Monday, December 26, 2011

Slumps & Starts

I know it's a holiday in England, but I consider Boxing Day, December 26th, to be one of the worst on the calendar. The gifts, abundant and attractively arrayed throughout the month under the tree, have been opened, leaving a heap of torn wrapping paper and ripped ribbon. Everyone seems to have gained five pounds in 24 hours. Half a dozen Pyrex dishes need washing. Bustling, eager shoppers have turned into lengthy lines of sour-faced discontents holding the literal bag. The radio station that played Christmas tunes for six weeks goes back to broadcasting soft rock, an oxymoron for lousy music. Pine needles litter the floor. It's time to painstakingly wrap all the delicate ornaments and put away the cheery mementos your kids made when they were in preschool.

After an eventful fall packed with festive occasions (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah and Christmas) and great football, against a backdrop of beautiful autumnal leaves, we face the stark, cold month of January when we all resolve to make improvements: lose weight, join a gym, quit smoking or give up some other nagging vice. The credit card bills arrive in the mail. The party's over. It's time for stalwart action. By mid to late February most people abandon their resolutions and go back to overeating, puffing those coffin nails and spending more time on the couch.

Years ago I read of a man who did not make a New Year's resolution of his intent to meditate every day, he made it a vow. Taking a vow, as anyone who's gotten married or joined a convent knows, is a bigger deal than resolving to do something. There's a spiritual, serious aspect to it. It's supposed to be for keeps. It takes a sort of discipline unfamiliar to most of us born in the middle of the last century up to the present. Ask any teenager if he's willing to give up his Xbox, Facebook or iPhone for an extended period of time. Few, if any, could meet such an abstentious goal for Lent, let alone a whole year. We live in a culture that, for a price, will satisfy our demands before we're even aware of them. Because we're surrounded by limitless possibilities, it's all the more difficult to deny ourselves something we think we need, when in fact we're burdened by the weight of these desires, satisfied or not, as any good Buddhist will tell you.

So what am I willing to do without in 2012? I have the usual laundry list: more exercise, less crappy food, more books and less TV. But I have a rather lofty intention, one I've postponed innumerable times, that is crying out for my undivided attention come January 1st. To finish my novel. I'm making this declaration on my blog so that I'm actually going on record. Hopefully, the eventual eating of humble pie required by not meeting my commitment will be incentive enough to spur me on. Sure, I want to be skinny, healthy and more literate. But I can't live with myself if I don't vow to complete something decades in the making. My mother, a journalist who made her living by writing, often declared over cigarettes and Chardonnay, "Just wait till I write my novel." After many years of hearing this proclamation I asked her where her novel was. She said, "It's in my head."

She is no longer with us and no novel lives on in her absence. Her unfulfilled promise is part of what dogs my days as a fiction writer. I was once quite determined not to chalk up my story to the "dreams deferred" category. The older we get the harder it is to muster the drive that seized us in our youth. We're all too willing to leave our neglected objectives unmet, especially with society telling us we're over the hill. Charles Frazier, author of Cold Mountain, the 1997 National Book Award winner, once said prior to his novel's publication that if nothing else, he wanted to have a finished manuscript he'd be proud to tuck away in the attic. I doubt I'm destined for the bestseller list, but I hope my long-languishing opus will someday see the light of day.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

A Day in the Life

"I read the news today, oh boy..." When this anniversary rolls around every year it reignites the unforgettable grief and rage we felt over losing John Lennon. The tragic irony of a man who"advertised" peace via the Bed-In, War is Over, his anti-Vietnam protests, gunned down by a fat loser when John was at the most fulfilling stage of his life. It's the bad dream that never stops aching. But Lennon's legacy of hope, idealism and activism continues to inspire. I recall reading a quote from John about how his penchant for peace developed. It was an admission that he was inclined towards bad behavior and a turbulent temperament from an early age. He said, and I'm paraphrasing, it was the troublemakers that ultimately turned to peace. Because he had lived through abandonment and turmoil he had come to appreciate non-violence. John will always be the upstart art school non-conformist who lived life outside the margins.

When I look at old footage of the Fab Four's arrival on our shores, that first press conference right off the plane at Kennedy Airport, I'm struck by what Beatle historians have called Lennon's "lacerating wit." When asked by one of the reporters if they'll sing, John replies, "No, we need money first." It was John who had the audacity to compare the popularity of the Beatles to that of Jesus, generating a fiasco of misunderstanding, outrage and record-burning. Years later, only the very daft could fail to see the point: rock and roll music speaks to young people in a way that the church does not. Not exactly a newsflash today, but scandalous at the time.

Love her or hate her, Yoko Ono became the driving force behind Lennon's evolution from a Beatle into a political activist, feminist and ultimately, a househusband. John got a second chance at hands-on parenting, giving his son Sean what he failed to provide for Julian, his child by his first wife Cynthia Lennon. As a mother of three, one who sacrificed many artistic ambitions to raise kids, I think Julian is spot-on when he gripes about how cheated he felt over his father's devotion to Sean, having come up short as a dad in his twenties. But the thing about John is he was always evolving; he gave up a rock superstar lifestyle to change diapers and bake bread. Which makes it all the more heartbreaking that when he did get back in the studio and created "Double Fantasy," he was murdered before he could enjoy his musical reemergence.

In the wake of Lennon's death there was a haunting refrain from one of his songs, "the dream is over." In 1981 I clipped a fan's quote from Rolling Stone Magazine, "the dream is still alive. Long live the dream." I have a 21-yr-old son who, like his brothers, was schooled in classic rock from an early age, the Beatles being the quintessence of the genre. He composes and plays original songs that don't conform to commercial standards. He's also a visual artist, a cheeky lad and a rebel. When I hear rough cuts of his latest tracks, I'm proud when I detect a trace of Lennon in his style and vocals. Imagine that.

Friday, December 2, 2011

My Day with Denzel

I recently worked as an extra on the film "Flight," filming in Atlanta, directed by Robert Zemeckis and starring Denzel Washington, Melissa Leo, Don Cheadle and John Goodman. I hadn't been on a movie set in a long time. I'd forgotten how tedious the whole process can be, but was grateful for the work. I showed up in a downtown parking lot at six AM wearing business attire and carrying a garment bag with two alternate outfits. Buses ferried some 250 people to the holding area, a ballroom at the Marriott Marquis Hotel. We were screened by wardrobe and make-up. I was told to change my shirt and tone down my lipstick. Clustered around tables, the actors waited a few hours before one of the ADs (assistant directors for background) called the first group of us to the set. Breakfast was provided (oatmeal) and lots of people were chowing down, knowing it would have to last them till a late lunch.

I use the term actor loosely, as many, if not most of these folks had no major experience in the profession. A couple of people sitting with me were taking acting classes or otherwise trying to round out their thespian resumes. But the majority were just along for the ride: schoolteachers, landscapers and line cooks. Plenty of them were no doubt on unemployment and saw the gig as an easy way to pick up some extra cash. The prerequisites were simple: send a picture and vital stats to the casting director. The parents of some of the twentyish kids who had worked on "Vampire Diaries" were among the crowd. I spoke to one woman about my age who appeared to be a pro at this sort of thing. I was networking, digging for information about other local jobs. She gave me the names of some contacts, then admitted, "I've only been doing this for five months."

Eventually I ended up in a line comprised of people "born before 1975." Off we went to the set, a large conference room with rows of tables and chairs. We were surrounded by guys hanging and adjusting lights, cameramen and make-up artists. Assistants began distributing props: notebooks, manuals and Dell computers. We were told to remain quiet, but an insufferable man behind me maintained a running monologue that lasted all day long, innumerable details of this jerk's "career" in the movie biz. The stand-ins for the stars were in their places while the crew fine-tuned the atmospherics. Finally, about 11 o'clock, in walked Melissa and Denzel. Two Oscar winners whose characters were at odds during the scene. Denzel was every bit as gorgeous as he is on celluloid. His role was a pilot who saved an airplane from crashing. Melissa played the head of the NTSB board, questioning Mr. Washington like a prosecuting attorney.

Denzel looked and behaved like a total professional, a class act. It was clear as he sat in the hot seat that he was in character, repeating certain movements, mannerisms and tics before the cameras even started to roll. Melissa did vocal warm-ups and stretched. Then we were rolling and heard "Action!" Our job was to react to the riveting footage playing on jumbo screens, a reenactment of the crucial moments leading up to the safe landing of the aircraft. We listened intently as Melissa probed Denzel's decision-making process during the almost-doomed flight. This went on, with the exception of a couple of five-minute breaks and a half hour for lunch, for fifteen excruciating hours.

We didn't wrap until shortly before nine. Then we had to stand in line another thirty minutes to have our vouchers signed so we'd get paid. What was frustrating about the experience was one of the actors, who shall remain nameless, flubbed lines, mispronounced words, lost track of where we were in the script and generally kept screwing up. This star gets several million for the picture, while I sat in the peanut gallery earning a whopping $8 per hour.

I drove home that night knowing that the ultimate test of an actor is working in the theater. When we make mistakes we have to ad lib our way out of the glitch. We don't have the luxury of unlimited takes. Our pay rate is far below what we're worth. But we act in real time, show up prepared, with one shot at getting it right, eight performances a week. We work, like daring acrobats, without a net.