Life on the Wicked Stage: Act 3

Iron Fisting

Rods aren’t just for fishing or catching lightning. Metaphorical and figurative rods (often made of iron) seem to be a favorite when it comes to rulers wielding strength. They’ve been around for awhile. The Bible’s Psalms 2 and later the Book of Revelation tells us that God is going to put a figurative iron rod in Jesus’ nail-pierced hand to use in smiting his enemies. There’s an old British idiom about ruling with a rod of iron. Don’t spare the cruelty if you need to make a point. Of course if you spare the rod, you spoil the child, or so says Proverbs 13. And for those who’d like to dish out a bit of up close and personal punishment there’s the ever popular ruling with an iron fist.

Right before and during the disintegration of the USSR I had the privilege to direct several productions in Russia. Omsk and Yekaterinburg to be specific. I was there as the Iron Curtain was coming down. It was a bit on the wild side to be spending time in a country going through so much upheaval. But this isn’t about that.

Vonberlichingen

It’s about the myth of the tough guy needing to wield something of iron to achieve aims and hang on to control.

On this Siberian adventure, in the middle of winter, in a closed city, we were facing creative tensions in the early going of the rehearsal process. Excitement and anxiety were abundant in just about equal measure. The Russian actors and artists were trying to get over the newness of having an American director and this American director was trying to figure out how and why things worked in their much older and storied repertory system. These were exquisitely talented artists and craftspeople. We all worked through translators. I later picked up enough Russian to run a rehearsal, but in the early going it was often comically challenging. To be honest, we were spinning our wheels a bit.

After a particularly tough morning rehearsal session with one of the leads I asked him why his work felt so tenative. I had seen him rule the stage the night before in a performance of another show, so I was a bit confused and concerned and looking for a way in. After a few moments, this marvelously talented actor, all the while avoiding my eyes and looking at the floor, said to me, “Please tell me what I must think and feel so I might do the part I am assigned.” My heart sank.

My Russian assistant director pulled me aside after that conversation. In so many words, (again, all of this was through a translator) he told me straight up that I needed to be more of a dictator and less of a director. Russian directors need to rule with an “iron fist.” The actor was right, he said. Russian actors want to be told what to do and think. They don’t know how to make choices for themselves. They want to do what the director wants and no more.

He emphasized the “iron fist” part by violently pounding his fist on a table and then holding it in my face. The translator, thought he should follow suit and also pounded the table. But instead of holding his fist in my face, he knocked the script pages onto the floor. Drama. And we were doing a musical comedy.

I understood my Russian colleague’s admonitions. Directors, like ship captains, generals, kings, queens, elected leaders, CEOs, etc… have to command to lead. They have to become the gravitational center of those who work with and for them, and in most cases against them. Not really my style, but I understand it and use it more as a tool than a method. Something about attracting more flies with honey.

Yet there was one actress in the company who seemed to thrive on having the freedom to create. She didn’t wait for direction. She just took the material and made choices. You could see in her eyes she was a bit of a firebrand. She forced those in the scenes with her to follow her lead and defined the scenes she was in. In that repertory system that was challenging. But she soared and you either went with her or took your seat while another actor playing the same part stepped up.

You could tell she wasn’t well liked in the company. I noticed she was missing the last digit on one of her fingers. Later on in the rehearsal process she confided to one of my American associates that it had been cut off in an interrogation over something her husband did. So, yeah, I guess she didn’t like being told what to do.

Again, the point here isn’t about the differences between Russian and American theatre artists or me adjusting my way of working to someone eles’s. For me it highlights the two-sided coin of human nature: the desire to be told what to do and in same breath simultaneously saying “NO.” There’s not too many of us who actually graduated beyond the terrible two’s. But some learn to set it aside or hide it. Or maybe have it knocked out of us. (Spare the rod…) Some never grow out of it.

We find ourselves in this moment with so many yearning for, and quite a few pretending to offer, biblical violent gestures and postures as the best approach to our problems. And to be honest, I’d like to take a rod of any make to quite a few heads to stop all the whining that’s become our new national pastime. (So many spoiled children.)

Granted there’s an ever-expanding sheep pasture full of wool being pulled over quite a few eyes. But still. Why are so many looking for a big bad orange Daddy strong man with a fist of iron? His bluff and bluster has already turned into so much fluff and so many feathers. And yet he’s got the gravitational pull of a black hole that’s destructive to all in his orbit, both supporter and foe.

I always thought Daddy issues were about seeking approval, not looking for a pompous protector who pretends he’s got an iron fist with a spine to match. I get that many feel left out of the picture as they sense the world is changing around them. I get their sense of impotence. But nobody is going to harden anybody eles’s resolve by being a blowhard whiner. All that whining is as corrosive as rust. And rust covers better than the orange goo smeared on his face.

Long before my Russian theatre adventures, I directed John Arden’s adaptation of Goethe’s play Götz von Berlichingen entitled Ironhand. The hero was a noble land baron. We’d call him an oligarch today. He had lost his hand in battle and fastened an iron gauntlet on to his handless appendage. Of course the play’s sturm and drang spoke to how his fearsome legend as a warrior struck terror and allegiance into his enemies and his followers.

Our actor wore a well crafted fake iron fist of celastic It looked great on stage. In the second scene of the play there are two big reveals. Our main character is met on the road by a monk. They converse about philosophy and religion. At the conclusion of the scene the monk reveals himself to be Martin Luther. And of course in the next beat, the hero reveals his iron hand from underneath his cape as he introduces himself with his fearsome moniker.

On opening night our lead blew both reveals out of the water. At the top of the scene he choked on his lines and attempting to recover he whipped his celastic covered hand from under his cape and gesturing vigorously to the monk said “Welcome Martin Luther.” Needless to say, not one of our best openings.

That was make believe.

So is much of what’s dominating our lives at the moment. For the life of me, I keep wondering why we’re in thrall to all of this and keep willingly suspending our disbelief to this ham-fisted shit show. We all know how this ends. There’s no new character development coming in Act 2, no deus-ex-machina in the final act. So, let’s cut the drama, cut the comedy, forsake the 11 o’clock number and get to the final curtain.

To borrow from Neil Young, “Rust never sleeps.” So why does it feel like we’re sleep walking?

Sunday Morning Reading

Here’s some Sunday Morning Reading to share. From arts in space and on the stage, to booby trapped tombs and age-old pathogens thawing out of the ice, here’s an electic mix of topics that might or might not connect together as we sweat and swelter through the Dog Days of Summer. Enjoy.

The Lunar Codex is an archive of various forms of creativity including contemporary art, poetry, podcasts, film, images, and other Earth bound cultural artifacts that’s on it’s way to the Moon. Headed up by Samuel Peralta it will travel on several rockets and include works of 30,000 artists, writers, musicians, and filmmakers from 157 countries. J.D. Biersdorfer tells us about it in the New York Times.

Back to Earth it seems that archaeologists are afraid to look inside the tomb of China’s first emperor. You know the one guarded by the Terra Cotta army among other things. Apparently it’s not just what might be disturbed by digging or what might be disturbing if they do, but there’s a theory that the place is booby trapped. Sounds very Indiana Jonesish. Tom Hale writes about it in IFLSCIENCE.

The Stage Is Yours according to Natasha MH in this Medium post on Ellemeno. It’s a great piece about arts, artists, dance, theatre, authenticity, and those hidden fears and secrets inside of us all. You know, the ones we choose not to share when we offer ourselves up. Or do we?

The strikes by the actors and writers unions have pointed a spotlight on AI and how that might replace creatives in film, TV and other industries. Studios see financial savings from reduced costs. But maybe they should take a look at Michael Grothaus’ piece in Fast Company as he theorizes that AI might even replace the studios themselves.

In what sounds like science fiction, scientists have woken up a 46,000-year-old roundworm from the Siberian permafrost. Carolyn Y. Johnson in the Washington Post tells us about that. But if tinkering with what many might think should be left alone doesn’t sound John Carpenterish enough for you, we’re also hearing about frozen pathogens that are waking up on their own in cold places that are warming up. (Can you say Climate Change?) Corey J.A. Bradshaw and Giovannie Strona wrote about this in The Conversation and I caught the article from Science Alert.

Ryan Busse is a former gun company exec who is now warning about the dangerous growing radicalization in his former industry. Corey G, Johnson talked to him for this article in ProPublica.

The social media world is certainly in a state of flux given all the damage Elon Musk has done to Twitter and the scramble by others to provide venues that might offer some of what Twitter used to be before it was X-ed out. Craig Grannell has a great piece called X Marks the Rot. Don’t Buy Into Elon Musk’s Lifelong Crusade.

If you’re interested in just what the heck Sunday Morning Reading is all about you can read more about the origins of Sunday Morning Reading here.

Consequential Consequences: Thoughts on Oppenheimer

Every action has a reaction. So said Issac Newton and a host of scientists, mathematicians, and just about everyone else under the sun who came after him. I’d prefer to call reactions consequences. We’d like to think we can avoid consequences because the word conjures up a more dire consequence than just having a reaction. But we know we can’t. To hear Christopher Nolan talk about his terrific film, Oppenheimer, that’s what his film is about. Consequences. After an early morning viewing yesterday I’d agree. I’d say all the focus on Oppenheimer’s creating the first atomic bomb, undeniably consequential as it was, and filmed as well as it is, is the least consequential aspect of this film.

No, you can’t escape the story at the center of the plot. It’s a thriller, a mystery with some romance and political intrigue mixed in. It’s well told and well paced. If you’re a fan of Nolan’s almost frenetic editing pace it will engage and enthrall. If you’re not, it might be tough to get your footing early, but hang in there. Some of Nolan’s previous work has left me cold and often confused. Not here. I’d argue the plot at the center of this flick, even the lesser known political one, takes second fiddle to the character study of those who drive this story.

First, it’s a terrific cast of some of our most amazing actors working today. And every one one of them delivers. You get the sense that each of them, large role or small, was chomping at the bit to film each scene. Robert Downey is absolutely amazing. The quality of his work reminds me of his star turn in Chaplin. Just brilliant. Cillian Murphy tackles the central character with consumate skill and he deserves the accolades already bestowed and sure to come. But his central performance is almost eclipsed by the rest of the stellar ensemble cast when viewed as a whole. What each actor brings to whatever moments they are on the screen is so chocked full of truth, and yes consequences, that I found following them more explosive than the inevitable explosion. Notably, that comes with a huge chunk of the movie remaining.

And that’s the thing about this film that might just catapult it into classic status. Each moment tells us a powerful human story about choices and the consequences that flow from them, regardless of the scale of the choice at hand. It’s no accident that the closeups seem to outnumber the larger set pieces. We’re watching characters understand, in the moment, the implications of the things they’re thinking far into the future, whether it’s their personal future or the planet’s. Follow Emily Blunt’s incredible moments in the hearing to decide on Oppenheimer’s security clearance and you’ll see the second by second comprehension of every single thing that’s at stake for her personally, for her husband, and beyond.

So I applaud Nolan, the cast and the rest of the filmmakers for taking such a consequential turning point in our history and focusing it so personally and intimately on those involved. And in so doing, hopefully making us take a breath and look at what might seem, in comparison, the inconsequential moments in our own lives, as well as some of the larger decsions moments we’re currently facing as a people. Before we turn them over to the robots.

As to the filmmaking it’s top notch. There’s one consequential decision that Nolan made in his story telling that I understand fully, but wish he’s strayed away from. Throughout the story, told through Oppenheimer’s eyes, we see him dreaming and visualizing the science he’s exploring as he tries to discover how to split the atom. Swirling waves and exploding particles dance through his head and across the screen via special effects. Nolan says it’s not CGI. Whatever it is, it’s done well, and like I said it makes sense. But in the final sequence of the movie I think Nolan went one special effect sequence too far. The movie was more powerfully over with the last words of the title character and doesn’t need that sequence. We all more than got the message, whether it’s the more personal one Nolan’s main character is reeling from, or the larger one he’s unleashed.

And as a last thought, there was a part of me that was not looking forward to seeing this film because I had heard and read many complaints about the sound mix and not being able to hear the dialogue. I saw this film in a smaller, older theater not equipped with the latest and greatest projection and sound equipment. I had zero issues with the audio. I’m a big critic of lousy audio and visual magic doled out by creators playing with all sorts of new toys and tools. I know all the hype says to see it on the largest screen possible. Technology rules! Maybe so. But I was able to hear almost every word. Given the character study Nolan is essaying here, it made this gigantic and consequential film feel much more personal and thus more powerful and revelatory. Consequences.

A Possible Answer To Those Apple Migraines

I’ve written about what seemed like random issues with my Apple devices here and here. It looks like these supposedly unexplainable Apple Migraines might not be quite so random. At least of late.

Applemigraines

The issues are maddening. At apparent random times the Macs I use will disconnect from iCloud, losing the ability to Sign in with Apple Watch and jettison the Continuity features including Handoff and Universal Control. At times a reboot would rectify the problem. At other times not. I’ve spoken several times with Apple Support and they have no answer they are willing to reveal.

Recently though I’ve detected a pattern. Apple has released quite a few operating system updates in these last few months. Several of those were what Apple calls Apple Security Responses meant to fix security holes and are smaller updates. We’ve also seen two larger OS updates in recent months. If you follow the news you know roughly when these releases will drop. Regardless of type, the last five releases prompted an iCloud disconnection the morning the updates would be released.

I’d say it’s like clockwork, but that’s a risky statement. Stranger still is that during at least two of these cycles after installing the OS updates I got the alert that a new Mac had been added to my account.

Macaddedtodevice

That notification haven’t appeared for the last three updates. I’d call Apple Support and talk to them about it, but that’s been proving to be a waste of time with this and other issues.

Apple just released what is probably the last major OS updates for Ventura and iOS 16 as well as their other devices. There may be more of those Security Responses before Sonoma and iOS 17 roll out in the fall. I’ll post updates if I see this behavior continue. Is this an answer? Probably not. But it is a clue.

In the meantime, it’s still catch as catch can when it comes to pinning this down conclusively, and as long as Apple Support remains silent on the issue who really knows what’s going on behind the scenes.

Sunday Morning Reading

On the road this weekend, so this edition of Sunday Morning Reading will be a little brief. There’s always something to share though.

Carhighway

On the Artificial Intelligence beat, Catherine Thorbecke at CNN reports that AI might not be quite the time saving boon some have promised. Imagine that.

Who knew Country Music would get embroiled in the so-called “Culture Wars.” Well, unless you haven’t been paying attention, just about everybody. Because hey, just about everything gets caught up at one time or the other. Emily Nussbaum has a terrific long read in Country Music’s Culture Wars And The Remaking of Nashville. FYI: No mention of some guy not born in a small town but singing as if he was.

If you’re looking for a collection of good writers and good writing you won’t go wrong with Ellemeno Magazine on Medium. Some top notch and provactive stuff going on there. Because there’s so much quality writing, I don’t feel so guilty for not recommending more this selections this Sunday.

If you’re interseted in just what the heck Sunday Morning Reading is all about you can read more about the origins of Sunday Morning Reading here.

Can Jack Smith Rid Us Of This Orange Ogre?

So the decaying orange ogre, Donald Trump, announced he got a target letter from Jack Smith and it now appears we’ll move to yet another indcitment with more in the wings. Certainly there will be more to learn about all of this in the days that follow. I’m glad we’re finally getting down to brass tacks. Though I’m not sure how it changes the predicament we’re in.

Orangeogre

Opinions have been hardened for quite some time, even more so by the delay and dilly dallying. You’ve got folks who won’t budge off their support for Trump and you’ve got more folks who can’t wait to see him get his comeuppance. But we’re all still waiting and watching the show that this failed fabulist and crooked carbuncle is starring in. You can hear clocks ticking and smell the powder in the kegs.

I want to see this end. It’s not that I’m tired of the saga. But this story keeps screwing with my moral compass in ways that make it difficult to maintain any true direction.

I’m going to tell you a story from my childhood. Before I do, let me lay out a few points. First, I’m a believer in the Rule of Law. I don’t think we always follow that as intended and it’s getting abused by those who know better. Regardless, I believe in what it stands for. Second, the story you’re about to read is from my memory. There may be some facts I remember inaccurately, there may be some fuzziness on my part. Most of what I know I found out from conversations with relatives. None of that is intended to sway the story one way or the other. The essential facts are what they are. Third, I’m leaving out names here because I don’t know who is still alive and who is not. That doesn’t change the story and if anyone reads this who knows. Well, they know.

Now, the story.

I grew up in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Central Virginia. Rural area. Small population. When I graduated high school the total enrollment for the entire school was around 800 and the school was the only high school in the county. To say most of the folks were of the blue collar, hard working, salt of the earth type would be correct. We lived just outside of the county seat which was the main town. It had three major streets: Main Street, First Street, and Court Street; none long enough to break a sweat while walking them. The local businesses included a drug store, a department store, a hardware store, an appliance store, a bank, an old no longer operating hotel, a car dealership, the funeral parlor, a small general store, a barber shop, and a few offices. There was a church and a movie theatre. The courthouse sat at the top of the hill at the intersection of Main and Court streets. The town also had a small housing subdivision called Green Acres, named long before the TV series.

The main drag wasn’t Main Street. It was First Street. First Street was longer, had more businesses and homes on it and felt more Main. Heck, the parades all marched down First Street, not Main Street. It was confusing. But when the by-pass was completed around the town neither Main Street or First Street soon had anything left resembling what made them First or Main. So you get the picture.

Our county may not have had a large population but it had a disproportionate share of characters for its size. In the early 1960’s I went to grade school with the son of one of those characters. A ne’er-do-well troublemaker who spent most weekends in the county lockup for being drunk and disorderly or worse. One story says he went on a drunken spree one Saturday night and broke the windshield of every parked car along First Street. Another says he pulled a man from his car and almost stomped him to death.

One night, with his son in the car, he met a violent end to his violent life on a country road, (they were all country roads back then) from a shotgun blast.

It was well known how much and how frequently this guy created trouble. He was one of those folks that you just “knew was up to no good and would end up no good,” as one of my grandmothers used to say. Suffice it to say anyone who saw him walking down the street avoided him, and given the sparsity of streets that wasn’t an easy thing to do. Kids were warned about him. I imagine even a dog or two gave a snarl if he passed by.

He married a young girl after getting her pregnant. Their son was my classmate. The son was also constantly in trouble and in the principal’s office or suspended. That one apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Probably because he was constantly getting beaten to the ground. His dad constantly abused him and his mother. When he did show up for school he would often be quite bruised. Tongues wagged and “tsk, tsk’s” were numerous, but mostly there was silence.

One night, his mother had finally had enough after a beating. She called her family. Her dad and two brothers went looking for him. They caught up to him on that country road and one of them pulled the trigger that ended his story. But it didn’t end the story for our community.

The three were arrested. They didn’t put up much of a fuss as I understand it. They admitted what they had done and that they’d done it to protect their daughter/sister’s life. Legal proceedings proceeded. I’m not sure what their pleas were, but there was going to be a trial, so obviously it was not guilty in some form or the other.

And that’s when things got interesting. The local DA did his job and brought the charges. But it was determined that there was no probability of seating a jury that would convinct the three, so the case was dismissed. There was no attempt to move to another jurisdiction by the DA or the judge. As an aside, the judge lived next door to my other grandmother.

And you know what? As I recall I don’t think there was a soul to be found who didn’t think this was the best result. The silence resumed. But it was different. I was still in grade school. So most of how I remember this is through the reactions of my parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and a few other adults. To a person they all thought justice had been done and not in any strange way.

At family gatherings at my maternal grandparents’ home, my cousins and I used to sneak up the stairs and listen to the adults’ conversations through one of the vents in the floor after they retired to the kitchen or the adjacent living room and the kids were dismissed to go out and play. Shortly after all of this came to its end, I remember the adults talking about the events and my grandmother repeatedly trying to change the subject. She finally put her foot down and said, “There’s right and there’s right. We’re all the better for it. Now let’s do the dishes.”

My classmate was never seen by us again. Shipped off to one of the military academies. And not much was ever spoken about the events again. At least not in my presence.

Years later when I was home from college for a weekend I asked my father about the incident. Not a man of many words, he simply said, “The man was bad to the bone. What happened happened and it should have happened a long time ago. Period.” My dad always ended conversations he didn’t want to continue with the word “period.”

And that was that.

I haven’t thought much about these memories in quite awhile. But as we’ve all been forced to live these last six or so years with this menace called Trump debauching everything, everyone and every idea and ideal we’ve supposedly built a society on, I have to admit I’ve found myself losing patience with the Rule of Law. These memories keeps creeping back in each time we hear of some new outrageous moment in this ongoing saga and I find myself mucking around with my moral compass wondering why we just can’t find quicker ways to put what we all know is wrong behind us before anymore damage is done.

I don’t think I’m alone with those feelings. Everyone knows what we’re watching and living through. The ogre is holding the town hostage. Everyone knows it and goes on with life the best they can with his shadow looming large. Maybe Jack Smith is the one to bring the ogre’s reign of terror to an end. Maybe he’ll also restore a bit of my faith in the Rule of Law. I hope so. Give this ogre what he deserves. Do it the right way, sure. But if not, don’t let this decaying orange ogre wriggle out of another one. Paraphrasing grandma and quoting my dad, “there’s right and then there’s right. We’ll all be better off for it. Period.”

Not Normal

Things ain’t normal.

Things ain’t going back to whatever you thought normal was.

Notnormal

Stop trying to find normal again.

Work the what is.

Not the what was.

Doing a Little Test

Doing a little test to see if the Mastodon connection works.

And apparently it did.

Hollywood on Strike: Nothing Artificial About This Intelligent Move

Balls and Strikes.

SAG-AFTRA joined the WGA by going on strike against the Hollywood studios. This sounds and feels like it’s going to be quite a show. The issues surround the pieces of the compensation pie, but also everyone’s favorite new tech-bug-a-boo, Artificial Intelligence.

The studios, like many other industries see AI as a way to reduce costs. Set aside the issue of replacing labor, introducing AI also affects creativity. We’ve been heading here for quite some time and this is certainly a moment when lines need to be drawn because the precedents set down now will have an effect for who knows how long.

Here’s SAG-AFTRA president Fran Drescher’s speech announcing the strike. She says it better than I, or just about anyone could.

And for history and political buffs if history does indeed repeat, Fran Drescher will be elected President of the US down the road. Ronald Reagan was the last president of the guild when it went on a similar strike with other guilds.