I’ve realized why I’m never going to make it in show business, ever. It’s because I hate the jargon, the attitude, the off stage drama, the phonies, and the philosophy. In fact, everything outside of ME actually ACTING drives me batty, so naturally, I’m going to have to give it up.
But I’m sure you want a solid example. Let’s take S, a struggling, modern day actor, putting together a show here in town. He has my sympathy. Unfortunately, I also made the mistake of offering him an ear.
An example of an email exchange with S? Gladly.
ME: S, we’re running low on toner on the 8500 machine, is that going to be fixed today?
S I’ll work on it. I’m just so drained from the process. My mind is cluttered. I’m two people right now. Two people fighting for the forefront. You know what I mean. You’re in THE INDUSTRY (bolding mine)
Me…sooo…this afternoon then?
First of all, referring to acting as “THE INDUSTRY” makes my skin ripple with irritation. Is it really such a taxing physical nightmare that we must throw it on the same shelf with say, arc welding, sky scraper construction or any other of a myriad of hard hat requiring fields?
Also, color me forgetful, but did I ASK about your process? Or did I ask about toner? I have no problem talking theatre, but must it be always and forever at the forefront of our exchanges?
But I soldier on. After all, he’s frustrated. Somehow he thinks I am a mentor. This remains a mystery to me. But it’s easy enough to click off the email, roll my eyes and be gone.
Until today. Today, sadly, I condemned him to thirty days in the hole.
Today, he came to my cubicle and put on the ‘hushed whisper of drama’. You theatre folk know it…it’s the girl in the musical who goes on vocal rest for three weeks because she’s been working so hard, but then whispers extensive monologues on what a trooper she is. It’s how your great aunt says “gays”. The hushed whisper of drama FORCES the LISTENER to lean in and bug out their eyes, and nearly cup their ears in a cartoonish show of attention.
“I am in a real down cycle,” he says, his eyes widening in horror. In fact he actually leaned against the cubicle wall and covered his eyes. “I am just having a real difficult time. THIS PROCESS! THIS PROCESS!”
Right then, I wanted to cover his mouth with my hand and say “Don’t speak. I know just what you’re saying. So please stop explaining. Don’t tell me….cuz it hurts.”
But I didn’t. I simply nodded, wondering what buzz word was coming next.
“It’s the birth. I’m going through the birth.”
Now I look around for cameras, for Ashton Kutcher, for a sawed off shotgun.
“The birth?” I say.
“I’m just birthing this piece and it’s draining me. It’s draining my life to extract the piece. I’m not going to make it through the birth.”
I blinked.
“But you know what I mean,” he says, waving wildly in the air (keep in mind this is all in such a hushed whisper that he may as well be doing it in sign language) “The craft. It’s just…you have to give your life to the craft. Have you found that to be true?”
No I haven’t. NO. I really haven’t. I’ll give you “craft”. Use it with my blessing. I may be lenient and give you “process”.
But God as my witness, I will not give you a BIRTH. I will not stand by and have you angstily BIRTH YOUR PIECE in front of me while I’m trying to organize a committee meeting. I will not forgive the 8500 machine being out of order because your craft is presenting breech and you can’t pull yourself out of your Mametian funk to attend to your duties.
Go sit down and get a hold of yourself. It’s acting. It’s PLAYING PRETEND. It’s DRESS UP on a GRAND SCALE. CUT THE FUCKING JARGON YOU CLOD. Thirty days in the hole until you can talk like a normal fucking human being.
GAH.