TTT Talks

A Day in the Life of Hymen*, the Newborn Calf:
An Udderly New Take on As You Like It

I bunk every night in the coldest place imaginable: the back of a rental van, stuffed in a plastic tub between pieces of aluminum bark. It’s not ideal, but I don’t complain about it, because we are not all alone unhappy; this wide and universal theater presents more woeful pageants than the scene wherein I play.

The goddess Nahn-cee made me out of felt and thread and stuffing. I knew from the beginning that I was meant for the stage, and I was proven right when, not even a day old, I was cast in my first show. I’m not one for tooting my own horns, but there’s no defying fate.

My day is short, and it begins lovingly in the arms of the goddess Nahn-cee: she releases me from my plastic barn and gently beds me on a linoleum or hardwood floor. There I await my destiny. And wait. And wait. (more…)

I’m certainly no expert, but I like to think I know the basics of comedy: louder and faster = funnier; words with a “k” sound in them are pretty reliable; a funny voice can get the job done nicely; the structure of three is the foundation of every good long set-up; but rhythm and timing can resurrect even the deadest joke, and therefore they trump everything.

But comedy also relies on the audience’s aesthetic disposition: what’s funny for one person is not for another. Audiences always have been finicky, mercurial beasts for the performer: there’s a “good house” and a “bad one”; some crowds seem made up of people who (honestly) say “It was so funny I almost laughed out loud,” and others who laugh at moments that aren’t funny at all, as if they’re addicts and just need the end of any old line to cue another fix. Performers need more than a paycheck to feel redeemed or even justified. We need the affirmation of an audience.

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Click.
Rattlerattlerattleslam.
Rattlerattlerattleslam.

Entering the Ramsey County Women’s Corrections reminds me of my first Ten Thousand Things show—Kevin Kling’s At Your Service!—eight years ago. When I heard the three sets of doors close behind me, I knew I had no idea where I was. This was a place that was completely foreign to me, as I imagine it would be to most people reading this blog.

Performing in a correctional facility strips the comfortable plastic veneer off one’s compassion, or at least one’s understanding of it.  I’d like to think that I am sympathetic to people who are in these facilities; that in spite of whatever transgressions put them there, they are a hidden facet of our human community and deserve my compassion. But compassion (to suffer with) implies understanding and that’s the rub that pinches any cozy sense of the word. I cannot understand what it’s like to live in such a place for months and years. It’s impossible. The three times I have entered a prison at the beginning of a tour I am reminded of that. Walking along the corridor with my suitcase of costumes and a set piece in tow, my understanding of compassion gets a hard kick in the pants: because I cannot truly grasp what it’s like for the inhabitants, my prosaic idea of compassion smacks of condescension. It is a world that defies understanding for me, and when one is unable to understand a thing, one mustn’t presume to have ideas about it. One must bow before its profundity and not tarnish it with hollow sympathies: give it its dignity and respect. And that, I feel, is a compassion that serves. (more…)

Final run-through of As You Like It in the Epworth Church Son Shine Room for about a half-dozen fresh faces: check

Mental notes of my botched lines during this run-through: check

Mental notes of my botched intentions: check

Mental notes of misplaced costume pieces scattered around the four corners of the playing space for the five characters I play (my responsibility): check

Nationality of the composer Antonín Dvořák: Czech

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