January 27, 2002
Spent yesterday watching Twin Peaks (I've provided a link to the Mighty Big TV recap of the show for any of you who are not as old as I am) on DVD. (Got it for my birthday, I did. Season One of Twin Peaks on DVD. Woo hoo!)
I only got as far as Episode Three. Not because David Lynch's dancing midgets and Agent Cooper's Tibetan crime-solving techniques overloaded my already taxed little brain, but because of Albert Rosenfield, the greatest Twin Peaks character out of a cast of truly great characters (I mean, come on, remember Agent Cooper? Who's better than Special Agent Dale Cooper? Except for Albert.).
So, anyway, Albert, the FBI's snarky, sarcastic forensics genius assigned to the Laura Palmer investigation, actually made his first appearance on the show in Episode Two, but Episode Three is where they really let him cut loose and he does such a lovely job of insulting everyone within a three mile radius of Twin Peaks that I spent half my afternoon just playing his scenes over and over again.
(Before I go on about Albert, I must mention that he is played by Miguel Ferrer, son of Rosemary Clooney and Jose Ferrer, a character actor whom I have adored in everything I've seen him in, including all of those horrible Lifetime movies starring the likes of Tori Spelling and Jessie's wife from Full House. He's currently on Crossing Jordan on NBC; I haven't seen that show yet, but I'm sure I will adore him yet again when I do.)
But back to Albert (I swear this is going somewhere; I really do). Back when Twin Peaks was actually on the air, he was my favorite character and, obviously, still is. But can you blame me, when the man gets to utter such wonderful lines as these:
- "What the hell kind of a two-bit operation are they running out of this tree house, Cooper? I have seen some slipshod backwater burgs but this place takes the cake. What are you waiting for? Christmas? We’ve got work to do, damn it, they’re putting this girl in the ground tomorrow and we’ve wasted half the day traveling out to the middle of no where.”
- "I’ve got a lot of cutting and pasting to do gentlemen, so why don’t you return to your porch rockers and resume whittling?"
- "Oh yeah? Well I’ve had about enough of morons and halfwits, dolts, dunces, dullards and dumbbells. And you, chowderhead yokel, you blithering hayseed, you’ve had just about enough of me?"
- "One of your principal suspects is killed in his hospital bed and the other is shot in his living room. You tell me- vigilante justice or just clean country living?"
Boy, oh, boy. Teddy and I used to sit in my dorm room at Trenton State College (now the College of New Jersey, or, as I like to call it, The College Formerly Known as Trenton State), and watch Twin Peaks. I'd spend most of the episode, not only crushing on Albert (if he happened to be in the storyline that week), but also a bit jealous of Miguel Ferrer for getting to play him.
What I wouldn't have given (and still give) to be able to get up on stage or in front of a camera and say something like: "I've got compassion running out of my nose, pal. I'm the sultan of sentiment. Dr. Hayward, I have traveled thousands of miles, and apparently several centuries, to this forgotten sinkhole in order to perform a series of tests. Now, I do not ask you to understand these tests- I am not a cruel man- I just ask you to get the hell out of my way so I can do my work, is that clear?"
Because, really, regardless of how attractive I found Miguel Ferrer, the bottom line was that I would have given my eyeteeth to play Albert. Albert is the type of role I have always wanted to play, ever since I decided to audition for my junior high school's production of The Trial of Captain Hero. The role I wanted in that show was the prosecutor. The prosecutor was cynical and sarcastic and wrapped just a little too tight and I so wanted to be the prosecutor because I wanted to be cynical and sarcastic (although, I could have given on the wrapped just a little too tight part). Instead, they gave the part to Gary Davis and I got to play Betty Barlow, Lois Lane to Captain Hero's Superman.
Woo. hoo.
During rehearsals, I would sit and watch Gary. He'd deliver his lines and I would think, "I would have been much nastier on that" or "Oh, yeah, that's going to win you the Oscar, Olivier. Then I'd rehearse my scenes and I'd act sweet and cute like I was supposed to until I could go home and stare at the ceiling and wonder why the Mr. Robertson didn't cast me as the prosecutor when I understood the character so much better than Gary did.
It took me a while to figure out that my gender almost automatically precluded me from playing the type of character I so adored. Snarky, sarcastic and borderline-nasty play so much better on a man than a girl. In high school, I played an array of mothers, sisters, and next-door neighbors (because while lacking the appropriate, ahem, appendages to be able to play smart alecks and wise guys, I was also approximately five inches and twenty pounds over the acceptable limit for playing ingenues). The closest I came to my dream role was playing Nancy in Woody Allen's Play It Again, Sam. Nancy was brash; she was a little mean; she had some good lines -- I liked her. But my director made me play her like a broad -- Brooklyn accent, big hair, bedazzled clothes, a lot of makeup. Obviously, I got the part because I was the closest thing to a broad my suburban high school had.
It bothered me that my director wanted me to play Nancy so over the top. I suppose his direction confirmed for me what I already knew but didn't want to admit. Male characters could be outspoken, nasty, difficult to deal with, and the actors could play them straight, not turn them into caricatures or stereotypes because the audience was willing to accept that men could have snarky qualities and still be entertaining or likeable characters. Female characters, on the other hand, if they were caustic or sharp were seen as bitches, and so steps had to be taken to make them cartoonish because the audience was less willing to accept them.
Now I'm not really commenting on the portrayal of "strong" women in theater, in the sense of strong meaning inner strength and determination. I've gotten to play one of the strongest female characters in the history of theater -- Antigone -- and it was one of the best experiences of my life. I loved playing her so much and I liked the fact that I could be strong and determined and go head to head with an equally strong male character like Creon.
But the roles I fell in love with when I was a young girl, those roles weren't about being strong or determined or even that serious. The characters I have always loved, the ones that made me dream about acting, imagining myself portraying them on stage, those characters were always the smart alecks, the borderline jerks, the ones with a snappy comeback always at the ready, the characters that were a little bit evil or socially ungraced but charming in a strange sort of way. These were never the major characters, but the ones that the audience looked forward to being on stage, the ones that everyone realized were not the nicest or most sympathetic characters in the bunch but the ones that the audience liked anyway.
And unfortunately most of the really great characters of this type are male. God, I'd love to have a crack at playing Snape (move over Alan Rickman) -- forget Hermione, forget MacGonagall. I spent most of high school converting scenes for male actors into female scenes, just so I could at least play the roles I wanted in drama class. My dream role would be Mordred in Lerner and Loewe's Camelot. I can't sing worth a damn, but hell, Roddy MacDowell pretty much talked his way through the song and, believe me, I can be just as slimy and nasty as he was -- I've been playing the role in my head for the past 19 years, ever since I went to see my cousin play Pelinore in his high school's production.
Unfortunately, I don't forsee any director giving a 31-year-old woman a shot at playing Arthur's illegitimate son. Call me crazy -- it's just a hunch.
Ah, I've got no idea where I'm going with this. Just voicing some frustration, I suppose. Although, I think my dissatisfaction runs deeper than just my acting options. I think I am drawn to these characters because, on some level, I understand them. Which, in turn, means that I'm like them.
Sounds reasonable enough. I am quite familar with the smart ass in myself; but it goes further than that. If left to its own devices, there is a side of me that can be more than sarcastic, that exceeds the limits of being a smart ass. I understand that I have the capability, even the inclination, to be mean, to be cruel. There are moments when nasty remarks rise to my lips almost unbidden and I have to make a conscious effort to choke them back. I have taken too much pleasure in tormenting my roommate Erica, teasing her unmercifully, mocking everything she likes ("Oh, please, life is not an episode of Ally McBeal), telling nasty, if scathingly funny, stories about her. During workshops, I sometimes express my opinion too bluntly, cracking jokes at a colleague's expense.
These incidents don't happen often. I normally work hard to keep that side of myself from surfacing. Most people who know me would tell you that I am "sweet" or at least "kind." And I suppose I am. After a measure. But they don't know about my potential for meanness, about how nasty and cruel I could be if I allowed myself.
The strange thing is: I don't hate this part of myself. There is something about it that is darkly attractive, like Albert and the rest of those characters that I love so much. This side of me can be clever and daring and quite entertaining. I think it is the side of me that feels such a kinship with Mrs. Parker. It is the only part of my personality that could be accurately described by the phrase "rapier wit." Without it, I don't think I would be able to keep this journal. At least not in the manner to which you've all become accustomed and probably not in any manner that I would be interested in continuing.
I guess kindness comes into play by learning how to control this darker, crueler side. Sometimes, I wish I could allow it freer reign, but I would not like to hurt anyone either. Perhaps this is why I have periodically wished I was a boy, so I could play roles like Albert and Mordred, so I would have a safe and acceptable outlet for this side of myself.
Boy, this turned into a downer, huh? I'm not sure where to go with this, what conclusion to reach. At my most pessimistic, I would conclude that it's hard being a woman possessing these qualities because the world gives you little place to exercise them. At my most optimistic, I could decide that "I'm a writer, dammit!" and vow to write more roles like this for women, so other actresses (or maybe even myself) will have the opportunity to play them.
You know, this was a hard subject for me to write about. I feel like I've exposed a part of myself that will not win me any favor, that people will think less of me. In many ways, I guess I have done just that. It isn't a good thing to admit that you are possessed of a capacity for being nasty or mean. It's certainly not a good thing to admit that, at times, you enjoy it.
But, for what it's worth, there it is. It's part of who I am and it is something I struggle with quite often. I don't think I am a lesser person for having these tendencies; I would only be less if I allowed them to overshadow qualities like compassion and kindness.
7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions
Pride:
Envy:
Wrath:
Sloth:
Avarice:
Gluttony:
Lust:
Book:
Tune:
Obsession:
Task at Hand:
Quest for Publication:
So here's the stats so far:
Total Submissions: 7
Quite proud of my recent acquisition of a limited edition Alice figurine. The Chesire Cat glows in the dark! Woo hoo! I already had the regular Alice figure along with a non-glowing Chesire Cat. Unlike the limited edition figures, these are out of the box and sitting on my computer desk. From her perch on the top shelf, Alice watches me type these entries. Unless, of course, she is being manhandled by the Snape figure that Colleen gave me for Christmas. Lucky for Severus, Alice's cake knife keeps falling out of her hand.
Why I'm envying Alice, of course. Oh, if only I were an action figure. Or Snape were human. Either one.
No wrath, today. Sorry.
I still have papers from last semester that I have to put comments on.
I've been amassing culinary utensils and appliances over the past few weeks. It's turned into an addiction. I want a food processor so much I can taste it.
Tonight's menu: Roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas, and Yorkshire pudding. The pudding didn't turn out so well, but the rest of it was very good.
Duh. Miguel Ferrar. As Albert and otherwise. Oh, come on now, people, you couldn't see this one coming? He's like Belzer, only slightly Spanish.
Thanks to Kymm: UFOs, JFK, and Elvis: Conspiracies You Don't Have to Be Crazy to Believe by who else? THE BELZ!
Feed the Tree by Belly:
Take your hat off, boy,
When you're talking to me
And be there when I feed the tree.
My brother gave me the Revlon Paraffin Wax Spa for my birthday. How many times a week do you think I can dip my hands and feet into warm wax without exfoliating a healthy layer of skin?
Holden and I have begun house hunting. Yikes.
Just received a rejection. Some autonotify email that said they won't be publishing my story, "but [they] enjoyed it and would like to see more." Oh, I bet you say that to all the authors.
Rejections: 1
Acceptances: 0