This afternoon I gave my final presentation for my cataloging class, meaning I am done with the penultimate quarter of my graduate career. Perhaps it's the fact that I still have another quarter left, but I don't feel any sense of regret over the pending end of more than twenty years of school.
What I do feel sad about, now that I don't have other super-urgent matters looming (for the moment), is that the plays are done. I feel a bit let down--that I've been looking forward to this past weekend for the past two and a half months, and now it's come and gone and I can't look forward to it anymore. I want to do it again. And again and again and again. I'm thinking that once we move to Davis, I want to get involved in some kind of community theatre. You know, with all the free time I usually have.
We'll see if this desire lasts beyond my current state of post-production nostalgia.
Showing posts with label 650 _0 Drama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 650 _0 Drama. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Sí, que hubo mucha mierda
The plays went really well. There were maybe ten people in the audience for the dress rehearsal on Thursday night, which was a bit disappointing, but actually a nice way to ease into performing for real live people. At least our professor laughed at all the appropriate moments. Friday and Saturday night, though, we were completely sold out and had waiting lists of people trying to get in. The turnout completely exceeded anyone's expectations based on Spanish Department plays done in previous years. Friday night it was obvious that very few attendees spoke Spanish--it was a good five minutes and several jokes into the first play before anyone laughed. But then we got into some good physical humor and the audience started reacting. Saturday night, however, the audience was laughing from practically the first line, and that was certainly gratifying.
In the first play, "El retablo de las maravillas," I play Chanfalla, a conman who brings a "show of wonders" to a small town, explaining to the townspeople that in order to see the "marvelous marvels" of the show, they must not have any Jewish or Moorish blood (this was written at the height of the Spanish Inquisition) and they must be legitimate children of married parents. So when the show begins and no one sees these amazing things I'm telling them they should see, no one wants to admit that they see nothing, lest they be branded a convert or a bastard. Everything goes downhill, though, when an important military leader shows up demanding room and board for his soldiers, and when the townspeople realize he doesn't see the marvels, they determine that he's "one of them" and in the midst of their accusations he goes berserk and tries to kill everyone, barely letting me and my sidekick escape with our lives.
Here's a picture of me (in all my green-tights glory) with my sidekick, Chirinos:
And here's a closer shot with Chirinos and our grumpy musician, Rabelín:
During the second play, "El entremés famoso de los romances," which is either an inspiration for Don Quijote or a cheap knock-off, depending on when it was written, I go backstage to transform from Spanish con artist to Aztec royalty, ending up like this:
Not bad, eh? I think the Native American blood in my family (via my half-Indian half-sisters) shows in my very convincing portrayal of a sixteenth-century Mexican.
In the third play, "La loa para el auto sacramental de El divino narciso," an allegory written by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, I play el Occidente, who, together with his wife, la América, represents the native people of Mexico at the time of the Spanish Conquista. My wife and I are just chillin', having a good time with our rituals of human sacrifice, when in come el Celo (Zeal) and la Religión, who represent the Spanish military and Catholic missionaries, respectively. El Celo is ready to kill us all, but Religión convinces him to let us live so she can convert us, so after he comes in and scares us with his raping and pillaging and we basically have nothing left, she then gets to work showing us how our "Great God of the Seeds" is really the one true Christian God, even though we don't know it. After a bit of arguing and el Celo throwing his weight around, finally we come to see the light and agree to be baptized, rejoicing in the day we came to know the true God of the Seeds.
Here's me with my equally Aztec-looking wife, together with our conquerors (el Celo played by DISOBM/DINKWM):
I enjoyed playing both roles, but for different reasons. Chanfalla is just a fun character, and I had a good time being a showman and making people laugh. El Occidente, on the other hand, I enjoyed because he was a challenge, and the play itself much more difficult to pull off precisely because it wasn't funny. Sor Juana wrote "La loa" as a Mexican nun, very aware of the tensions between her faith and that of her ancestors, and although she shows respect for both, she is clearly a Catholic writing for Catholics. While she and her audience would naturally find a resolution in which the natives are converted to Christianity satisfying, the same could not be expected of my audience or of me.
Because of this, I had a hard time figuring out how to play el Occidente. At first I had this vision of him as your generic noble savage, because that's how it seemed Sor Juana was writing him. He was regal, strong, and above all serious. After a couple weeks of practice, though, we realized the play needed something else, so we decided to play up the slight traces of possible comedy--found mostly in the fact that el Occidente is terrified of el Celo and is basically a tool who does whatever the women tell him to. This helped me get into the character a bit more, but it didn't feel right. Particularly as a white American, I didn't feel good about portraying this symbol of all native Mexicans as a buffoon, and I realized I had crossed that line when one of the directors said a couple weeks ago, "Be careful--don't make el Occidente seem ridiculous. Try to think about what he must be feeling through all of this."
It wasn't until this past Wednesday evening--the night before the dress rehearsal--that I finally figured it out. Yes, el Occidente is terrified of el Celo, but he also has nothing left to lose, so he's not going to back down from a fight so easily. And yes, he listens at first to his wife and later to la Religión, but again not because he's weak but because he has nothing else to hold onto. His world has been pulled out from under him, his people murdered, and the god he trusted to protect him did nothing. Why not, then, listen to what this strange white lady has to say about her God? With this perspective, it was easy for me to show at the beginning of the play my faith in the God of the Seeds, in the middle my genuine rage for el Celo, and not quite so easy, though I hope I pulled it off, my belief in la Religión's words at the end. The trick was that, even though this resolution is in my mind a tragedy, it isn't in the eyes of my character.
I don't know how successful I was, but my professor said I almost had him to tears. So maybe I have some acting skills. At any rate, it's been an amazing experience.
In the first play, "El retablo de las maravillas," I play Chanfalla, a conman who brings a "show of wonders" to a small town, explaining to the townspeople that in order to see the "marvelous marvels" of the show, they must not have any Jewish or Moorish blood (this was written at the height of the Spanish Inquisition) and they must be legitimate children of married parents. So when the show begins and no one sees these amazing things I'm telling them they should see, no one wants to admit that they see nothing, lest they be branded a convert or a bastard. Everything goes downhill, though, when an important military leader shows up demanding room and board for his soldiers, and when the townspeople realize he doesn't see the marvels, they determine that he's "one of them" and in the midst of their accusations he goes berserk and tries to kill everyone, barely letting me and my sidekick escape with our lives.
Here's a picture of me (in all my green-tights glory) with my sidekick, Chirinos:
And here's a closer shot with Chirinos and our grumpy musician, Rabelín:
During the second play, "El entremés famoso de los romances," which is either an inspiration for Don Quijote or a cheap knock-off, depending on when it was written, I go backstage to transform from Spanish con artist to Aztec royalty, ending up like this:
Not bad, eh? I think the Native American blood in my family (via my half-Indian half-sisters) shows in my very convincing portrayal of a sixteenth-century Mexican.
In the third play, "La loa para el auto sacramental de El divino narciso," an allegory written by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, I play el Occidente, who, together with his wife, la América, represents the native people of Mexico at the time of the Spanish Conquista. My wife and I are just chillin', having a good time with our rituals of human sacrifice, when in come el Celo (Zeal) and la Religión, who represent the Spanish military and Catholic missionaries, respectively. El Celo is ready to kill us all, but Religión convinces him to let us live so she can convert us, so after he comes in and scares us with his raping and pillaging and we basically have nothing left, she then gets to work showing us how our "Great God of the Seeds" is really the one true Christian God, even though we don't know it. After a bit of arguing and el Celo throwing his weight around, finally we come to see the light and agree to be baptized, rejoicing in the day we came to know the true God of the Seeds.
Here's me with my equally Aztec-looking wife, together with our conquerors (el Celo played by DISOBM/DINKWM):
I enjoyed playing both roles, but for different reasons. Chanfalla is just a fun character, and I had a good time being a showman and making people laugh. El Occidente, on the other hand, I enjoyed because he was a challenge, and the play itself much more difficult to pull off precisely because it wasn't funny. Sor Juana wrote "La loa" as a Mexican nun, very aware of the tensions between her faith and that of her ancestors, and although she shows respect for both, she is clearly a Catholic writing for Catholics. While she and her audience would naturally find a resolution in which the natives are converted to Christianity satisfying, the same could not be expected of my audience or of me.
Because of this, I had a hard time figuring out how to play el Occidente. At first I had this vision of him as your generic noble savage, because that's how it seemed Sor Juana was writing him. He was regal, strong, and above all serious. After a couple weeks of practice, though, we realized the play needed something else, so we decided to play up the slight traces of possible comedy--found mostly in the fact that el Occidente is terrified of el Celo and is basically a tool who does whatever the women tell him to. This helped me get into the character a bit more, but it didn't feel right. Particularly as a white American, I didn't feel good about portraying this symbol of all native Mexicans as a buffoon, and I realized I had crossed that line when one of the directors said a couple weeks ago, "Be careful--don't make el Occidente seem ridiculous. Try to think about what he must be feeling through all of this."
It wasn't until this past Wednesday evening--the night before the dress rehearsal--that I finally figured it out. Yes, el Occidente is terrified of el Celo, but he also has nothing left to lose, so he's not going to back down from a fight so easily. And yes, he listens at first to his wife and later to la Religión, but again not because he's weak but because he has nothing else to hold onto. His world has been pulled out from under him, his people murdered, and the god he trusted to protect him did nothing. Why not, then, listen to what this strange white lady has to say about her God? With this perspective, it was easy for me to show at the beginning of the play my faith in the God of the Seeds, in the middle my genuine rage for el Celo, and not quite so easy, though I hope I pulled it off, my belief in la Religión's words at the end. The trick was that, even though this resolution is in my mind a tragedy, it isn't in the eyes of my character.
I don't know how successful I was, but my professor said I almost had him to tears. So maybe I have some acting skills. At any rate, it's been an amazing experience.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
¡Rómpete la pierna!
The Spanish equivalent of "break a leg," as it turns out, is "¡Mucha mierda!" Literally, "A lot of shit!" According to this site, the expression comes from a time when horses were the common mode of transportation, and so a lot of horse excrement outside the theatre meant you had a lot of people come to see your play.
Tomorrow night is the dress rehearsal, then Friday is opening night. Wish me a lot of shit!
Tomorrow night is the dress rehearsal, then Friday is opening night. Wish me a lot of shit!
Thursday, March 06, 2008
More Fame!
I'm gonna live forever. Even if she did spell my last name wrong. (I mean really, how hard is it? F-O-B.)
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
The Burden of Fame
The following poster went up all over campus today:
Now everywhere I go people stop me and they're like, "Are you the guy from that poster?" And I respond sheepishly, "Yeah, that's me." And they're like "NO WAY!" And I'm like, "Yeah, it's really me." And they're like, "Whoa. You are so cool." And I'm like, "Thanks, but really I'm no cooler than you, it just seems that way because I'm famous." And they're like, "Can you do that pose, the one from the picture?" And I pretend to be all hesitant so they'll insist, and they do, and then I strike the pose, and then one of them will stand behind me and put a hand on my shoulder just like my friend on the poster while the other one takes a picture, and then they switch places so the other one can be in the photo with me, and then I let one of them strike the pose while I take the picture so they can go to their friends later and be like, "You know who took this picture? The Poster Guy himself." And their friends can be like, "NO WAY!" And they can be like, "Yeah, it's really him." And so on.
I guess now I know what it's like to be Ken Jennings.
NOTE: Some or all of the facts in the above story may have been made up to make it more interesting. Forgive me if they fail to do so. There's only so much you can do when your claim to fame is a poster.
Now everywhere I go people stop me and they're like, "Are you the guy from that poster?" And I respond sheepishly, "Yeah, that's me." And they're like "NO WAY!" And I'm like, "Yeah, it's really me." And they're like, "Whoa. You are so cool." And I'm like, "Thanks, but really I'm no cooler than you, it just seems that way because I'm famous." And they're like, "Can you do that pose, the one from the picture?" And I pretend to be all hesitant so they'll insist, and they do, and then I strike the pose, and then one of them will stand behind me and put a hand on my shoulder just like my friend on the poster while the other one takes a picture, and then they switch places so the other one can be in the photo with me, and then I let one of them strike the pose while I take the picture so they can go to their friends later and be like, "You know who took this picture? The Poster Guy himself." And their friends can be like, "NO WAY!" And they can be like, "Yeah, it's really him." And so on.
I guess now I know what it's like to be Ken Jennings.
NOTE: Some or all of the facts in the above story may have been made up to make it more interesting. Forgive me if they fail to do so. There's only so much you can do when your claim to fame is a poster.
...and he knows how to use them...
Today I bought green tights that I will be wearing in the play I'm in next weekend. If that's not enough to make you get in line for tickets right now, I don't know what is.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Mr. Fob the Actor
When I was fourteen I spent the summer with my dad in Green Bay and so attended the local Mormon church there. At some point during that summer one of the girls at church asked me why I was so shy.
"I'm not shy," I said, "I'm an actor. I'm just acting like a shy person."
She immediately recognized what a lame thing that was to say and repeated it, giggling, to everyone in a three-mile radius.
It was true that the shy persona I adopted in most public situations was not the real Mr. Fob, and it was also true that I fancied myself an actor, but the "acting" in this case had little to do with any kind of conscious decision. I was simply socially awkward--even more so than I still am.
I first got a taste of real acting--and shed my shy public persona at the same time--when I took a drama class during my senior year of high school. Several good friends were taking the class with me, so I felt comfortable being myself, and as it happened being myself meant using our first assignment, in which we were to mime an action of our choice, to act as a serial killer sneaking into a house and then brutally slaughtering the invisible people inside. The class, being composed of teenagers, found this hilarious. I became the funny guy--or at least one of the funny guys, as in any drama class there's bound to be a handful of grandstanders competing for attention. Throughout the year I also became known as one of the decent actors in the class, and someone who knew what he was doing enough to be voted in as one of the co-directors for the big end-of-the-year play. I absolutely loved this new me and wanted it to last forever.
As I went into college I held onto Mr. Fob the Funny Guy, at least in classes that were small enough and I felt comfortable enough to overcome that chronic social awkwardness, but the actor and director were left behind, only to be brought out when I subjected friends to the crudely-produced Batman movie my friends and I had made in that drama class.
This past quarter, in order to fulfill the requirements of my FLAS fellowship, I took a class on Spanish Golden Age drama, and then when I heard there would be a class this quarter in which the plays we'd studied would be produced, I couldn't resist. Maybe I'd find that lost actor, maybe I'd just make a fool of myself, but for sure I'd have fun.
Today was the first day of the play production class. We held quick, impromptu auditions in class and then this evening I got a call from one of the co-directors: I'm going to play a lead role in two of the three mini-plays we're producing. I don't think the decisions were based on acting talent so much as ability to read Spanish loudly and clearly, but still I'm flattered and excited.
And so I've decided I'm going to drop out of library school and move to New York, where I will begin my career on Broadway. I'd go to Hollywood, but with the writers' strike there's not much to do there lately; my talent would go to waste.
"I'm not shy," I said, "I'm an actor. I'm just acting like a shy person."
She immediately recognized what a lame thing that was to say and repeated it, giggling, to everyone in a three-mile radius.
It was true that the shy persona I adopted in most public situations was not the real Mr. Fob, and it was also true that I fancied myself an actor, but the "acting" in this case had little to do with any kind of conscious decision. I was simply socially awkward--even more so than I still am.
I first got a taste of real acting--and shed my shy public persona at the same time--when I took a drama class during my senior year of high school. Several good friends were taking the class with me, so I felt comfortable being myself, and as it happened being myself meant using our first assignment, in which we were to mime an action of our choice, to act as a serial killer sneaking into a house and then brutally slaughtering the invisible people inside. The class, being composed of teenagers, found this hilarious. I became the funny guy--or at least one of the funny guys, as in any drama class there's bound to be a handful of grandstanders competing for attention. Throughout the year I also became known as one of the decent actors in the class, and someone who knew what he was doing enough to be voted in as one of the co-directors for the big end-of-the-year play. I absolutely loved this new me and wanted it to last forever.
As I went into college I held onto Mr. Fob the Funny Guy, at least in classes that were small enough and I felt comfortable enough to overcome that chronic social awkwardness, but the actor and director were left behind, only to be brought out when I subjected friends to the crudely-produced Batman movie my friends and I had made in that drama class.
This past quarter, in order to fulfill the requirements of my FLAS fellowship, I took a class on Spanish Golden Age drama, and then when I heard there would be a class this quarter in which the plays we'd studied would be produced, I couldn't resist. Maybe I'd find that lost actor, maybe I'd just make a fool of myself, but for sure I'd have fun.
Today was the first day of the play production class. We held quick, impromptu auditions in class and then this evening I got a call from one of the co-directors: I'm going to play a lead role in two of the three mini-plays we're producing. I don't think the decisions were based on acting talent so much as ability to read Spanish loudly and clearly, but still I'm flattered and excited.
And so I've decided I'm going to drop out of library school and move to New York, where I will begin my career on Broadway. I'd go to Hollywood, but with the writers' strike there's not much to do there lately; my talent would go to waste.
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