Swords I smile at ...

I've been thinking about the relationship Macbeth has to his weaponry, and I'm considering it is an intimate one. He handles his weapons with the familiarity a cat handles its claws, as they are ready to be drawn in an instant, and in such a manner that they are the extension of himself, a protrusion of his very soul into a pointed and potentially fatal shred. Similarly, like the cat, their exposure, though quick and volatile, is without reservation, and it takes some strong manner of dissolution to convince him of their withdrawal, and to settle his moved spirit, and avert his aim from a target. All this thinking, is applicable to the battle scenes, the dagger scene, the knocking scene, the banquet, and perhaps other scenes. I imagine that there might be a moment in which he threatens the witches, that they may indeed speak more. All this does make for a good amount of knife handling, but, Mac be what he be, whether hot blooded or otherwise, when he gnarls he bears his claws.

Poor player...

In one or another copy of the play with its particular annotations, I came across a note that argues the line "a poor player" suggests an unskilled performer. It seems legitimate that it can also be spoken to suggest an actor who may be well recieved, yet is still hapless in his life. Either way, its an ironic line to be said by the character of a play that bears his name and purportedly tells his tale. It seems both aware of the theatre, and of the world in one breath.

I can not say that I am not afraid to some extent of failing expectations and of appearing to be that very poor player who struts and then is heard no more. I feel my one means of escaping such a doom, is to play the part in and out through my skin. I was speaking with a colleague the other day, and he said verse requires both technical as well spiritual facility. I agree with this colleague of mine. The words have to be heard and understood, and inspired into the imaginations of the audience.

I am realizing that character must come out of instinct, which requires building an instinct or harnessing it, so that life on the stage is not thought through so much as lived through. Another colleague of mine feels that Mac is the one character who reacts entirely and is completely a product of his circumstance, and that the actor playing him need only live, and that he makes no decisions. I don't agree that Mac doesn't make decisions. He very much does, and very much pays for them. But I do agree that he is behaving as only Mac behaves. The words can really be bent to do anything as long as there is existence and focus into the scene. If you play a person who differs from yourself in some way, you must find your way into the life of that person that then does allow you to hold up a mirror to nature so fully. You can then allow yourself to really and simply say the words with out any premeditation. The goal would be that the audience is not watching an actor who plays Mac, but Mac himseld. Then you can have the capacity to not plan your performance and live in the moment in manner that is ever truthful.

In this light, I might be freed from any preconcieved interpretation or connection to any kind of proior performances, and then truly be might able to live the character as entirely my own. But this sort of acting, it does require a great deal more bravery and a great great deal more preparation.

My dearest love ...

I am still not fully resolved as to how much exactly her Ladyship Lady Mac does exactly hold sway over the heart he bears.

An x-girl friend gave me a good talking to the other day. I came over for a routine pick up and drop off, change the lightbulb, pet the cat, etc, rituals that have become the lingering remnants of our relationship. I have all intents and hopes to keep a friendship with her, and I was telling her about a certain scene I was working, specifically the scene in Annie Hall in which the Diane Keaton's Annie is leaving Woody Allen, and she and him need to sort out the books which had been once their mutual estate, now bound for division. I was working on the scene for a directing the actors class at Columbia. I told her, my x, and this may have been a bit fool hardy, that I couldn't help but think of our particular break up scene, how I was gathering my belongings, while she sat, almost the eye of a storm, herself a contained storm, while I was the wind swirling around her. This sad disturbing image made me keen to the multiplexed confusion of the whole situation, and that hearts are no light matter, and have to handled with kid gloves. Of course, in telling her this I think I was probably condescending. I really was hoping that this event that occured probably over two years ago could be something we could reflect on with some composure. Well, I was wrong. Somewhere a bit later, in our evening's conversation, the dam broke, and she went after me about love, telling me that though I never told her I loved her, she believed that there were times that this had to be true, and that as a man, and as an actor, I should not be afraid of admission of this kind, that acting is in fact putting your heart on your sleeve, and your soul into harms way.

Well.

I think she's right. I suppose I shouldn't be afraid. Lately, I got this new girl friend, and I tell her I love her every day like tomorrow will be too late to say it. Its not a joke really, and there is a weight that goes with it. Like Greeks used to say that speaking puts spirits into the air, so such love mustn't be inadvertantly tossed. I tell Lady M, she is my dearest love.

At a recent rehearsal, the director spoke of loss of love as a loss of one's best friend, for love like anything else is comprised of images and experiences, memories of hair, and eyes, and postures that are completely relavent and active. There is a specific joy commensurate with the beloved mate. I'd love to bring in some of that reality into the reunion scene. And some of that failure, into the news of her death.

My most worthy friends ...

I think, as yet, my favorite scene in this play is the banquet.

It begins, in a certain respect triumphant, and full of hubris. Of course, I can speak in regards to Mac. I can't speak to what the lords at the table might or might not be thinking. Ideally they will be thinking different things each. But Mac himself has finally made it to the top. And apart from that, the being he most did fear has been all but annihilated. There is reason to indeed applaud the deed. But before long all the tables are upset, all peace gets rancoured, ghosts push the living off their stools, and blood will have blood. This is an insanely precise little triangle of beggining through to end, and the end is wicked, pathetic, and tragic in the same element. The individual who was near perfect, or atleast had estimation of being so, is broken into the hands of fate, each of his limbs tied to a string. Thats obviously not something to play, but as an image, the sense of ones finity, or moeity, is useful. The oppression of the gods can be palpable...huh? Yeah sure.

Anyway, story time. One of the maintenance guys at work was caught recently drinking, no, more acurately, drunk on the job. Seems a responsible individual, and cheerful, but bloody hell, what was he thinking. Damn. Pretty stupid I have to say. Well, of course I won't judge, I don't know his entire situation. He and I, we have some rapport. We chum. He came in to the office as I happened to be sitting at the front desk, and he told me in a whisper about the situation. I said to him, dude, that's crazy, I'm sure you won't be fired, but don't expect not to get your knuckles rapped. Here's the interesting part, he looked at me, said was anybody asking about him, did any rumours go around? I said I hadn't heard anything, and this was true, I really hadn't and, that this was in fact the first I'd heard about it. I think that was the extent of the conversation, as one of our managers walked passed that moment and called him into the conference room. Well, it'll be a shame, if he gets the Cassio treatment. Stupid fuck. I saw him through the conference room window, the picture of explanation.

But his questing expression as he asked about the rumours. Here's a guy who seems cool enough in any mud, but this was no mud, this was shit he was wading in, and his cool was way superficial. I felt an energy in his questions, and his stare at me. He was not trusting anything. There was fear and doubts mixed.