Today National Public Radio's Radio Times with Marty Moss-Coane was debating the issue of whether memoirs should be true because of the recent debacle involving James Fray's "memoir" A Million Little Pieces and how some of it had been proven by The Smoking Gun.com to be utter fabrication. At one point, one of her guest's, Carlo Romano, nonfiction reviewer at The Philadelphia Inquirer stated that Frey's manuscript had been circulated as a novel and turned down by 17 houses until it made its way to the Nan A. Talese imprint at Random House. Apparently, editors at the Talese imprint suggested the book would be better positioned as a memoir. The debate really struck a chord with me because of my own situation with A Son Called Gabrielso I called into the show (she takes live calls) and gave my opinion as a writer.
Basically, when my book was accepted by my publisher they asked me how much of the plot was true because, being set in conservative Northern Ireland and involving the issue of a young boy's struggles with his sexuality, they were chomping at the bit to publish it as 'memoir'. They said, given its Irish setting and the fact that it deals in part with an Irish Catholic boy struggling with homosexuality against the background of 'The Troubles,' the publicist would be able to easily get me tons and tons of media if it were positioned as nonfiction. The downside was, that if I kept it as a novel, it would not attract the attention of the media caught up in the intrigues of a presidential campaign (2004) and that it was nigh to impossible to get radio and TV for fiction, never mind it was an Irish piece of fiction coming out in the US.
In effect, it was boiling down to a 'dollars versus truth' decision. Did I want to take a very good chance that I would earn a lot of money and garner a lot of attention for a memoir entitled 'A Son Called Damian', or was I content to let my first book go out as a novel and risk it getting lost in the roar of the 2004 presidential election campaign? I have never hidden the fact that many scenes in the novel replicate my experiences, but the family is not my family nor is the book's plotline concerning Brendan based on fact. (In the end, I did get a fair amount of publicity and am not complaining.)
It was very tempting at the time to consider pulling a paragraph here and there and re-editing it as a memoir, but I decided I had to be true to myself and to the character I'd created. The truth was I had never intended my book to be a memoir as I understand a memoir to be. As I was writing it, I knew it was falling into a sort of gray area that many books end up in, namely that much of the story had a basis in real life, but there are also many dollops of fiction added to the mix. In fact, I thought about this very same issue a great deal when I was visiting Northern Ireland last year when I stood at the fresh grave of the boy (in my mind he was a boy, though of course he died an adult) who had once seduced me. He'd been 11, I only 7, and it turns out he was also simultaneously interfering with my much younger sister. (He had had a very sad life, went off to live in England, returned to live with a woman--yes, he was heterosexual--and then drank himself to death.) As I stood there looking at the brightly colored flowers and notes from people who'd loved him, my childhood came back in a torrent of recollections; I hadn't seen him since I was eleven, though he has always been at the fringes of my reminiscences about growing up in rural Ireland. (And, in case you are curious as to what I was feeling, I felt neither anger or sorrow for him as I stood at the gravesite on that bleak January day that Ireland seems to excel at producing. I just felt what was reality, that an obscure life had come to an end, that his demons whatever they were had obviously controlled his life and prevented him from reaching his potential, or maybe the life he'd lived was his true potential--sometimes, in our zeal to see that all humans have great potential, we fail to recognize that some do not.)
I'm fairly certain Frey had a similar decision to make about his book and, in his case, must have decided to subordinate his conscience and thus was happy enough to gussy it up and send it out as a memoir. My opinion is that a memoir should be factual, though times and names may be changed on occasions for legal or to suit the flow of the narrative, and there should be no exaggeration or embellishment. I think it's a shame that the lure of the dollar outweighs all else in some cases, that people are quite willing to subordinate their reputations in order to earn millions or win tremendous fame. Also sad is the attitude of a lot of Americans who stated they don't care whether he told the truth or not. We seem to be living in a culture that's sliding if not in actual decline, that what is base, false or stupid is lauded, and we haven't truly realized that collectively yet. We're living in a culture where the truly dumb is celebrated, where education and critical thinking is no longer aspired to by the masses.
One point came up in the interview that struck me as would a slap in the face. It was a comparison between Frey and Judge Samuel Alito, the Supreme Court nominee, and it was very much on point. The issue revolved around Alito's failure to remember the facts surrounding his membership of a very exclusionary and conservative alumni association (Concerned Alumni of Princeton) during his years at Princeton. Apparently, Romano, who was at Princeton a few years after Alito, stated that this association was not of the kind one drifted into, and thus membership of which one could not forget or dismiss as of no consequence. He stated one had to take active steps to join and thus one could not, by that circumstance alone, forget one's membership. This actuality, combined with the fact that Alito boasted about it in the eighties during a job application for a position in the Regan administration, would seem to indicate he has put his personal ambition and desire to be a member of the US Supreme Court above the need to tell the absolute truth. If this is true, is he not indeed a symbol of what is wrong in society today? And should he become a Justice of the Supreme Court, does this not make his judgments forever defective and nonbinding--regardless as to whether they are conservative or liberal leaning--because they would be fruit of a 'poisoned tree,' a legal principle the judge would well be familiar with from his law school days....unless, of course, he's forgotten.
[technorati: James Frey, A Million Little Pieces, The Smoking Gun, NPR, Marty Moss Coane, Judge Samuel Alito
Friday
Thursday
The Bucks County Wrebels
I'm a member of a writing group in Bucks County that ended up being called the Bucks County Wrebels the spelling a joke when one of the members suggested adding a 'W' to the word 'rebel'. There are six of us (Jeanne, Marie, Dave, Chris, John and me) and we broke away about five years ago from another group. Of course, we're all still very friendly with the original group--which is much, much larger--and a few members are also still members of that group. Last night we had a meeting at which we brought in another new member and already I can see she will be a valuable addition to the group.
Until she joined, there were four males and two females and, when we considered adding a new member a few months ago, Jeanne and Marie (also avid 'Y' members) said it should be another woman. They felt we needed another female voice and mind for balance, and they are right, of course. We concentrate chiefly on writing novels, though now that I have been writing an adaptation of my published novel, we'll also review plays and screenplays, too. Some of the group also write short stories, which is something I tend to avoid because I'm not comfortable with the format as I need pages to unfurl my stories.
I am at the moment the only member of the group to have a novel published. Others have had pieces published in magazines and Dave has had a book about local history published last year. In December, Marie got the good news that Random House wanted to publish her Young Adult novel in 2007 and,last night, she arrived elated and told us the contract was negotiated and it is now a two-book deal. So all in all, we're a group that's highly motivated and others will undoubtedly follow Marie and I into seeing our work published.
Last night my play was up for scrutiny and I was apprehensive. It is one thing to have written a novel, but quite another to take it and adapt it for another media. So I arrived at Jeanne's home (we meet there) both excited to meet the newest member, Grace, and a nervous about the critiques. Grace had brought a gift of a box of cherry and liquor dark chocolates (not a bribe), candies I'm partial too, though all present refrained because we're all trying to cut back on the calories. Okay, I lie. I had two where I would happily have scoffed five, so that's tantamount to restraint.
The critiques were valuable in that, as with critiques of our novels, they were thorough and very helpful. It brought home to me how truly essential it is as a writer to surround oneself with people whose talent and judgment one trusts, and how vital it is for a writer to join a writing group. Of course, the Wrebels pulled aspects of the play apart, pointed out flaws and weaknesses, but that is absolutely essential to creating something compelling, something that will endure, something that a stage director might want to produce. During these times, when my work is being critiqued, I find that a tendency to be defensive comes to the fore. I think this is natural in many of us, and so long as we recognize it, quash it and listen to the opinions being offered, much can be learned.
What was particularly satisfying to discover last night was that Grace has a great deal of theatrical acumen and experience, which made her opinions even more valuable. And, of course, this morning as I read her and the others comments contained in the script's margins, I realized how truly lucky I am to be in a group such as this. It was also this group of friends and colleagues who first critiqued parts of the novel and cheered it on its way toward publication. And now they're doing the same with the play. Thanks guys...and girls.
[technorati: Bucks County, writing stageplays, playwrights, writing groups
Until she joined, there were four males and two females and, when we considered adding a new member a few months ago, Jeanne and Marie (also avid 'Y' members) said it should be another woman. They felt we needed another female voice and mind for balance, and they are right, of course. We concentrate chiefly on writing novels, though now that I have been writing an adaptation of my published novel, we'll also review plays and screenplays, too. Some of the group also write short stories, which is something I tend to avoid because I'm not comfortable with the format as I need pages to unfurl my stories.
I am at the moment the only member of the group to have a novel published. Others have had pieces published in magazines and Dave has had a book about local history published last year. In December, Marie got the good news that Random House wanted to publish her Young Adult novel in 2007 and,last night, she arrived elated and told us the contract was negotiated and it is now a two-book deal. So all in all, we're a group that's highly motivated and others will undoubtedly follow Marie and I into seeing our work published.
Last night my play was up for scrutiny and I was apprehensive. It is one thing to have written a novel, but quite another to take it and adapt it for another media. So I arrived at Jeanne's home (we meet there) both excited to meet the newest member, Grace, and a nervous about the critiques. Grace had brought a gift of a box of cherry and liquor dark chocolates (not a bribe), candies I'm partial too, though all present refrained because we're all trying to cut back on the calories. Okay, I lie. I had two where I would happily have scoffed five, so that's tantamount to restraint.
The critiques were valuable in that, as with critiques of our novels, they were thorough and very helpful. It brought home to me how truly essential it is as a writer to surround oneself with people whose talent and judgment one trusts, and how vital it is for a writer to join a writing group. Of course, the Wrebels pulled aspects of the play apart, pointed out flaws and weaknesses, but that is absolutely essential to creating something compelling, something that will endure, something that a stage director might want to produce. During these times, when my work is being critiqued, I find that a tendency to be defensive comes to the fore. I think this is natural in many of us, and so long as we recognize it, quash it and listen to the opinions being offered, much can be learned.
What was particularly satisfying to discover last night was that Grace has a great deal of theatrical acumen and experience, which made her opinions even more valuable. And, of course, this morning as I read her and the others comments contained in the script's margins, I realized how truly lucky I am to be in a group such as this. It was also this group of friends and colleagues who first critiqued parts of the novel and cheered it on its way toward publication. And now they're doing the same with the play. Thanks guys...and girls.
[technorati: Bucks County, writing stageplays, playwrights, writing groups
Tuesday
Powerball, poker and bankruptcy
I'm not really one for gambling. As a kid with my siblings and parents, I used to go for a day trip to Buncrana in the Irish republic (just a little bit over the border from Northern Ireland) and gamble with pennies and sixpences I'd saved. The place where we gambled was called 'Berties' and, as well as slots and other kinds of coin games, they also had a helter-skelter and dogems and other kinds of defying rides. For kids like us who had to watch their pennies, it was nirvana, and I look upon those times spent with my siblings with great affection. It was our childhoods at their most pure, though of course we didn't realize it then. And our parents seemed also at their happiest on these trips: they often chatted animatedly and laughed a lot, something they seldom did at home because then the realities of life and its attendant pressures sent them in to their own quiet corners where they nursed their own concerns and agendas zealously.
Then, I was a tight or wise little bugger, the adjective to describe me depending on whether it was the proprietors of Berties or me who was doing the describing. If I started to lose at the machines, I possessed the good sense to just walk out of the arcade and cut my losses. It was not a characteristic shared by any of my siblings because they would stay and gamble until their money was spent and then depend on their big brother to cough up for the licorice and penny chews, etc. But those days spent at Berties also sowed a deep and healthy suspicion of gambling joints and the people who own them that has held me in good stead ever since. I have no interest in going to Las Vegas to gamble, nor do I ever feel the need (as some friends of mine have) to jump in the car and go off to places like Atlantic City in order to gamble myself stupid.
When the Powerball lottery (of which the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania) is a member, Larry and I often buy a bunch of tickets and sometimes win five or ten dollars. Last night was very interesting because some time ago we'd bought some of those scratch it "Poker" cards that the Commonwealth also flogs at $5.00 a pop and, as there was nothing interesting on the telly, we decided to go through them. On the first card (containing four deals), Larry revealed Four Kings and, if it 'bested' the hand held by the dealer, we'd won $100,000. Well, (and this is where the game hooks people), all we saw in our great excitement in the dealers hands was a bunch of odd cards and we genuinely thought we'd won. Hurriedly, we scratched through the other cards and discovered we'd 'won'an additional $580.00.
After we sat back in wonder for a while, I decided to methodically go through the tickets again. You've guessed it. Those 'odd' cards held by the dealer in the $100,000.00 game turned out to be a royal flush which trumped our 'four of a kind.' (The way the tickets display the various 'cards,' it makes it difficult to spot this immediately.) It was the same case (in different combinations of 'cards') that resulted in our winning 'ziltch, nada, nothing in the other deals. So we were out $15.00. That amount is not much, but it is a lot of money to the 'customers' who usually buy these tickets. The Commonwealth's current pitchman is 'Gus', the second most famous groundhog in Pennsylvania, the first being Punxsutawney Phil, the one brought out on Groundhog Day to predict whether we will have an early end to winter. While I recognize the Commonwealth's need to obtain revenue in an age of tight and decining revenue sources, I am not convinced it should be spending millions of dollars on advertisng campaigns aimed at persuading its 'poorer' citizens to gamble. It is at best unseemly.
Ever the cynic, I decided to go through the tickets and analyze what was going on with the 'dealer' every time we held a great hand, and I discovered something extremely interesting. If we held a flush, the dealer invariably held a Royal flush or something equally difficult to obtain had it been a regular game of cards. Quite frankly, the probability of this happening to the dealer when a customer holds a great hand should be very, very remote. But on the tickets, it happened all the time. My conclusion is that the machine churning out these cards seems to operating contrary to the laws of probability.
This set me to thinking about gambling in general. Pennsylvania is soon to introduce slot machines in Philadelphia and other places throughout the commonwealth. In preparation, casino owners like Donald Trump have created partnerships with prominent Pennsylvania citizens and gone to Harrisburg to lobby for the contract to build and/or manage these places. I find this ironic. My understanding is that Trump casinos have twice filed for bankruptcy in New Jersey. I cannot understand why Pennsylvania would even consider meeting with someone at the helm of such an organization.
That issue, of course, brings me careening into the question of the purpose of the federal bankruptcy laws. In the old days, when a corporation went bankrupt, it truly meant the corporation was in genuine trouble and needed protection in order restructure and become viable. Today, many corporations (such as a few unprofitable American airlines, some of whom have filed twice) are using the bankruptcy laws as a means of evading their debts or as a stick to beat the heads of employees from whom they are seeking concessions or, at best, as a means of attracting fresh finance. The federal laws are becoming nothing but a corporate tool, and this was not Congress's objective. It is appalling, and we should be very angry at this flagrant abuse...particularly so as parts of those same bankruptcy laws were amended late last year in order to make it more difficult for individuals to file and obtain protection. And who were the chief lobbyists for these amendments? That's right! The credit card companies.
[technorati: powerball, poker, gambling, casinos, Pennsylvania, Punxsutawney Phil, Groundhog Day
Then, I was a tight or wise little bugger, the adjective to describe me depending on whether it was the proprietors of Berties or me who was doing the describing. If I started to lose at the machines, I possessed the good sense to just walk out of the arcade and cut my losses. It was not a characteristic shared by any of my siblings because they would stay and gamble until their money was spent and then depend on their big brother to cough up for the licorice and penny chews, etc. But those days spent at Berties also sowed a deep and healthy suspicion of gambling joints and the people who own them that has held me in good stead ever since. I have no interest in going to Las Vegas to gamble, nor do I ever feel the need (as some friends of mine have) to jump in the car and go off to places like Atlantic City in order to gamble myself stupid.
When the Powerball lottery (of which the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania) is a member, Larry and I often buy a bunch of tickets and sometimes win five or ten dollars. Last night was very interesting because some time ago we'd bought some of those scratch it "Poker" cards that the Commonwealth also flogs at $5.00 a pop and, as there was nothing interesting on the telly, we decided to go through them. On the first card (containing four deals), Larry revealed Four Kings and, if it 'bested' the hand held by the dealer, we'd won $100,000. Well, (and this is where the game hooks people), all we saw in our great excitement in the dealers hands was a bunch of odd cards and we genuinely thought we'd won. Hurriedly, we scratched through the other cards and discovered we'd 'won'an additional $580.00.
After we sat back in wonder for a while, I decided to methodically go through the tickets again. You've guessed it. Those 'odd' cards held by the dealer in the $100,000.00 game turned out to be a royal flush which trumped our 'four of a kind.' (The way the tickets display the various 'cards,' it makes it difficult to spot this immediately.) It was the same case (in different combinations of 'cards') that resulted in our winning 'ziltch, nada, nothing in the other deals. So we were out $15.00. That amount is not much, but it is a lot of money to the 'customers' who usually buy these tickets. The Commonwealth's current pitchman is 'Gus', the second most famous groundhog in Pennsylvania, the first being Punxsutawney Phil, the one brought out on Groundhog Day to predict whether we will have an early end to winter. While I recognize the Commonwealth's need to obtain revenue in an age of tight and decining revenue sources, I am not convinced it should be spending millions of dollars on advertisng campaigns aimed at persuading its 'poorer' citizens to gamble. It is at best unseemly.
Ever the cynic, I decided to go through the tickets and analyze what was going on with the 'dealer' every time we held a great hand, and I discovered something extremely interesting. If we held a flush, the dealer invariably held a Royal flush or something equally difficult to obtain had it been a regular game of cards. Quite frankly, the probability of this happening to the dealer when a customer holds a great hand should be very, very remote. But on the tickets, it happened all the time. My conclusion is that the machine churning out these cards seems to operating contrary to the laws of probability.
This set me to thinking about gambling in general. Pennsylvania is soon to introduce slot machines in Philadelphia and other places throughout the commonwealth. In preparation, casino owners like Donald Trump have created partnerships with prominent Pennsylvania citizens and gone to Harrisburg to lobby for the contract to build and/or manage these places. I find this ironic. My understanding is that Trump casinos have twice filed for bankruptcy in New Jersey. I cannot understand why Pennsylvania would even consider meeting with someone at the helm of such an organization.
That issue, of course, brings me careening into the question of the purpose of the federal bankruptcy laws. In the old days, when a corporation went bankrupt, it truly meant the corporation was in genuine trouble and needed protection in order restructure and become viable. Today, many corporations (such as a few unprofitable American airlines, some of whom have filed twice) are using the bankruptcy laws as a means of evading their debts or as a stick to beat the heads of employees from whom they are seeking concessions or, at best, as a means of attracting fresh finance. The federal laws are becoming nothing but a corporate tool, and this was not Congress's objective. It is appalling, and we should be very angry at this flagrant abuse...particularly so as parts of those same bankruptcy laws were amended late last year in order to make it more difficult for individuals to file and obtain protection. And who were the chief lobbyists for these amendments? That's right! The credit card companies.
[technorati: powerball, poker, gambling, casinos, Pennsylvania, Punxsutawney Phil, Groundhog Day
Friday
Stretching oneself
It's been a surprisingly busy week here in Bucks county as I've been working diligently on my stage play collaboration. I'm closing in on another draft and am feeling in high spirits as it's looking very tight and I can now see it being produced. I think next week I'll give you Act I Scene I which is the same opening as the novel. Throughout the process, Phil and I have been able to stay pretty faithful to the novel, though some things had to go because they didn't fit, etc.
Last night Phil emailed me the Properties list, which is a theatrical term for all the props that are required. He's now working on the music, etc while I complete this critical draft. I really have learned a great deal about the theater process as a result of our collaboration. He really is talented and his absolute love for the theater is very infectious.
One thing I've been struggling with is that Eileen and Gabriel, as two core characters, appear a lot at the beginning and end of chapters in the novel. It's the same with the scenes in the play. This makes it very difficult for the director as his or her actors need time to effect costume changes between scenes, etc. So I've had to devise methods to allow this to happen fluidly and add new dialogue where a device won't work. It's these sort of critical elements that, if not addressed so there are loopholes and impossibilities, can cause a riveting manuscript to be shot down by a theater.
Drafting the play from my novel has shown me that I'm much more than a novelist, that writing novels is not enough to keep me interested and motivated. So my new year resolution regards my writing is to complete this play, write another one that's been niggling to be written for years (one my father is very keen for me to write) and also complete the screen play of A Son Called Gabriel. I'll also continue to work on my first American set novel, which I haven't looked at for ages.
While the plays or 'Gabriel' screen play may never get picked up, I've nevertheless decided I'm the best person to write stage and screenplays based on my own work. And there is a body of writing from Irish writers that's made it onto the screen and the Leicester Square and Broadway theaters. Director Neil Jordan has done films based on novels by Patrick McCabe such as The Butcher Boy and his latest, Breakfast on Pluto. Jordan alos wrote The Crying Game, one of my all time favorite movies. I feel if he and others can adapt or write original screenplays, so I can, too. It's vital to stretch oneself in life, to do what one fears, because, in doing the task, one sumultaneously achieves the objective and realizes that the people who do these things possess no monopoly over the required magic. In any event, I'd rather do my own adaptations than risk some young, inexperienced writer working for a studio taking my characters and putting them in situations they would never experience, etc. I know my characters best, I know Ireland, and I know my work.
[technorati: Neil Jordan, The Crying Game, Breakfast on Pluto,Broadway,Leicester Square, Patrick McCabe
Last night Phil emailed me the Properties list, which is a theatrical term for all the props that are required. He's now working on the music, etc while I complete this critical draft. I really have learned a great deal about the theater process as a result of our collaboration. He really is talented and his absolute love for the theater is very infectious.
One thing I've been struggling with is that Eileen and Gabriel, as two core characters, appear a lot at the beginning and end of chapters in the novel. It's the same with the scenes in the play. This makes it very difficult for the director as his or her actors need time to effect costume changes between scenes, etc. So I've had to devise methods to allow this to happen fluidly and add new dialogue where a device won't work. It's these sort of critical elements that, if not addressed so there are loopholes and impossibilities, can cause a riveting manuscript to be shot down by a theater.
Drafting the play from my novel has shown me that I'm much more than a novelist, that writing novels is not enough to keep me interested and motivated. So my new year resolution regards my writing is to complete this play, write another one that's been niggling to be written for years (one my father is very keen for me to write) and also complete the screen play of A Son Called Gabriel. I'll also continue to work on my first American set novel, which I haven't looked at for ages.
While the plays or 'Gabriel' screen play may never get picked up, I've nevertheless decided I'm the best person to write stage and screenplays based on my own work. And there is a body of writing from Irish writers that's made it onto the screen and the Leicester Square and Broadway theaters. Director Neil Jordan has done films based on novels by Patrick McCabe such as The Butcher Boy and his latest, Breakfast on Pluto. Jordan alos wrote The Crying Game, one of my all time favorite movies. I feel if he and others can adapt or write original screenplays, so I can, too. It's vital to stretch oneself in life, to do what one fears, because, in doing the task, one sumultaneously achieves the objective and realizes that the people who do these things possess no monopoly over the required magic. In any event, I'd rather do my own adaptations than risk some young, inexperienced writer working for a studio taking my characters and putting them in situations they would never experience, etc. I know my characters best, I know Ireland, and I know my work.
[technorati: Neil Jordan, The Crying Game, Breakfast on Pluto,Broadway,Leicester Square, Patrick McCabe
Monday
Brokeback Mountain: review
I decided to see a late matinee at my local arts theater where Brokeback Mountain was showing and unwittingly ended the year on a true highlight. From the instant the huge truck with its lights traveled across the screen and Brokeback Mountain rose to assert its presence, from the moment Ledger walked into view, the movie tore open and claimed a piece of my heart, permanently. Yesterday, New Year's Day, all I could think about was the movie, not exclusively about the plot, scenery and cast--though I've done my share of that--but rather about the way of life cowboys and others working in America's lonely backwaters lead and how some of them are, as we journey into 2006, living the very circumstances depicted by these two terrific actors. For this Irish man, it pierced for two hours and fifteen minutes the veneer of onion-layered sophistication created by a solid education, law school and years of big city living, and I almost joyously became once more the raw Irish boy who'd loved and hated in equal measure growing up in the rural backside of Ireland with all its prejudices, fears, limitations and hang-ups, including my own.
The movie is upliftingly sad rather than depressing as some gay friends have called it. Yes, uplifting sadness is the paramount emotion I'd venture is experienced by the viewer, and it is also crammed to the brim with richness and terrible beauty. And it has its minor flaws, but then many of the best movies I've loved do, also. One, for example, I could not get past was the fact Ennis had two daughters, yet only one of them appeared throughout the final third of the film. The aging of Jack (played by Gyllenhaal) from 19 to 39 is unconvincing, a visual amplified more so when one considers how well they aged Ennis (played by Ledger) and how his voice deepened, though Ledger being Australian where the culture of machismo is worshipped undoubtedly helped. And Ennis's wife Alma (played by Michelle Williams) seemed altogether too passive for my taste, especially when she accidentally witnesses and is devastated by the sight of her husband passionately kissing Jack when the two men meet up for the first time after their love affair began on Brokeback mountain. But the crushing power of that scene, as the stricken wife realizes her husband harbors a love and voracious yearning for another that is stronger than his love for her, banished the stirrings of cynicism.
Ennis is brutishly heroic, a magnificently tortured soul, a man quietly at war with himself because he is possessed of deep-seated homophobia and unable, if not indeed unwilling, to kill his all-consuming passion and love for another man. I could scarcely breathe when the two cowboys parted after their initial summer spent together on Brokeback (ostensibly forever because Ennis stated he would not return the following year in response to Jack's inquiry) as first Ennis watches Jack's truck pull away and then retreats to a dusty sidestreet where he falls to his knees, vomits, beats at the walls of the unyielding building and cries furiously; another cowboy happens by and watches and Ennis roars at him to get the fuck away, his timbre perfectly articulating the torrent of loss, confusion, denial and pain swirling within. The film is magnificent in allowing us to slowly realize that it is the stoic, reluctant Ennis whose love is the most searing, the most faithful, and, at one point, he tells Jack that meeting him has cost him everything. Ennis's life, the life of a married man with two daughters (whom he adores) which he is compelled to live because in his circumstances and milieu there is no other way, is an interminable midnight with little illumination except for occasional intense rays afforded when Jack and he meet up several times each year for a week's camping on Brokeback Mountain.
The movie is raw, breathtaking, overwhelming, all-consuming; a story as full of poignancy and universals as any of the greatest Hollywood love stories, and it does not descend at any point to cheap sentimentality or attempt to pontificate. When Ennis visits Jack's impoverished parents at one point, the subtext in the movements and looks exchanged between this rough-mannered yet vulnerable cowboy and the love-of-his-life's mother is heartbreaking to the point of inducing headache...and then, of course, there is Ennis's discovery in Jack's closet of the plaid shirt--placed over the shirt Jack wore and with the sleeves of both intertwined--he'd thought he'd lost during the first summer they'd spent together on Brokeback Mountain. (Thanks to a blog comment for pointing out an error I'd made about that.) Nor does the movie correctly offer apology for its being a love affair between two men. Rather, in its own way, with the credible sexual immediacy of the initial tryst between the two men, in its unapologetic acknowledgement that enduring love begins often with and then moves beyond raw sexual attraction, it seems to poke a finger in the eye of Hollywood's conventional, cardboard and cliched treatment of developing love relationships.
Given Hollywood's misguided and overly simplified treatment of sexuality in general, as well as its poor understanding of what the general public will or will not accept in movies, it is entirely understandable that Ledger and Gyllenhaal were 'very, very nervous' about playing two men in a love affair for fear of alienating their teenager fan base. It is testament to their strength of character and a measure of the men they are that they saw the script's power and cast convention aside, ignored their innermost fears and the shrill warnings of doom from their timid male fellow actors, agents and others in the industry, and threw themselves headlong unreservedly into the roles. In fact, Ledger in an interview said that, after the first kiss with Gyllenhaal, it was just the act of kissing another human being. How very true. And, if the teenage girls who sat next to us in the cinema are any indication, the actors need have no fear. All the girls were riveted, riveted by the story, by the love affair, by the poignancy and human condition...and their balled tissues were working overtime. Great things come only from taking great risks and Ledger and Gyllenhaal have proven their mettle as actors of the highest caliber.
The movie is correctly positioned mainstream and will be enjoyed by all, except for the homophobic (male or female), and any heterosexual men with doubts about their sexuality should probably stick to the action flicks. Congratulations to Ang Lee for another superb piece of work, to Annie Proulx who did the research and wrote the original story, and to Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana for seeing its potential and writing the script.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Focus Features,Ang Lee,James Schamus, Heath Ledger,Jake Gyllenhaal,Golden Globes, Larry McMurtry,Diana Ossana,Annie Proulx
The movie is upliftingly sad rather than depressing as some gay friends have called it. Yes, uplifting sadness is the paramount emotion I'd venture is experienced by the viewer, and it is also crammed to the brim with richness and terrible beauty. And it has its minor flaws, but then many of the best movies I've loved do, also. One, for example, I could not get past was the fact Ennis had two daughters, yet only one of them appeared throughout the final third of the film. The aging of Jack (played by Gyllenhaal) from 19 to 39 is unconvincing, a visual amplified more so when one considers how well they aged Ennis (played by Ledger) and how his voice deepened, though Ledger being Australian where the culture of machismo is worshipped undoubtedly helped. And Ennis's wife Alma (played by Michelle Williams) seemed altogether too passive for my taste, especially when she accidentally witnesses and is devastated by the sight of her husband passionately kissing Jack when the two men meet up for the first time after their love affair began on Brokeback mountain. But the crushing power of that scene, as the stricken wife realizes her husband harbors a love and voracious yearning for another that is stronger than his love for her, banished the stirrings of cynicism.
Ennis is brutishly heroic, a magnificently tortured soul, a man quietly at war with himself because he is possessed of deep-seated homophobia and unable, if not indeed unwilling, to kill his all-consuming passion and love for another man. I could scarcely breathe when the two cowboys parted after their initial summer spent together on Brokeback (ostensibly forever because Ennis stated he would not return the following year in response to Jack's inquiry) as first Ennis watches Jack's truck pull away and then retreats to a dusty sidestreet where he falls to his knees, vomits, beats at the walls of the unyielding building and cries furiously; another cowboy happens by and watches and Ennis roars at him to get the fuck away, his timbre perfectly articulating the torrent of loss, confusion, denial and pain swirling within. The film is magnificent in allowing us to slowly realize that it is the stoic, reluctant Ennis whose love is the most searing, the most faithful, and, at one point, he tells Jack that meeting him has cost him everything. Ennis's life, the life of a married man with two daughters (whom he adores) which he is compelled to live because in his circumstances and milieu there is no other way, is an interminable midnight with little illumination except for occasional intense rays afforded when Jack and he meet up several times each year for a week's camping on Brokeback Mountain.
The movie is raw, breathtaking, overwhelming, all-consuming; a story as full of poignancy and universals as any of the greatest Hollywood love stories, and it does not descend at any point to cheap sentimentality or attempt to pontificate. When Ennis visits Jack's impoverished parents at one point, the subtext in the movements and looks exchanged between this rough-mannered yet vulnerable cowboy and the love-of-his-life's mother is heartbreaking to the point of inducing headache...and then, of course, there is Ennis's discovery in Jack's closet of the plaid shirt--placed over the shirt Jack wore and with the sleeves of both intertwined--he'd thought he'd lost during the first summer they'd spent together on Brokeback Mountain. (Thanks to a blog comment for pointing out an error I'd made about that.) Nor does the movie correctly offer apology for its being a love affair between two men. Rather, in its own way, with the credible sexual immediacy of the initial tryst between the two men, in its unapologetic acknowledgement that enduring love begins often with and then moves beyond raw sexual attraction, it seems to poke a finger in the eye of Hollywood's conventional, cardboard and cliched treatment of developing love relationships.
Given Hollywood's misguided and overly simplified treatment of sexuality in general, as well as its poor understanding of what the general public will or will not accept in movies, it is entirely understandable that Ledger and Gyllenhaal were 'very, very nervous' about playing two men in a love affair for fear of alienating their teenager fan base. It is testament to their strength of character and a measure of the men they are that they saw the script's power and cast convention aside, ignored their innermost fears and the shrill warnings of doom from their timid male fellow actors, agents and others in the industry, and threw themselves headlong unreservedly into the roles. In fact, Ledger in an interview said that, after the first kiss with Gyllenhaal, it was just the act of kissing another human being. How very true. And, if the teenage girls who sat next to us in the cinema are any indication, the actors need have no fear. All the girls were riveted, riveted by the story, by the love affair, by the poignancy and human condition...and their balled tissues were working overtime. Great things come only from taking great risks and Ledger and Gyllenhaal have proven their mettle as actors of the highest caliber.
The movie is correctly positioned mainstream and will be enjoyed by all, except for the homophobic (male or female), and any heterosexual men with doubts about their sexuality should probably stick to the action flicks. Congratulations to Ang Lee for another superb piece of work, to Annie Proulx who did the research and wrote the original story, and to Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana for seeing its potential and writing the script.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Focus Features,Ang Lee,James Schamus, Heath Ledger,Jake Gyllenhaal,Golden Globes, Larry McMurtry,Diana Ossana,Annie Proulx
Thursday
Feeding the baby-New York style
I met my collaboration partner for a work session yesterday in NYC. Times Square and the Theater district was awash with pedestrians as many people who work in the city had taken vacation and then decided to return post-strike in order to shop or visit the theater, etc. with friends and family.
Phil and I started off in Starbucks on 42nd where he was able to plug his laptop into the electricity (he was also able to get internet service, even though it's not a 'hotspot' for that) and we worked for five solid hours in between sipping coffees. Thereafter, we scarpered to a Chinese deli for lunch and worked for another two hours before calling it quits. All in all, we felt really pleased with the amount of work achieved.
Now that the first draft is written, we were able to prepare a comprehensive 'cast of characters' and decide who was in and who was out of the play. (For those of you who've read the book, Fergal, Uncle Tommy and Auntie Bernie are eliminated.) Through a process of rigid cutting and deciding which characters can double and triple up (actors love that as it keeps them busy), we've been able to prune the character list to 13 actors who will play 37 roles. Some of you might wonder why we had to reduce the cast list. The answer is that many theaters state the maximum number of cast members and, in going through the book which lists theaters seeking submissions, we've found that a lot have eight or ten as the magic number. Larger theaters often do not stipulate, but it's wise to keep the list smaller rather than larger. So with a cast list of 13 and a tightly written play, we should be able to get the script read by some important theaters.
In order to remain faithful to the novel's content, message and resolution, we found that the absolute minimum of characters required was 13. We've also decided to write a second version of the play some time in the future with a cast of eight, but that will require us to take great liberties and diverge quite a bit from the published novel.
As I was on my way back to the Port Authority to catch my bus, I saw a sight that made me laugh. I guess you could say it was the oddest case of multi-tasking I've ever seen, and the expression 'only in New York' is probably apt. While waiting for a pedestrian light to change, a sleek, white Land Rover drove slowly by driven by a forty-something man. In the front passenger seat was a pretty blonde woman dressed in a caramel sheepskin coat who was reading a book while simultaneously feeding her baby (lying in a portable crib on the back seat). I wouldn't have thought it possible unless I'd seen it for myself. There she sat totally absorbed in her reading with her left arm bent backwards as she held the bottle of milk in the baby's mouth. And the baby was sucking away contently, its eyes gazing up at the ceiling of the vehicle, which told me this wasn't the first time the method had been utilized. Instantly, I thought this is an attorney, investment banker or something, with an elegant Fifth Ave apartment, and a nanny who'd had the temerity to ask for some vacation over Christmas.
[technorati: New York, NYC, Times Square, Land Rover
Phil and I started off in Starbucks on 42nd where he was able to plug his laptop into the electricity (he was also able to get internet service, even though it's not a 'hotspot' for that) and we worked for five solid hours in between sipping coffees. Thereafter, we scarpered to a Chinese deli for lunch and worked for another two hours before calling it quits. All in all, we felt really pleased with the amount of work achieved.
Now that the first draft is written, we were able to prepare a comprehensive 'cast of characters' and decide who was in and who was out of the play. (For those of you who've read the book, Fergal, Uncle Tommy and Auntie Bernie are eliminated.) Through a process of rigid cutting and deciding which characters can double and triple up (actors love that as it keeps them busy), we've been able to prune the character list to 13 actors who will play 37 roles. Some of you might wonder why we had to reduce the cast list. The answer is that many theaters state the maximum number of cast members and, in going through the book which lists theaters seeking submissions, we've found that a lot have eight or ten as the magic number. Larger theaters often do not stipulate, but it's wise to keep the list smaller rather than larger. So with a cast list of 13 and a tightly written play, we should be able to get the script read by some important theaters.
In order to remain faithful to the novel's content, message and resolution, we found that the absolute minimum of characters required was 13. We've also decided to write a second version of the play some time in the future with a cast of eight, but that will require us to take great liberties and diverge quite a bit from the published novel.
As I was on my way back to the Port Authority to catch my bus, I saw a sight that made me laugh. I guess you could say it was the oddest case of multi-tasking I've ever seen, and the expression 'only in New York' is probably apt. While waiting for a pedestrian light to change, a sleek, white Land Rover drove slowly by driven by a forty-something man. In the front passenger seat was a pretty blonde woman dressed in a caramel sheepskin coat who was reading a book while simultaneously feeding her baby (lying in a portable crib on the back seat). I wouldn't have thought it possible unless I'd seen it for myself. There she sat totally absorbed in her reading with her left arm bent backwards as she held the bottle of milk in the baby's mouth. And the baby was sucking away contently, its eyes gazing up at the ceiling of the vehicle, which told me this wasn't the first time the method had been utilized. Instantly, I thought this is an attorney, investment banker or something, with an elegant Fifth Ave apartment, and a nanny who'd had the temerity to ask for some vacation over Christmas.
[technorati: New York, NYC, Times Square, Land Rover
Friday
Argyll in the sky
Nine million people will travel by air throughout the US today. It's the busiest travel day in the continental United States throughout the holidays. This afternoon, the Pennsylvania sun was bursting from the cerulean sky and it wasn't hard to verify that Americans are on the move. Everywhere the eye alighted above were pristine trails of vapor. It was amazing, actually. Being within the flight paths of planes leaving and arriving from Newark, JFK, LaGuardia and Philly, at one point the sky was so awash with crisscrossing jet trails that the it resembled the front panel of a giant Argyll sweater.
Zooming off now to do a quick bit of shopping because I'm a procrastinator when it comes to shopping at any time. I hate shopping, period. It's all my Mum's fault really, because she dragged all her kids into endless boutiques in bomb-blasted Belfast (it was the seventies and quite 'iffy' then) and made us endure interminable waits while she tried on, what seemed to us, every dress, blouse and skirt in the goddamned shop in hopes of finding something that would transform her plump body to sleekness.
[technorati: Argyll, JFK, Belfast, Philadelphia
Zooming off now to do a quick bit of shopping because I'm a procrastinator when it comes to shopping at any time. I hate shopping, period. It's all my Mum's fault really, because she dragged all her kids into endless boutiques in bomb-blasted Belfast (it was the seventies and quite 'iffy' then) and made us endure interminable waits while she tried on, what seemed to us, every dress, blouse and skirt in the goddamned shop in hopes of finding something that would transform her plump body to sleekness.
[technorati: Argyll, JFK, Belfast, Philadelphia
Wednesday
Debating Christmas
This is the time of the year when tempers in America seem to rise at the same rate as outside temperatures on the East coast fall. And the reason for these rising tempers is the old Merry Christmas versus Happy Holidays debate.
I should preface my opinion on the issue by saying first that Christmas is a cultural not religious holiday to me, that I dislike the swirling, cacophonous commercialism associated with it, and I spend it in the US, not Ireland; I enjoy eating good food, drinking good wine, and chewing the fat with friends. Secondly, I was oblivious about the debate when I lived in Ireland and England. Over there, we say 'Merry Christmas', period. It wasn't until my first Christmas in America when I was invited to Christmas Day dinner at the home of some of Larry's friends that I learned about the whole 'Happy Holidays' thing. As I entered the house, I said "Merry Christmas" to everyone I encountered and one woman said, "It's more proper to say "Happy Holidays." Needless to say, I bristled, wished her "Merry Christmas" again, and passed into the room with its enormous Christmas tree and wreath on the wall. (In an adjoining room, I might add was a navitity set because the host had converted to being an Episcopilian from Catholicism.) As one does in such situations, I inquired later about this woman and was informed she was Jewish, had graduated in law from a Catholic university, had a powerful position at a law firm in Philadelphia, but was also a closeted lesbian who would not acknowledge her longterm girlfriend because she lived in terror of being 'outed' at work. The last nugget of informatiion gave me the measure of the woman who had confronted me. For the entire day, she behaved as if she and I were the North and North poles of two magnets. When I joined a group of people where she was present, she immediately jettisoned herself to another room; if she remained because she'd just joined the group herself, she would not look at me, not even when I was talking or when I addressed her directly (made a point of doing that, actually. And she did respond, but it was apparant by its brevity that she'd have preferred to munch on the rim of her crystal wine goblet.
This year, the debate seems to have stirred the national consciousness because many people are making a point of saying "Merry Christmas" to those whom it seems logical would celebrate Christmas. People appear to be genuinely angry about this piece of political correctness that's gone awry. I've seen the attitudes and emphatic greetings at the malls. Maybe its because my name is Celtic, they know they can say "Merry Christmas." I also watched with horrified amazement as Macy's struggled about what to call their Christmas tree during the televised lighting ceremony at their principal store in the state of Georgia. After much wrangling, they decided to call it the Great tree I mean, give me a break. It's a Christmas tree. It's not a 'Holiday tree,' and it's not a'Great tree.'
Whatever happened to common sense. If a person is African-American and they celebrate Kwaanza instead of Christmas, then one simply says 'Happy Kwanzaa' if it falls in the same time period as Christmas and you know they celebrate it. If they don't celebrate Christmas and it's Christmas Day, then just wish them "Merry Christmas." Good manners dictate that they either wish it back or, if they desire to make a point, they can say 'Thanks, but I don't celebrate Christmas.' This applies also to Hanukkah. If the person is Jewish and you know it, say "Happy Hanukkah" if it falls contemporaneously with Christmas (as it does this year), or you can resort to the generic "Happy Holidays". If you don't know they're Jewish, Muslim, Sikh or whatever religion and it is 'Christmas Day, then say "Merry Christmas" and let good manners prevail. Simple as that. I have many Jewish friends and they do not twist into gargoyles of political correctness because I wish them "Merry Christmas" on December 25th.
My point is, there is no need to subvert wishing someone Merry Christmas because of a fear or reticence about traversing political correctness. It is Christmas and the fact that it is so should be acknowledged by intelligent people of any creed or culture. Not to do so demeans, stupifies and holds us hostage to one hell of an asinine aspect of the gospel of political correctness. Let's just all acknowledge our different cultures and associated holidays and maybe, just maybe, learning someone we meet comes from another culture might prompt us to ask about their holiday and learn something about it. We certainly won't learn anything by saying 'Season's Greetings' or 'Happy Holidays' and pretending the different traditions don't exist.
[technorati: Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Merry Christmas
I should preface my opinion on the issue by saying first that Christmas is a cultural not religious holiday to me, that I dislike the swirling, cacophonous commercialism associated with it, and I spend it in the US, not Ireland; I enjoy eating good food, drinking good wine, and chewing the fat with friends. Secondly, I was oblivious about the debate when I lived in Ireland and England. Over there, we say 'Merry Christmas', period. It wasn't until my first Christmas in America when I was invited to Christmas Day dinner at the home of some of Larry's friends that I learned about the whole 'Happy Holidays' thing. As I entered the house, I said "Merry Christmas" to everyone I encountered and one woman said, "It's more proper to say "Happy Holidays." Needless to say, I bristled, wished her "Merry Christmas" again, and passed into the room with its enormous Christmas tree and wreath on the wall. (In an adjoining room, I might add was a navitity set because the host had converted to being an Episcopilian from Catholicism.) As one does in such situations, I inquired later about this woman and was informed she was Jewish, had graduated in law from a Catholic university, had a powerful position at a law firm in Philadelphia, but was also a closeted lesbian who would not acknowledge her longterm girlfriend because she lived in terror of being 'outed' at work. The last nugget of informatiion gave me the measure of the woman who had confronted me. For the entire day, she behaved as if she and I were the North and North poles of two magnets. When I joined a group of people where she was present, she immediately jettisoned herself to another room; if she remained because she'd just joined the group herself, she would not look at me, not even when I was talking or when I addressed her directly (made a point of doing that, actually. And she did respond, but it was apparant by its brevity that she'd have preferred to munch on the rim of her crystal wine goblet.
This year, the debate seems to have stirred the national consciousness because many people are making a point of saying "Merry Christmas" to those whom it seems logical would celebrate Christmas. People appear to be genuinely angry about this piece of political correctness that's gone awry. I've seen the attitudes and emphatic greetings at the malls. Maybe its because my name is Celtic, they know they can say "Merry Christmas." I also watched with horrified amazement as Macy's struggled about what to call their Christmas tree during the televised lighting ceremony at their principal store in the state of Georgia. After much wrangling, they decided to call it the Great tree I mean, give me a break. It's a Christmas tree. It's not a 'Holiday tree,' and it's not a'Great tree.'
Whatever happened to common sense. If a person is African-American and they celebrate Kwaanza instead of Christmas, then one simply says 'Happy Kwanzaa' if it falls in the same time period as Christmas and you know they celebrate it. If they don't celebrate Christmas and it's Christmas Day, then just wish them "Merry Christmas." Good manners dictate that they either wish it back or, if they desire to make a point, they can say 'Thanks, but I don't celebrate Christmas.' This applies also to Hanukkah. If the person is Jewish and you know it, say "Happy Hanukkah" if it falls contemporaneously with Christmas (as it does this year), or you can resort to the generic "Happy Holidays". If you don't know they're Jewish, Muslim, Sikh or whatever religion and it is 'Christmas Day, then say "Merry Christmas" and let good manners prevail. Simple as that. I have many Jewish friends and they do not twist into gargoyles of political correctness because I wish them "Merry Christmas" on December 25th.
My point is, there is no need to subvert wishing someone Merry Christmas because of a fear or reticence about traversing political correctness. It is Christmas and the fact that it is so should be acknowledged by intelligent people of any creed or culture. Not to do so demeans, stupifies and holds us hostage to one hell of an asinine aspect of the gospel of political correctness. Let's just all acknowledge our different cultures and associated holidays and maybe, just maybe, learning someone we meet comes from another culture might prompt us to ask about their holiday and learn something about it. We certainly won't learn anything by saying 'Season's Greetings' or 'Happy Holidays' and pretending the different traditions don't exist.
[technorati: Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Merry Christmas
Monday
The hornet
This morning I had an epiphany of sorts at the Y while on my favorite elliptical and watching my favorite anchor CNN's American Morning Soledad O'Brien (whom one of the L's of L&L tried to convince me unsuccessfully over dinner the other night was reputed to be an absolute and insufferable bitch, or so she'd heard from someone 'in the know.' I told Lynne that I could not form any opinion on someone based on hearsay (that's the lawyer in me, I guess), that I would have to experience the alleged imperious and demanding personality firsthand before I could agree. My 'Y' epiphany concerned a fellow member who was peddling with determination on another elliptical machine. I was peddling pretty vigorously too because I'd keyed in the 'fat-burner' program as opposed to the more sedate 'calorie-burner' one and, disinterested in the interview Soledad was conducting with yet another author of the "How To' genre, I happened to look around at my fellow elliptical-cum-stairmaster junkies.
The member, a late middle-aged woman trenchantly frosty of demeanor with short, blunt, professionally dyed honey-blonde hair, always reminds me of a NY Supreme Court justice I'd once argued a case before when she strides into the gym. You may be familiar with the archetype from LA Law, Law and Order, and Ally McBeal and such, one of those powerful female presences that exude an intimidating 'Don't pull any fancy attorney crap such as another request for a continuance,' and/or 'You screw with me in any manner no matter how trivial while you're in my courtroom and your ass will be jumping through hoops and up for contempt' aura. This morning however, she was already astride the machine and sported a glow above her thick layer of make-up. Given the position of my machine and hers, I had a body profile view of her and it was not very flattering because all human dignity while on these machines is cheerfully traded in the pursuit of the 'nirvana of sveltness.'
My frosty 'judge' worked more and more feverishly, her painfully thin legs sheathed in a black lycra leotard, her very thin arms tugging at the handles, her hunched (on account of the machine) barrel-like torso draped in a baggy mustard and black striped T-shirt that resembled a carapace, and I immediately thought,'insect'. This woman resembles an insect. I watched riveted. I could not take my eyes off her and, boy, did my twenty two minutes pass quickly for the first time ever. (She always stays on the machine for forty-five minutes, despite there being a time limit of 30 minutes per member per machine in the interests of consideration for fellow members, but not even the staff will approach to remind the 'judge' of the Y's rules. As her time on the machine approached an end, I expected a pair of wings to slowly rise from out of her back and to see her body lift off and set course for the free weight section, her legs drifting wispily like a hornet.
[technorati: Soledad O'Brien, CNN, YMCA, American Morning
The member, a late middle-aged woman trenchantly frosty of demeanor with short, blunt, professionally dyed honey-blonde hair, always reminds me of a NY Supreme Court justice I'd once argued a case before when she strides into the gym. You may be familiar with the archetype from LA Law, Law and Order, and Ally McBeal and such, one of those powerful female presences that exude an intimidating 'Don't pull any fancy attorney crap such as another request for a continuance,' and/or 'You screw with me in any manner no matter how trivial while you're in my courtroom and your ass will be jumping through hoops and up for contempt' aura. This morning however, she was already astride the machine and sported a glow above her thick layer of make-up. Given the position of my machine and hers, I had a body profile view of her and it was not very flattering because all human dignity while on these machines is cheerfully traded in the pursuit of the 'nirvana of sveltness.'
My frosty 'judge' worked more and more feverishly, her painfully thin legs sheathed in a black lycra leotard, her very thin arms tugging at the handles, her hunched (on account of the machine) barrel-like torso draped in a baggy mustard and black striped T-shirt that resembled a carapace, and I immediately thought,'insect'. This woman resembles an insect. I watched riveted. I could not take my eyes off her and, boy, did my twenty two minutes pass quickly for the first time ever. (She always stays on the machine for forty-five minutes, despite there being a time limit of 30 minutes per member per machine in the interests of consideration for fellow members, but not even the staff will approach to remind the 'judge' of the Y's rules. As her time on the machine approached an end, I expected a pair of wings to slowly rise from out of her back and to see her body lift off and set course for the free weight section, her legs drifting wispily like a hornet.
[technorati: Soledad O'Brien, CNN, YMCA, American Morning
Wednesday
Brokeback Mountain: Thoughts
It's wonderful when a quality movie starts to receive the recognition it deserves and I'm pleased Brokeback Mountain is receiving lots of buzz and critical acclaim, the latest being the slew of nominations it received for the Golden Globes. I'm not just saying this because I'm gay and thus may be seen by some--most particularly the Christian Right--as being biased or of having a vested interest in seeing it succeed.
No, that's not the reason for the joy I'm taking at the glorious buzz. I'm joyful because, as someone of an artistic sensibility, I want as many people as possible to read uplifting books, hear uplifting music and see uplifting films of marvelous quality. For far too long, Hollywood has produced far too much dross and Brokeback Mountain, from the highly talented director Ang Lee, is just one of a number of top quality offerings to emerge this year. Others include George Clooney's, Good Night and Good Luck and Memoirs of a Geisha. I am hopeful the trend will continue and that we will see more fresh and novel (no pun intended) storylines for the consumption of the intelligent mainstream, rather than a continued flow of old movie rehashes, tired plot lines and mindnumbing mediocrity suitable only for...well, the numb of mind.
For those of you who haven't heard anything about Brokeback Mountain, the movie is based on a short story by Annie Proulx and involves a secret and tortured love affair and hauntingly sad relationship between two cowboys. (Interestingly, there were/are a lot of gay cowboys.) Here's a link to CNN's review of the movie:
Brokeback Mountain
Predictably, the Christian Right is angry and you will hear lots of anguish and predictions about the continued decline of public morality and our flight from God--read Christianity, for that. There will be much fire and brimstone warnings. I will post another essay about this in the near future.
At the moment, I merely want to rejoice that something good, something vital, something that shows another aspect of our shared humanity is seeing the light of day.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee, Annie Proulx,Golden Globes,George Clooney, Memoirs of a Geisha
No, that's not the reason for the joy I'm taking at the glorious buzz. I'm joyful because, as someone of an artistic sensibility, I want as many people as possible to read uplifting books, hear uplifting music and see uplifting films of marvelous quality. For far too long, Hollywood has produced far too much dross and Brokeback Mountain, from the highly talented director Ang Lee, is just one of a number of top quality offerings to emerge this year. Others include George Clooney's, Good Night and Good Luck and Memoirs of a Geisha. I am hopeful the trend will continue and that we will see more fresh and novel (no pun intended) storylines for the consumption of the intelligent mainstream, rather than a continued flow of old movie rehashes, tired plot lines and mindnumbing mediocrity suitable only for...well, the numb of mind.
For those of you who haven't heard anything about Brokeback Mountain, the movie is based on a short story by Annie Proulx and involves a secret and tortured love affair and hauntingly sad relationship between two cowboys. (Interestingly, there were/are a lot of gay cowboys.) Here's a link to CNN's review of the movie:
Brokeback Mountain
Predictably, the Christian Right is angry and you will hear lots of anguish and predictions about the continued decline of public morality and our flight from God--read Christianity, for that. There will be much fire and brimstone warnings. I will post another essay about this in the near future.
At the moment, I merely want to rejoice that something good, something vital, something that shows another aspect of our shared humanity is seeing the light of day.
[technorati: Brokeback Mountain, Ang Lee, Annie Proulx,Golden Globes,George Clooney, Memoirs of a Geisha
Monday
Book-Blog.com
And I'm informed that A Son Called Gabriel was a best reads of 2005 at Debra Hamel's Book-Blog.com.
Check out her reviews of some other terrific books.
Ms. Hamel also started the ingenious Buy A Friend A Book Week which runs four times a year and I was fortunate to be invited by her to choose my three favorite books some time ago. What better idea than to buy a friend a book for no good reason other than that they're a friend and you want to give a gift, right?
[technorati: Book-Blog.com, A Son Called Gabriel, Debra Hamel, Buy a Friend a Book Week
Check out her reviews of some other terrific books.
Ms. Hamel also started the ingenious Buy A Friend A Book Week which runs four times a year and I was fortunate to be invited by her to choose my three favorite books some time ago. What better idea than to buy a friend a book for no good reason other than that they're a friend and you want to give a gift, right?
[technorati: Book-Blog.com, A Son Called Gabriel, Debra Hamel, Buy a Friend a Book Week
Saturday
Blogcritics pick A Son Called Gabriel
I am very pleased this morning because I just received news that A Son Called Gabriel was chosen as one of the top 10 best books of 2005 by Blogcritics.com. Selected critics were asked to submit their favorite book of 2005 and a critic called Joan Hunt who'd erad my novel selected it.
This is especially wonderful news to receive as Phil Hilden, my collaborator in the play of A Son Called Gabriel, is coming to Pennsylvania today so that we can go though the first draft of the play.
Here's the link to Blogcritics:
Blogcritics
[technorati: Blogcritics, A Son Called Gabriel, Damian McNicholl, fiction
This is especially wonderful news to receive as Phil Hilden, my collaborator in the play of A Son Called Gabriel, is coming to Pennsylvania today so that we can go though the first draft of the play.
Here's the link to Blogcritics:
Blogcritics
[technorati: Blogcritics, A Son Called Gabriel, Damian McNicholl, fiction
Tuesday
A deer in the gloaming
It all began as an uncertain shadow that appeared suddenly in the corner of my left eye, and then came a sickening thud followed by darkness as a feverish tangle of limbs filled my window. The time of evening was what the Scots call 'the gloaming'. (I guess 'the gloaming' is an ancient Celtic word and Irish and Welsh Gaelic probably have similar words, but I don't know the Irish one because I was always hopeless at retaining my Irish vocabulary. The gloaming is actually a more precise word than teh word 'dusk' and, growing up in Ireland, we called it the 'between the lights' in English.)
In any event, I was returning home from a book signing and the deer bounded out from a wood near my home, struck the front of the car and was catapulted over the bonnet and against the windshield. Of course I braked quickly, and the animal slid off the bonnet to the road beneath, picked itself up, and dashed into an open field on the other side of the road. A bolt of electricity surged through my body as I drove to a lay-by--in my backview mirror, I could see the equally shocked deer pick itself up off the grass and dash across the field to disappear into a copse of trees--where I got out and inspected the damage, which amounted to a broken headlight and a badly dented bonnet.
The encounter resurrected a couple of memories stored deep within the recesses of my memory banks. One accident occurred shortly after my seventeenth birthday, and I had just got my driver's licence and was on my way to a 'sixth form social' (the equivalent of the senior prom in the states) at a neighboring school when a fox crossed my path. The fox did not survive. Another accident occurred while I was driving my sister Deirdre and cousins Helena and Rosemary to a new disco that had opened in a nearby town. When we arrived, the bouncers would not allow me in because I was wearing jeans, so we had a pow-wow on the pavement and decided to drive to another disco in Portstewart, some thirty miles away. We were so keen to get to the disco, I drove far too fast and next thing I rounded a corner that never seemed to stop turning and...well, I planted the car deep in the bosom of a row of rhododendron bushes flanking the ditch. All I remember as I stepped out of the car was my sister, dressed in a wide flared lemon skirt that gleamed in the darkness, pacing up and down the road in a panic because we could not extricate the car, accompanied by Rosemary and Helena who was wearing extremely tall high-heels that kept clicking loudly as she walked. In the end, it was decided that I would stay and continue my efforts to free the car while they walked down a farmer's lane to seek help. Off the heavily lip-glossed envoys clicked into the night.
Twenty minutes later, there was an enormous roar and a farmer's tractor loomed in the dusk. As it drew closer, I saw the girls perched in a most undignified way on the towing hitch. They climbed off when it came to a stop. Helena approached me, stilettoes in hand and pencil skirt drawn above her knees, and gave me a look that suggested I would have much groveling to do to make up for the affront. As the farmer was towing the car out, two British landrovers rounded the corner and came to a stop. To their credit, they stopped and asked if they could help, but I quickly declined. After it had been removed from the bushes, we inspected the car and I saw there were no dents--loads of scratches but no major damage. We thanked the old farmer profusely, decided to go home, and drove off, but as we advenced, we could not deny to one another that the car was making discomfitingly strange sounds. It was as if it were spitting out gravel or tree limbs from underneath the chassis. The sound lessened as I continued, but it was still noticeable, and I knew my father would know something was wrong as soon as he drove the thing. I decided to pull into a lay-by just outside the town where my cousins lived and had they and my sister rehearse a lie I'd concocted in the event my father smelled a rat and began an investigation. Next morning, I arose very early and went outside and quickly used "T-cut" (a Brasso like substance for removing scratches and tar) on the scratches and successfully removed all evidence of the accident. Satisfied, I went back to bed. Later, as soon as my father returned from Sunday mass, he called me to him and asked what was wrong with the car because it was making funny sounds. With scarcely a pause, I told him I'd swerved to avoid a fox and landed in a ditch and it must still be be shaking off earth and small stones. Only years later, did I tell him, and it's since became a family joke, which he still invokes to this day.
With regards to the current encounter, both the deer and I were lucky, though I'm sure the bruised deer will be feeling some pain for a few days. Certainly, I feel lucky because I've heard of instances where the windshield had broken and the deer has fallen into the cabin and crushed the occupant. And a few neighbors in the area have had their cars 'totalled' as a result of such accidents. The irony of the thing is I'm always so careful about deer when I'm driving. I'm constantly watching out for them as soon as I turn off the main road and start along the back roads winding through the township where I live. I'm sure I'm not alone in my vigilence because Pennsylvania has the highest rate of car accidents involving deer in the entire United States, though that's a record I'm sure the Commonwealth will not be keen to hold on to for very long.
[technorati: deer, Pennsylvania, proms, Ulster
In any event, I was returning home from a book signing and the deer bounded out from a wood near my home, struck the front of the car and was catapulted over the bonnet and against the windshield. Of course I braked quickly, and the animal slid off the bonnet to the road beneath, picked itself up, and dashed into an open field on the other side of the road. A bolt of electricity surged through my body as I drove to a lay-by--in my backview mirror, I could see the equally shocked deer pick itself up off the grass and dash across the field to disappear into a copse of trees--where I got out and inspected the damage, which amounted to a broken headlight and a badly dented bonnet.
The encounter resurrected a couple of memories stored deep within the recesses of my memory banks. One accident occurred shortly after my seventeenth birthday, and I had just got my driver's licence and was on my way to a 'sixth form social' (the equivalent of the senior prom in the states) at a neighboring school when a fox crossed my path. The fox did not survive. Another accident occurred while I was driving my sister Deirdre and cousins Helena and Rosemary to a new disco that had opened in a nearby town. When we arrived, the bouncers would not allow me in because I was wearing jeans, so we had a pow-wow on the pavement and decided to drive to another disco in Portstewart, some thirty miles away. We were so keen to get to the disco, I drove far too fast and next thing I rounded a corner that never seemed to stop turning and...well, I planted the car deep in the bosom of a row of rhododendron bushes flanking the ditch. All I remember as I stepped out of the car was my sister, dressed in a wide flared lemon skirt that gleamed in the darkness, pacing up and down the road in a panic because we could not extricate the car, accompanied by Rosemary and Helena who was wearing extremely tall high-heels that kept clicking loudly as she walked. In the end, it was decided that I would stay and continue my efforts to free the car while they walked down a farmer's lane to seek help. Off the heavily lip-glossed envoys clicked into the night.
Twenty minutes later, there was an enormous roar and a farmer's tractor loomed in the dusk. As it drew closer, I saw the girls perched in a most undignified way on the towing hitch. They climbed off when it came to a stop. Helena approached me, stilettoes in hand and pencil skirt drawn above her knees, and gave me a look that suggested I would have much groveling to do to make up for the affront. As the farmer was towing the car out, two British landrovers rounded the corner and came to a stop. To their credit, they stopped and asked if they could help, but I quickly declined. After it had been removed from the bushes, we inspected the car and I saw there were no dents--loads of scratches but no major damage. We thanked the old farmer profusely, decided to go home, and drove off, but as we advenced, we could not deny to one another that the car was making discomfitingly strange sounds. It was as if it were spitting out gravel or tree limbs from underneath the chassis. The sound lessened as I continued, but it was still noticeable, and I knew my father would know something was wrong as soon as he drove the thing. I decided to pull into a lay-by just outside the town where my cousins lived and had they and my sister rehearse a lie I'd concocted in the event my father smelled a rat and began an investigation. Next morning, I arose very early and went outside and quickly used "T-cut" (a Brasso like substance for removing scratches and tar) on the scratches and successfully removed all evidence of the accident. Satisfied, I went back to bed. Later, as soon as my father returned from Sunday mass, he called me to him and asked what was wrong with the car because it was making funny sounds. With scarcely a pause, I told him I'd swerved to avoid a fox and landed in a ditch and it must still be be shaking off earth and small stones. Only years later, did I tell him, and it's since became a family joke, which he still invokes to this day.
With regards to the current encounter, both the deer and I were lucky, though I'm sure the bruised deer will be feeling some pain for a few days. Certainly, I feel lucky because I've heard of instances where the windshield had broken and the deer has fallen into the cabin and crushed the occupant. And a few neighbors in the area have had their cars 'totalled' as a result of such accidents. The irony of the thing is I'm always so careful about deer when I'm driving. I'm constantly watching out for them as soon as I turn off the main road and start along the back roads winding through the township where I live. I'm sure I'm not alone in my vigilence because Pennsylvania has the highest rate of car accidents involving deer in the entire United States, though that's a record I'm sure the Commonwealth will not be keen to hold on to for very long.
[technorati: deer, Pennsylvania, proms, Ulster
Monday
Thanksgiving and goodbyes
Thanksgiving day was such a relaxing day and I didn't go near the computer once. We spent the morning pottering about the house and then went to dinner at the home of friends. The night before we'd gone with L&L to the Ottsville Inn, a local restaurant which we hadn't tried that changed hands six months ago. It now belongs to a commercial pilot who has an arrangement to fly in his fish fresh from all over the United States, though on this occasion I tried the duck which was seasoned in a German rub and simply delicious. Larry wasn't quite so enamored with his Delmonico steak which was topped with spinach and mozzarella (quite a tasteless cheese unless eaten in Italy, I find) because it was altogether too 'spinachy.'
A survey of the wine list raised eye brows and tightened lips when we noticed the American wines started at $39.00; so we ordered glasses (generously poured, it turned out) of Australian wine, imagining they were probably $10.00 a pop--an image guaranteed to give an unpleasant edge to the alcohol 'lift' we were desirous of achieving, and were pleasantly surprised--if not actually stunned--when the bill came and we saw they had been only $5.00 each. (I must say the Australians have been very shrewd in their attempt to gain dominance in the American wine market; their wines are very good, particularly the Shiraz and Cabernets, well-priced, and I love the quirkiness of their bottle labels.) All in all, we'll definitely go back to the restaurant.
Thanksgiving is such a singular American holiday, a special time to spend in the company of family and friends without the obligation to rush out and hustle up a gift because you know you're going to receive one and don't want to stand there looking like a prat because you didn't buy one for them in return, etc, etc. I despise having to give 'expected gifts' Where's the surprise in the act of gift-giving? Thanksgiving is also a holiday that hasn't been commercialized by the corporate marketing 'gurus' scouring for yet another opportunity to claw yet more dollars from out wallets, and I applaud the good sense of my fellow Americans for keeping it that way, though we do, of course, get bombarded by the shrill bray of 'Black Friday' advertisements proclaiming wondrous deals that inevitably turn out to be duds.
On Friday, I did some work on Act 1 of the play and then in the early evening went out fishing for a new laser printer and needless to say didn't buy one. The sales staff at our local Staples really needs to get their act together because one chap praised HP printers and lacerated all Brother offerings, and another guy ten minutes later, after I popped in to ask a question I'd forgotten to ask, praised Brother and lacerated HP. Either that, or first time I got the chap whose remit is to sell all things HP, and second time I got the chappie with the Brother remit. In any event, I've decided to wait until the depths of January when aforementioned corporate marketing gurus toiling in the fields of silicon-dom are feeling the heat from weak sales and decide to do some genuine price mark-downs.
On our return home, there was a message on our answering machine from our neighbor across the woods whom Larry had sold a house (I lived in it for ten years) to nearly four years ago. She sounded agitated and asked us to call her back on her cell phone as she had news. When we did, we were devastated to learn Karen's husband Larry had died at two o'clock that morning of a massive heart attack. Larry was a New Yorker, Karen from California, and they have a cute three-and-a-half year old daughter, Alexandra. We became friends after the house changed hands and I always appreciated that he would always ask about my novel as it was winding its way toward publication, and they came to a reading, and he always wanted to know what I was currently working on. Such is the busyness of life, we hadn't spoken for a while and then he called the day before Thanksgiving and told us his mother had passed away two weeks previously.
Needless to say, his premature death reminded me of my own mortality and I attacked my cardio routine at the gym this morning like a man possessed, whipping my heart into a frenzy of pumping muscle. Quite frankly, a regimented program of exercise is the only hope of preventing heart problems.
As Larry was Jewish, his body had to be interred within 24 hours, but due to the Sabbath, the funeral took place on Sunday morning. Two neighbors, Larry and I attended the service in North New Jersey, and it was the first time I'd ever been to a Jewish funeral. The service took place at the Beth Israel cemetery and I put on one of the yalmukes provided--another first. As I listened, I was struck by the simplicity of the service, by the raw honesty as family members eulogized him, and by the cantor's singing and the saying of Kaddish at the columbarium. It left me with a feeling that Catholic and Protestant funeral rites could borrow a little from the Reform Judaism rites, most particularly the eulogizing of the deceased. I had the distinct feeling we have surrendered too much of the intensely personal to our clergy and ritual. I can't remember a priest ever delivering a thought-provoking, interesting eulogy in all the funerals I've attended. Surely it's the place of family and friends to eulogize someone they've loved, someone whose flaws, qualities and humanity they've known and lived with daily. I can't speak to Protestant funeral rites, but I will say that Catholic funerals should be far less about scripture and sermon and more about goodbye.
[technorati: Reform Judaism, Thanksgiving, Roman Catholic, Protestant
A survey of the wine list raised eye brows and tightened lips when we noticed the American wines started at $39.00; so we ordered glasses (generously poured, it turned out) of Australian wine, imagining they were probably $10.00 a pop--an image guaranteed to give an unpleasant edge to the alcohol 'lift' we were desirous of achieving, and were pleasantly surprised--if not actually stunned--when the bill came and we saw they had been only $5.00 each. (I must say the Australians have been very shrewd in their attempt to gain dominance in the American wine market; their wines are very good, particularly the Shiraz and Cabernets, well-priced, and I love the quirkiness of their bottle labels.) All in all, we'll definitely go back to the restaurant.
Thanksgiving is such a singular American holiday, a special time to spend in the company of family and friends without the obligation to rush out and hustle up a gift because you know you're going to receive one and don't want to stand there looking like a prat because you didn't buy one for them in return, etc, etc. I despise having to give 'expected gifts' Where's the surprise in the act of gift-giving? Thanksgiving is also a holiday that hasn't been commercialized by the corporate marketing 'gurus' scouring for yet another opportunity to claw yet more dollars from out wallets, and I applaud the good sense of my fellow Americans for keeping it that way, though we do, of course, get bombarded by the shrill bray of 'Black Friday' advertisements proclaiming wondrous deals that inevitably turn out to be duds.
On Friday, I did some work on Act 1 of the play and then in the early evening went out fishing for a new laser printer and needless to say didn't buy one. The sales staff at our local Staples really needs to get their act together because one chap praised HP printers and lacerated all Brother offerings, and another guy ten minutes later, after I popped in to ask a question I'd forgotten to ask, praised Brother and lacerated HP. Either that, or first time I got the chap whose remit is to sell all things HP, and second time I got the chappie with the Brother remit. In any event, I've decided to wait until the depths of January when aforementioned corporate marketing gurus toiling in the fields of silicon-dom are feeling the heat from weak sales and decide to do some genuine price mark-downs.
On our return home, there was a message on our answering machine from our neighbor across the woods whom Larry had sold a house (I lived in it for ten years) to nearly four years ago. She sounded agitated and asked us to call her back on her cell phone as she had news. When we did, we were devastated to learn Karen's husband Larry had died at two o'clock that morning of a massive heart attack. Larry was a New Yorker, Karen from California, and they have a cute three-and-a-half year old daughter, Alexandra. We became friends after the house changed hands and I always appreciated that he would always ask about my novel as it was winding its way toward publication, and they came to a reading, and he always wanted to know what I was currently working on. Such is the busyness of life, we hadn't spoken for a while and then he called the day before Thanksgiving and told us his mother had passed away two weeks previously.
Needless to say, his premature death reminded me of my own mortality and I attacked my cardio routine at the gym this morning like a man possessed, whipping my heart into a frenzy of pumping muscle. Quite frankly, a regimented program of exercise is the only hope of preventing heart problems.
As Larry was Jewish, his body had to be interred within 24 hours, but due to the Sabbath, the funeral took place on Sunday morning. Two neighbors, Larry and I attended the service in North New Jersey, and it was the first time I'd ever been to a Jewish funeral. The service took place at the Beth Israel cemetery and I put on one of the yalmukes provided--another first. As I listened, I was struck by the simplicity of the service, by the raw honesty as family members eulogized him, and by the cantor's singing and the saying of Kaddish at the columbarium. It left me with a feeling that Catholic and Protestant funeral rites could borrow a little from the Reform Judaism rites, most particularly the eulogizing of the deceased. I had the distinct feeling we have surrendered too much of the intensely personal to our clergy and ritual. I can't remember a priest ever delivering a thought-provoking, interesting eulogy in all the funerals I've attended. Surely it's the place of family and friends to eulogize someone they've loved, someone whose flaws, qualities and humanity they've known and lived with daily. I can't speak to Protestant funeral rites, but I will say that Catholic funerals should be far less about scripture and sermon and more about goodbye.
[technorati: Reform Judaism, Thanksgiving, Roman Catholic, Protestant
Introducing my collaboration partner
Last week was a busy week because I met up with Philip Hilden in NYC last week to discuss and begin our collaboration on the play of my novel A Son Called Gabriel, which may or may not remain the final title. We met at Starbucks in Times Square and, over a cup of coffee, discussed the fine points and then signed a collaboration agreement as set forth by The Dramatists Guild (of which Phil is a member) modified to suit our needs.
So I'd like to officially introduce Phil and say how really happy I am that we've hooked up to work on the play. Here's some background:
Philip grew up on Long Island and has been attending theater in NYC ever since his fifth birthday. A graduate of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, he has an extensive acting and directing resume in summer stock at Trotwood Circle Theater in Dayton, Ohio, at the Cape Playhouse on Cape Cod and in children's theater with The Paper Bag Players in NYC and at The Theater Workshop in Lynbrook, NY.
Phil has adapted Bram Stoker's Dracula with Robert Bethune which sold out during its run in Newburgh, NY. He has also adapted two of LaVyrle Spencer's best selling novels, That Camden Summer and Then Came Heaven. His most recent play is an original work, a fast-paced comedy called The Resurrection of Derrick Donnelly.
In addition, I've discovered Phil is also an extremely talented and successful photographer and his work can be viewed at Hilden Images
I must say Starbucks is a great place to do work because they didn't hassle us once about sitting at a table for hours and, in fact, even come around and gave everyone free samples of cookies and muffins and stuff, which I grabbed, of course. Well, I'm working out now, so it's okay to nibble, I figure
Phil had brought his laptop and the two of us went through a scene by scene breakdown of the novel we'd prepared. It astonished me that the novel had some 65 scenes. At this stage, I will say, Phil's been so enthusiastic about doing an adaptation that he'd already penned out the preliminary content of the two Acts and copied a great deal of the novel's dialogue into his computer. So, for over three hours, we scrupulously went through the book's scenes and decided what was in and what could be omitted. It's hard to distill a novel spanning twelve years into a two Act play, but it's absolutely doable.
Most interestingly, the exercise showed both of us that we can work together because there was a great deal of consensus between us. And, on the few occasions we disagreed, the party wanting inclusion of the scene argued the case and we made our decisions. (Some of you might wonder if I would have difficulty breaking up the novel I wrote, doubly so because it's semi-autobiographical, but I can honestly say I have no concerns with that. Our mission is to stay true to the book's plot with everything else being fair game. In any event, Phil thinks a great deal of my novel's dialogue can be carried over into the play because it's strong;it's what enabled him to see the book as a play in the first place. That definitely was good to hear.
Now the real work begins. This weekend, I worked on Act 1, modifying, creating or extending scenes to meet the needs of the theater, while Phil spent time whittling down Act 2. We plan to meet again soon and 'marry' the two and then do a rewrite. Aftre that will come a reading and then we'll get some actors he knows to do a live reading, etc. Heady stuff.
All in all, I believe it's going to be a fun experience and I'm looking forward to learning from Phil, especially since he's directed.
I'll keep you posted on progress.
So here's to A Son Called Gabriel playing one day in a NYC, London or Dublin theater. Oh, what the hell, I'm going to be greedy. Here's to it playing in all three cities.
[technorati: Philip Hilden, LaVyrle Spencer, Dramatists Guild, Bram Stoker's Dracula
So I'd like to officially introduce Phil and say how really happy I am that we've hooked up to work on the play. Here's some background:
Philip grew up on Long Island and has been attending theater in NYC ever since his fifth birthday. A graduate of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, he has an extensive acting and directing resume in summer stock at Trotwood Circle Theater in Dayton, Ohio, at the Cape Playhouse on Cape Cod and in children's theater with The Paper Bag Players in NYC and at The Theater Workshop in Lynbrook, NY.
Phil has adapted Bram Stoker's Dracula with Robert Bethune which sold out during its run in Newburgh, NY. He has also adapted two of LaVyrle Spencer's best selling novels, That Camden Summer and Then Came Heaven. His most recent play is an original work, a fast-paced comedy called The Resurrection of Derrick Donnelly.
In addition, I've discovered Phil is also an extremely talented and successful photographer and his work can be viewed at Hilden Images
I must say Starbucks is a great place to do work because they didn't hassle us once about sitting at a table for hours and, in fact, even come around and gave everyone free samples of cookies and muffins and stuff, which I grabbed, of course. Well, I'm working out now, so it's okay to nibble, I figure
Phil had brought his laptop and the two of us went through a scene by scene breakdown of the novel we'd prepared. It astonished me that the novel had some 65 scenes. At this stage, I will say, Phil's been so enthusiastic about doing an adaptation that he'd already penned out the preliminary content of the two Acts and copied a great deal of the novel's dialogue into his computer. So, for over three hours, we scrupulously went through the book's scenes and decided what was in and what could be omitted. It's hard to distill a novel spanning twelve years into a two Act play, but it's absolutely doable.
Most interestingly, the exercise showed both of us that we can work together because there was a great deal of consensus between us. And, on the few occasions we disagreed, the party wanting inclusion of the scene argued the case and we made our decisions. (Some of you might wonder if I would have difficulty breaking up the novel I wrote, doubly so because it's semi-autobiographical, but I can honestly say I have no concerns with that. Our mission is to stay true to the book's plot with everything else being fair game. In any event, Phil thinks a great deal of my novel's dialogue can be carried over into the play because it's strong;it's what enabled him to see the book as a play in the first place. That definitely was good to hear.
Now the real work begins. This weekend, I worked on Act 1, modifying, creating or extending scenes to meet the needs of the theater, while Phil spent time whittling down Act 2. We plan to meet again soon and 'marry' the two and then do a rewrite. Aftre that will come a reading and then we'll get some actors he knows to do a live reading, etc. Heady stuff.
All in all, I believe it's going to be a fun experience and I'm looking forward to learning from Phil, especially since he's directed.
I'll keep you posted on progress.
So here's to A Son Called Gabriel playing one day in a NYC, London or Dublin theater. Oh, what the hell, I'm going to be greedy. Here's to it playing in all three cities.
[technorati: Philip Hilden, LaVyrle Spencer, Dramatists Guild, Bram Stoker's Dracula
Darwin and the Bucks County bucks
The woods around my house were alive with the thunder of hooves this weekend because deer rutting season is at its peak. On Saturday, I saw a very impressive, muscular three-point stag wandering out by the garage and could not figure out why he wasn't at all phased by my presence. (The deer in Bucks County are so numerous--in fact, Pennsylvania has the largest deer population in the entire United States--that contact with humans is unavoidable and, as a result, they've become entirely nonchalant if not actually brazen about the whole thing.) As I peered into the wood running alongside our property and the neighboring property, I saw at once the reason for his indifference. A delicate doe was laying on all fours in the brush. Obviously tired of his advances and, perhaps holding out for a shag with a four-point or more as she went about her business throughout the course of the day, she'd decided to wait him out--fickleness and rapid boredom being more associated with the male of any species, I think--by laying down. And her strategem worked. He strutted about flashing his bobtail and pissing near various trees for about an additional fifteen minutes and then left to pursue other coital opportunities.
Sunday wasn't quite so lucky for another doe. As I was carrying Spice out to do his business (he can no longer walk by himself), there was an enormous crashing through the woods and I looked about to see four bucks (one with five-points) chasing after a doe. They were relentless. They chased her back and forth around the entire back portion of the abutting woods before they finally ran off and all I could hear was the frantic rustle of dead leaves being stirred.
As I'd watched, I thought of Darwin and evolution and how it was probably the five-point buck, clearly the strongest, who exhausted the others and got her at the end. (Darwin's been on my mind ever since the Dover, Pennsylvania voters saw the light and decided to throw out the entire school board, undoubtedly Christian Right, at the elections last week because the board tried to advance the lie that the theory of evolution isn't settled yet in science and thus intelligent design had to be taught too. In Bucks, we don't have that sort of argument or question in our local elections because we accept science's proof and pronouncements on the matter and because we're--well, quite frankly, we're a sophisticated county, but it's very, very encouraging to see that our peers in more rural areas of the Commonwealth are making strides).
It did also cross my mind if Darwin's theory was perhaps a little sexist viz-a-viz mating situations, because we always seem to think of the term 'fittest' in these situations as applying principally to the male of a species. Normally, we assume the most virile wins the prize. But what about the females, in this case, the doe? Clearly, she would have to be as strong as the fittest male in order to run the lesser males to exhaustion. Or maybe I'm over analyzing and they all took turns on the poor thing!!
[technorati: Bucks County, Charles Darwin, Dover School Board, Evolution, intelligent design]
Sunday wasn't quite so lucky for another doe. As I was carrying Spice out to do his business (he can no longer walk by himself), there was an enormous crashing through the woods and I looked about to see four bucks (one with five-points) chasing after a doe. They were relentless. They chased her back and forth around the entire back portion of the abutting woods before they finally ran off and all I could hear was the frantic rustle of dead leaves being stirred.
As I'd watched, I thought of Darwin and evolution and how it was probably the five-point buck, clearly the strongest, who exhausted the others and got her at the end. (Darwin's been on my mind ever since the Dover, Pennsylvania voters saw the light and decided to throw out the entire school board, undoubtedly Christian Right, at the elections last week because the board tried to advance the lie that the theory of evolution isn't settled yet in science and thus intelligent design had to be taught too. In Bucks, we don't have that sort of argument or question in our local elections because we accept science's proof and pronouncements on the matter and because we're--well, quite frankly, we're a sophisticated county, but it's very, very encouraging to see that our peers in more rural areas of the Commonwealth are making strides).
It did also cross my mind if Darwin's theory was perhaps a little sexist viz-a-viz mating situations, because we always seem to think of the term 'fittest' in these situations as applying principally to the male of a species. Normally, we assume the most virile wins the prize. But what about the females, in this case, the doe? Clearly, she would have to be as strong as the fittest male in order to run the lesser males to exhaustion. Or maybe I'm over analyzing and they all took turns on the poor thing!!
[technorati: Bucks County, Charles Darwin, Dover School Board, Evolution, intelligent design]
Thursday
A question of body age
I felt every muscle in my body tighten in rebellion immediately after the instructor gave me the results of my physical exam. I should preface these words by saying I'm 5'11" and pretty lean (with a little paunch that's been troubling me) despite not having exercised for a few years. I keep lean because, when I notice I'm putting on weight, I cut down on my calories dramatically until I feel my clothing loosen again. I've already played the dead-end game of buying new, more comfortable jeans--the kindler, gentler industry term is 'relaxed fit'--when this inconvenience occurs, but two things put a permanent end to that solution. First, a discovery that sizes on American clothing labels are aimed at massaging a customer's ego rather than imparting valuable and truthful information. Thus, for example, one cannot assume that a 34" waist in a particular pair of jeans means that your waist is 34"; your waist measurement in fact could be something more, er, generous. (In the even more cut-throat world of female fashion, I'm informed that an American size 8 corresponds to a size 10 or 12 in Europe, which is definitely an ego boost for American women when they meet up in London or Paris or wherever and chance to chat about their dress sizes with their svelte, disbelieving European friends.) Secondly, I think it's just plain lazy to upsize when one puts on a bit of poundage, rather than take it as a warning bell to do something. And let's face it, the era of 'supersize me for just a dollar more' is over.
So, after being strapped up to a computer the other night, I was told to do various exercises which enabled John (the instructor) to measure my breathing, strength, body fat percentage and a host of other things that, when aggregated, could determine my BODY AGE as opposed to my actual age.
I have always considered myself to be fit because, one, I went religiously to my gym in London over ten years ago and, two, when things have had to be done because of time constraints and deadlines, I have helped Larry do whatever grunt work was required on one or other of his house building projects. So I approached this entire battery of tests with smugness and absolute certainty of result. And all did begin most rosily. John asked me to do some press-ups.
He said, "Do only what you can do comfortably, even if it's just eight or so."
Always spurred by low expectations and/or challenges, I executed thirty-five with the zeal of a psyched marine, which performance was duly acknowledged by grunts of admiration from John and Larry. Next up was flexibility, which I insisted on redoing as soon as I saw the result flash alongside the words below average on the monitor. A nadir was reached when more wires were attached for the body fat calculation and--and you must remember I have a lean frame--it came in at 28.9%. The desired range lies between 8 and 16% and, but for the fact I had already insisted on one recount with regard to flexibility, I would have disputed the result. So I kept quiet and waited as the computer did its number crunching for production of the body age result. Within a minute, the laser printer began to whine and a sheaf of papers spewed out which John began to riffle through.
'Oh, wow..." he said.
"Yes."
"Wow, it says you're two years older than your actual."
'But...what....but...there must..."
Larry was chortling in the background because his had come in at eight years younger.
"Given your age and weight, it says here that you're two years over in comparison to your peers," said John.
"Well, I guess these things are kinda arbitrary, aren't they?" I said. I have discovered I lapse into the American vernacular at times of stress. "I mean, who came up with this concept of body age anyway? I bet it's some corporation seeking a competitive edge."
"No, it's a complicated calculation and accurate.
"I see."
More chortles in the background.
"The good news is, you can reduce your body age by at least 10 years by working out" said John. "That's what is important to take from this."
With those words, I became appeased. With much pounding and lifting and sweating, I, too, could turn back my body clock just like my peers.
"So I'll draw you guys up a program and let's get together soon and go over it," he said. "When'd you guys like to come in?"
"Tomorrow," I said. "Tomorrow evening."
[technorati: YMCA, Polar Body Age System, working out, fitness]
So, after being strapped up to a computer the other night, I was told to do various exercises which enabled John (the instructor) to measure my breathing, strength, body fat percentage and a host of other things that, when aggregated, could determine my BODY AGE as opposed to my actual age.
I have always considered myself to be fit because, one, I went religiously to my gym in London over ten years ago and, two, when things have had to be done because of time constraints and deadlines, I have helped Larry do whatever grunt work was required on one or other of his house building projects. So I approached this entire battery of tests with smugness and absolute certainty of result. And all did begin most rosily. John asked me to do some press-ups.
He said, "Do only what you can do comfortably, even if it's just eight or so."
Always spurred by low expectations and/or challenges, I executed thirty-five with the zeal of a psyched marine, which performance was duly acknowledged by grunts of admiration from John and Larry. Next up was flexibility, which I insisted on redoing as soon as I saw the result flash alongside the words below average on the monitor. A nadir was reached when more wires were attached for the body fat calculation and--and you must remember I have a lean frame--it came in at 28.9%. The desired range lies between 8 and 16% and, but for the fact I had already insisted on one recount with regard to flexibility, I would have disputed the result. So I kept quiet and waited as the computer did its number crunching for production of the body age result. Within a minute, the laser printer began to whine and a sheaf of papers spewed out which John began to riffle through.
'Oh, wow..." he said.
"Yes."
"Wow, it says you're two years older than your actual."
'But...what....but...there must..."
Larry was chortling in the background because his had come in at eight years younger.
"Given your age and weight, it says here that you're two years over in comparison to your peers," said John.
"Well, I guess these things are kinda arbitrary, aren't they?" I said. I have discovered I lapse into the American vernacular at times of stress. "I mean, who came up with this concept of body age anyway? I bet it's some corporation seeking a competitive edge."
"No, it's a complicated calculation and accurate.
"I see."
More chortles in the background.
"The good news is, you can reduce your body age by at least 10 years by working out" said John. "That's what is important to take from this."
With those words, I became appeased. With much pounding and lifting and sweating, I, too, could turn back my body clock just like my peers.
"So I'll draw you guys up a program and let's get together soon and go over it," he said. "When'd you guys like to come in?"
"Tomorrow," I said. "Tomorrow evening."
[technorati: YMCA, Polar Body Age System, working out, fitness]
Tuesday
Forgotten Irish writer
I've been working out at the gym and, as soon as the aches and pains subside, I'll write about how my physical went the other day, which proved to be a wee bit of a shock.
In the meantime, Sinead Gleesan of Sigla has a fascinating, very enjoyable essay on her blog about the writer Maeve Brennan who was of Irish parentage and worked at the New Yorker.
[technorati: irish blogs, sigla, sinead gleeson, maeve brennan]
In the meantime, Sinead Gleesan of Sigla has a fascinating, very enjoyable essay on her blog about the writer Maeve Brennan who was of Irish parentage and worked at the New Yorker.
[technorati: irish blogs, sigla, sinead gleeson, maeve brennan]
Sunday
Old slippers and armchairs
Camilla's on this side of the pond for nearly a week and is nervous, apparently. She's nervous that she won't be received very kindly by 'the Americans.'
Why? You might ask.
Well, there's a lot riding on her shoulders, and please indulge me in my use of equestrian imagary. The sad state of the British monarchy is such today that, first, the royal minders deem it necessary for Charles (in his new man-of-the-people accent) to make obsequious speeches praising the American president as being of vital influence and necessity in the world in order to pay for the White House dinner thrown in his honor and, second, they also desperately need 'the Americans' to show their enthusiastic admiration for the couple so they can do some American-esque spin in order to boost Charles and Camilla's acceptance at home. Very sad. Tragic, actually...the tragedy exacerbated when one considers how terribly proud the monarchy once was, how its imperiousness and aloofness preserved the cachet. How they'd love to get back to those days of splendid aloofness, to the days of blue-bloods and a grateful peasantry who, on official occasions, could be counted on to trek from their council houses throughout the kingdom to stand outside Buckingham Palace in their hundreds and hundreds of thousands with painted red, white and blue faces and Union Jack cloaks, all chattering and squealing 'God Save the Queen' and 'We love you, Ma'am' Some, a hundred thousand or so, will still do it today.
Unfortunately, for both the mandarins and royalty junkies, it seems fully 81% of the American public are disinterested--though early mandarin spin is that a turnaround will result after the royal couples jaunt to see the devestation in New Orleans. And the American press might also help boost ratings with their fixation about Camilla having to walk four paces behind Charles that's got nothing to do with 'barefoot and pregnant' sexism, but rather a quirky royal protocol based on the ancient premise that all attention must focus on the senior royal. (At this point I will say that I'm perplexed as to why Larry King finds it necessary to haul people of the caliber of Joan Rivers on to his show to talk about the couple. Is it because she did a few seasons of comedy at some London theater a few years ago that now makes her the American expert on all things royal and all things Brit? Or is it possible she saw an opportunity and bulldozed her way onto the show? I've never understood the woman's loud, tawdry spiels, if indeed they can even be classified as some form of mediocre humor, so I guess I'm biased.
Regarding Camilla, I do wish the media would get over being unkind to the woman regarding her appearance and demeanor. It's been milked, so move on for Christssake. I'm actually warming a little toward the old gal. Lurking behind those flying saucer-wide hats favored by older royals is a woman supposedly possessed of a great sense of humor. And I do like people with a bit of living etched on their faces and who can crack a joke.
She's also an English Catholic by birth and, as I'm an Irish one and our childhoods were thus most likely similarly marred, maybe I should feel some sort of automatic liking for that reason alone. I'd also imagine we share a commonality in not running like the bejasus to the confessional every time we might have sinned, nor is there too much danger that we might bulldoze any member of our local RC congregations in order to get the best pew at Sunday morning mass. (In any event, I think she's probably converted to Anglicanism now--low church, by the way.)
I certainly won't like her for the reasons I'm told to like her by some plummy-mouthed, moldy English men and women who're their friends and will say anything to be allowed to retain the best seats at Highgrove House dinner parties. The royal mandarins dragged these people from their country houses and dried and dusted them off to appear on American TV to say that "the Americans" should like Camilla because "she's like an old pair of slippers or one's comfortable armchair, really." I'm not joking. Royalty is now sold to the American masses by comparing them to old slippers and comfortable armchairs. That's what I heard a Brit author with flat, matted silver hair, which she wore in a style highly reminiscent of Susie Quattro in the seventies, state without the slightest whiff of irony the other night.
So America, know that representatives of the British upper-middle class are counting on you to love a pair of old slippers or two comfortable armchairs.
[technorati: Charles and Camilla, Susie Quattro, Prince+Charles, Joan Rivers visit]
Why? You might ask.
Well, there's a lot riding on her shoulders, and please indulge me in my use of equestrian imagary. The sad state of the British monarchy is such today that, first, the royal minders deem it necessary for Charles (in his new man-of-the-people accent) to make obsequious speeches praising the American president as being of vital influence and necessity in the world in order to pay for the White House dinner thrown in his honor and, second, they also desperately need 'the Americans' to show their enthusiastic admiration for the couple so they can do some American-esque spin in order to boost Charles and Camilla's acceptance at home. Very sad. Tragic, actually...the tragedy exacerbated when one considers how terribly proud the monarchy once was, how its imperiousness and aloofness preserved the cachet. How they'd love to get back to those days of splendid aloofness, to the days of blue-bloods and a grateful peasantry who, on official occasions, could be counted on to trek from their council houses throughout the kingdom to stand outside Buckingham Palace in their hundreds and hundreds of thousands with painted red, white and blue faces and Union Jack cloaks, all chattering and squealing 'God Save the Queen' and 'We love you, Ma'am' Some, a hundred thousand or so, will still do it today.
Unfortunately, for both the mandarins and royalty junkies, it seems fully 81% of the American public are disinterested--though early mandarin spin is that a turnaround will result after the royal couples jaunt to see the devestation in New Orleans. And the American press might also help boost ratings with their fixation about Camilla having to walk four paces behind Charles that's got nothing to do with 'barefoot and pregnant' sexism, but rather a quirky royal protocol based on the ancient premise that all attention must focus on the senior royal. (At this point I will say that I'm perplexed as to why Larry King finds it necessary to haul people of the caliber of Joan Rivers on to his show to talk about the couple. Is it because she did a few seasons of comedy at some London theater a few years ago that now makes her the American expert on all things royal and all things Brit? Or is it possible she saw an opportunity and bulldozed her way onto the show? I've never understood the woman's loud, tawdry spiels, if indeed they can even be classified as some form of mediocre humor, so I guess I'm biased.
Regarding Camilla, I do wish the media would get over being unkind to the woman regarding her appearance and demeanor. It's been milked, so move on for Christssake. I'm actually warming a little toward the old gal. Lurking behind those flying saucer-wide hats favored by older royals is a woman supposedly possessed of a great sense of humor. And I do like people with a bit of living etched on their faces and who can crack a joke.
She's also an English Catholic by birth and, as I'm an Irish one and our childhoods were thus most likely similarly marred, maybe I should feel some sort of automatic liking for that reason alone. I'd also imagine we share a commonality in not running like the bejasus to the confessional every time we might have sinned, nor is there too much danger that we might bulldoze any member of our local RC congregations in order to get the best pew at Sunday morning mass. (In any event, I think she's probably converted to Anglicanism now--low church, by the way.)
I certainly won't like her for the reasons I'm told to like her by some plummy-mouthed, moldy English men and women who're their friends and will say anything to be allowed to retain the best seats at Highgrove House dinner parties. The royal mandarins dragged these people from their country houses and dried and dusted them off to appear on American TV to say that "the Americans" should like Camilla because "she's like an old pair of slippers or one's comfortable armchair, really." I'm not joking. Royalty is now sold to the American masses by comparing them to old slippers and comfortable armchairs. That's what I heard a Brit author with flat, matted silver hair, which she wore in a style highly reminiscent of Susie Quattro in the seventies, state without the slightest whiff of irony the other night.
So America, know that representatives of the British upper-middle class are counting on you to love a pair of old slippers or two comfortable armchairs.
[technorati: Charles and Camilla, Susie Quattro, Prince+Charles, Joan Rivers visit]
Friday
The yearling
This morning as I sat at my desk to begin work on the play adaptation, I happened to look out my window which has a great view of the woods surrounding most of my house. To my astonishment, a yearling was lying down right beside the window and was peering in at me with its shiny, liquid brown eyes. It made no attempt to rise, instead just intermittently chewed and watched. Deer really have the most amazing eyes; they're so alive and full of intelligence. Of course, its coat had lost its spots and the rich tan color of summer was succumbing to the tufted heavier grey coat they get in winter.
As I watched I began to fear it was injured and, if so, exactly what I should do. Was protocol to call the local police, or the state park warden, or the guy who patrols the area to make sure no one is illegally hunting on people's land or using the wrong implements. (Bow and arrow season has commenced in PA, and in a few week the musket season will start.) Certainly, unlike my friend Colleen who was adopted by a fawn two years ago whom she called Tinkerbell and who's still a pet, I didn't want to have to care for an injured deer.
In any event, the yearling must have guessed my dilemma because, with a last stare, it rose and sauntered over to inspect the withering ornamental grasses.
[technorati: deer, Pennsylvania, Fall, hunters]
As I watched I began to fear it was injured and, if so, exactly what I should do. Was protocol to call the local police, or the state park warden, or the guy who patrols the area to make sure no one is illegally hunting on people's land or using the wrong implements. (Bow and arrow season has commenced in PA, and in a few week the musket season will start.) Certainly, unlike my friend Colleen who was adopted by a fawn two years ago whom she called Tinkerbell and who's still a pet, I didn't want to have to care for an injured deer.
In any event, the yearling must have guessed my dilemma because, with a last stare, it rose and sauntered over to inspect the withering ornamental grasses.
[technorati: deer, Pennsylvania, Fall, hunters]
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