have, I knew it was special. I was introduced to a different side of myself, that I don't think most children are introduced to until they go to school. I was introduced to my nurturing side. I was younger than two when I started nurturing my brother, and I still continue to do that today. As I grew up, and got older, I eventually started babysitting, and took on my first babysitting clients at the age of 10. Yes, you read that right I was ten years old, and was getting paid to babysit small children while their parents were not home. I was mature for my age. But ever since then I have been babysitting on and off and making some spending money, or just making a friend's life easier. But this leads me to where I was on Saturday December 5th, standing in a ridiculous long line outside of the Museum of Feelings with an antsy nine year old who couldn't be more thrilled to be showing me one of his favorite spots. I have to say, it's been awhile since I spent any time with a nine year old. Most of the time I am babysitting infants, toddlers and pre-k kids. Not that I mind, but Andrew's world is much larger than the small ones I'm use to babysitting, and he could carry on a conversation. But something that was consistent with the babies and the nine year old was the idea of surprise, or "peek-a-boo". He had been through the Museum of Feelings a couple of weeks earlier, and since I had not been he wanted to lead me through each experience and surprise me. "Keep you eyes closed! No peeking! Don't look until I say! It's a surprise!" He wanted to share the joy and wonder he experienced with me. It was an honor. Now, I had done my research, and discovered that this pop up museum was a marketing stunt for Glade. So, being the antagonistic New Yorker, I was honestly, not into the idea of becoming one of the many schmucks who got suckered into a "fake museum". But it was magical and wonderful. Because the effortless joy and energy that radiated from Andrew. We wore the 3-D glasses in the jungle of light, jumped around in the crazy light room, played with the prisms, had some fun making really cool designs in the kaleidoscope room, got a selfie in the room of fog, and finally got our "feelings" read at the end. (For the record I was "confident" and Andrew was "joyful".) As touristy as a thing like that can be, it was a lot of fun to see it through a child's eyes. But on to lunch (pizza) and to watch a bit of a performance of "The Nutcracker" that was happening in the mall where we found lunch. After the Dance of the Snowflakes, we made our way out, and started walking a bit farther downtown to go see the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian. (It's totally free, everyday of the week.) We wondered around, ended up on a floor that we were not suppose to be on, and got to crawl into a tipi and see some amazing artifacts and jewelry. But after we finished our wanderings, we were at a loss of what to happen on next. And being that it was the afternoon, and we had a few hours to kill before his mom picked him up, we decided a movie would be the best way to kill the most time. We hopped on the 4 train and went up to Union Square to catch a viewing of "The Good Dinosaur". Being a Pixar film, I knew I would probably be in for a bit of a tear jearker. (How many times have you been to a Pixar film as an adult and no sobbed your eyes out at least once?) But it has been years since I saw a film in the theater with a child. It was an experience like none other. Seeing a Pixar film for the first time through the eyes of a nine year old, is an experience everyone needs to experience. It is a frightening, funny, and "feels" inspiring. The joy at the end is amazing and wonderful. He couldn't have been more delighted, and we talked all about it while we walked to Barnes and Noble and then sat a read for the next hour until his mom met up with us. It was a long and fruitful day. And it was so refreshing to see the world through the eyes of an energetic, optimistic, nine year old boy. i reminded me that every day is an adventure that you make. Every choice can be daunting and exciting. Every day needs to be lived to the fullest! A friend of mine invited me to the second preview of a new play being performed at the Henry Street Settlement last night. I was moved by the story, and the power of the experimental theater production. It was a story about how a play becomes a play. How a writer/director stole someone's life defining experience and wrote it down. The lead actress in this "play within a play" went on a hunt for the truth, and kept tripping on the minor complications that come with being an actress in New York.
The play is entitled "The Reenactors" citing the fact, that actors, are more than a mouth piece for a writer, or someone else's story. A theme, and question addressed again, and again, through the eyes of actors, directors, performers, and regular civilians. We follow this young actress as she tries to hold down a job, to make enough money to pay her exuberant rent, while trying to find work as an actress that inspired so many of us to pursue this art form. She falls into a few of the classic actor stereotypes, as do her friends. She sleeps with the director, does a maxi pad commercial, questions the writer's intention and the integrity of the script. It all comes to a boiling point when the director tells her that actors are just a mouthpiece, and attempts to quote Hitchcock that "All actors are cattle." Having none of it, and being completely intoxicated, she corrects him. "Hitchcock didn't say that ... 'All actors should be treated like cattle.'" This really resonated with me as an actress who has been in a few productions, that I was in mostly to add a credit to my resume, or to meet someone who would then hopefully cast me in another production. But this also spoke to the truth about this business of theater. Egos have become more important than the work. Writers think they are infallible, and their words and genius are only to be given to puppets (actors), while a puppet-master (director) pulls the strings. Or, if you prefer, the Director is a god, and is granting the sniffling writer a break by bringing their own genius vision to interpret the piece. The actors are their "cattle" to be moved about the stage to say and do what the director deems necessary. And as much as I hate to paint this last stereotype of ego, I shall ... The actor thinks they're god and is doing the director a favor by being there on time, and gracing the writer with their stunning genius interpretation of the writer's ridiculous script, with edits as the actor sees fit, because after all, the actor is god. These stereotypes have shoved theater into a dark bitchy corner that resembles the cafeteria of Mean Girls, with the largest egos holding court at their coveted head table. Everyone works together because they have to. You can't put up a show without a writer, director, producer, stage manager, actors, designers, and so forth. Everyone believes they are genius, or on the cusp of it, so you should be grateful that they are working with you, and your silly production. Some may say that I have painted the egos to large, and that certain people have a right to the ego they have, after all, they are genius. But it is a stereotype. They are all stereotypes. And yes, it isn't fair, and there are exceptions. The one exception I will focus on is the actor. I am an actor, and yes I have noticed at times that I have had a bit of an ego, but more often than not, I have felt shuttled around the stage as a prop for someone else's art. And that is why, more often than not, actors get egos, or if you prefer 'bad attitudes'. No one wants to work with an actor who has an ego, or a bad attitude, because it makes them 'difficult to work with'. It's true. I've been on the other side of the table during casting. I've heard the conversations between directors, writers, and producers. They are more focused on who is going to make their process easier, than they are on who is going to make their process memorable. Yes I am painting with broad strokes, and it is not fair to many, but I need to in order to make my point. My point, in all of this, is that the egos of other theater artists force those without egos to develop one. If you're an actor, and you show up on time, and do what you're told, say what you're suppose to, stand where you're put, you're considered a catch. Not to mention, you have to be able to do it all. Dialects (convincingly), sing (like a pop star), dance (better than a Rockette) and have the chops of a young Meryl Streep (not that you'll use them). A wonderful actor, easy to work with, kind, generous. You get cast more often and this breeds resentment among other actors, and often yourself. You got into this business to interpret experience, and now, you are basically just a prop. You spent money on classes where you learned how to sword-fight, on the off chance that you will need to be an expert swordsman for a production of 'Hamlet'. You study with the latest and greatest acting teachers, because having their name on your resume is a foot in the door, whether or not you are talented. Other actors accuse you of not being true to the craft. If you get recognized, you get shot down by your fellow actors who aren't in the production, because you were just a mouth piece. The problem, with the art of acting, is that it's dying from lack of recognition. More often than not, casting decisions are made on who has the most Twitter or Instagram followers, not who is the most talented. The thought is, if you have followers, you can convince them to buy tickets, and thus make the show money, and earn you paycheck. This is more important to producers, directors, writers, than an actor who takes a risk, and tries to tell a story in an honest, unique way. Telling a story, and contributing to an experience is a difficult thing to do honestly, and only the really good actors manage to do this. Unfortunately, these actors are more focused on their craft, than writing a witty quip for Twitter, so they won't get cast in a role that needs their unique voice. So these good actors make sacrifices. You don't do your "acting homework" in order to gain a larger presence on social media. You focus on trying to pick the perfect filter for your snapshot of rehearsal, and not finding the right way to color a line so it resonates with an audience, that will be witness to a beautifully unique experience that comes with going to the theater. So how do we save the art of theater from the social media hungry world that we have created? I don't know that we can. Social media is that double edged sword that everyone wants, and hates, to use. It gets your message out, it brings in an audience, but if not used properly, you don't have a production that people will tweet about and bring in more audience members. Thus is the conundrum of independent theater in New York City. There are so many shows, productions, artists, that unless you gain a following, you're not guaranteed an audience for your production. But if you have an audience, how do you deliver with a cast and crew of people who are marginally distracted from their art, because they're trying to gain more followers, and a larger network, so they will get a larger role in their next project. The brilliance of "The Reenactors" was that it shed a light on the actors lives. How they live with their minor little roles, how they manage to present themselves as professionals in a world where they are treated like props. They find a way to be convincing, and strive to be better at their craft, even though their strides are blatantly ignored, or belittled. And even though they are a product of the world they live in, they still manage to be supportive of one another, and sympathetic to the trials they all face. At the conclusion of the play, one of the actors gets a job in a production that will tour Europe for three months. She is excited and thrilled, not because she gets to travel Europe on someone else's dime, not because it's a paying job, but because the piece "has room in it". Room for her to explore her craft, and create something honest, and fresh instead of the constant cliches she's forced to portray. It was one of the most honest moments of the evening. And it was then followed by another: two actors, while working a "survival job", end the play by talking about what it is they do as actors. They find the "hidden sadness" and breath life into it. They share the experience of one, so that it becomes the experience of many. I have yet to meet an actor who didn't want this. I want this. I owe a huge THANK YOU to the playwright, Juliana Frances Kelly, for being so eloquent and honest about a group of artists who are looked down upon. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope more brave and honest artists make a change and take this risk with you. |
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November 2017
AuthorLondon Griffith is an Alaskan born, Montana raised, Southern influenced, New York Actress. She occasionally writes about her life and experiences of being on the verge ... |