5.london [the beginning]

[this is slightly dated]

sunday, september 14, 13:07 (they use military time here, just go with it)
weather: happily sunny and temperate (this is rare)
location: bedroom, flat 12, landward flats, westminster, london, uk
mood: relaxed, lethargic, happy

first of all, i miss my friends like hell. i think that needs to be said. i walked by a cafe yesterday called "cafe arizona" and laughed/cried a little, not because i miss az, but because i miss them, duh. i'm in the process of trying to move the atlantic ocean so that az is closer to britain, but so far, no luck. will keep you posted.

so now, with that in mind, here's my [quite lengthy] update on my first week and a half in london, uk:

i arrived at heathrow airport on friday, september 5 feeling quite bedraggled and rather idiotic carrying 2 monstrous bags by myself. it was humbling. and i couldn't help but realize, in my state of pathetic disarray, how american i must've appeared. luckily, i survived that embarrassing experience and made it safely to 14 gloucester gate, regents park - the location of the british american dramatic academy.

upon my arrival at BADA, i was greeted by two fabulously british old(er) folks - one of whom i recognized as ian wooldridge, the dean of the program. the other was carolyn, a very warmhearted woman who i'd like to shrink and put in my pocket. i later realized that she's the program director. also, she's very precious.

i spoke with them for a bit, ian told me he remembered my audition video (and i couldn't help but laugh a little to think that this very proper englishman had seen me do a horrifying rendition of irene cara's "fame." why did they let me in, again?) all in all, talking to them was a welcome relief since i hadn't spoken to anyone with a heart for over 14 hours at that point.

anyway, after our little meet-and-greet, i was taken to my flat at the landward on harrowby street in westminster, about a 10 minute drive from bada. henceforth, i met my flatmates, who, luckily, are quite fabulous (for the most part). more on that later.

our flat is great - very warm, comfortable, and spacious (which was a pleasant surprise). the toilets are tricky. and our washer is also a dryer. but other than that, i really love it. we have great windows, anyway.

BADA: wonderful. very different from asu, for obvious reasons. noteably less movement-based, which i'm undecided about. although we do have a great stage combat class and a pretty swell movement class, it's very academic so far. but i don't feel like that's necessarily a bad thing, especially now. brits teach theatre a whole different way out here, i've come to realize, but it's actually very refreshing. so far, i've learned a great lot about the practical performance of shakespearean work, which means not trying to find subtext, because there isn't any, and really meaning what you say because that's how he wrote it. that's sort of a cheap summary of what i've learned so far, but what we've been working on is dissecting text (for shakespeare, high comedy, dramatic criticism, theatre history, etc.) it's very fascinating, and i sense that i'm going to learn some very valuable things this semester.

the way the program is designed is we are in class mon-fri from 9 am until 6 pm. our schedule is different every day, and on friday afternoons we have master classes (i.e. our class with fiona shaw. i'm hoping to god for a class with alan rickman, but that's tba...). we work this way for 8 weeks, and then for the remaining 5 weeks, instead of class, we do a show. there will be 3 separate shows with casts of about 15 each, since there are approx 45 people in the london theatre programme.

my professors = very brilliant, very british. for instance:
a) sheila, our shakespeare professor, is a renowned british actress (and was also in harry potter 4 as a ministry witch). she's a little insane, but in an endearing way. goes off on very random tangents. reminiscent of mrs. doubtfire. we still take her very seriously. she means business.
b) christopher, our drama crit/history professor. adorable. an older gentleman. quite proper, very well spoken and brilliant. wears cute socks. very witty. even in 2-hour sessions of theatre history with him and 14 students, i remain quite engaged, if that's any indication of his teaching charisma. has made it mandatory we keep theatre journals, so i love him already.
c) mick, our modern physical/clowning professor. very funny, entertaining, silly. an older man who consistently cracks the most darling jokes. carries a children's drum that he beats to start or end games, etc. a kook.
d) natalie, our combat instructor. gorgeous, intimidating, very "girl power." very unlike david barker. a younger woman, incredibly hot. yells at the boys. commands respect and attention. intense like laura croft. insanely sexy. doesn't buy any of the "macho" shit from the bros. did i mention she's a hottie? god i hope she's gay.

that's just a small sampling of some of our professors. as for master classes, we've had one so far - with fiona shaw. she was stupendous, very down-to-earth, funny, a big obama fan. wore yellow clogs. she had an incredible amount to offer about shakespearean performance. i love her.

alright, shifting gears. let's talk about something that's very near and dear to my heart, a vital part of my love of the theatre:

the gays.

ok, first of all, where the deuce are they? so far, we've counted just 5 gays out of roughly 60 students currently at bada (between the shakespeare programme and our programme). 2 men and 3 women (including lindsay and i). there's blake, who's a very energetic but not overwhelming gay. jason, a more reserved but just as fabulous gay. molly, slightly in-your-face but not bombastic gay. and then, lindsay and i. all 5 of us are determined to weed out a few more before the end of the semester. because 5 out of 60 is sad and wrong. and a lot of the dudes here (the straight dudes) are such bros and it's totally disgusting. i mean, most of them are legit, but none of them are as awesome as my asu boys. there's this one guy named greg in my small group (for classes) and he's such. a. douchebag. he puts on this ridiculous macho-guy front, which i think is directly related to the fact that he probably has short-man syndrome. he also thinks he's god's gift to theatre. he's a jackass. and rude. and puts on all these wacko accents when we read plays in class. it's ridonc. i'm trying really hard not to hate him. sigh.

anyhoo, me and some of the rad people went to this fabulous gay bar in lecester square/soho called the g-a-y. they played spice girls songs. it was glorious. but super crowded. we're going to try somewhere more club-like next time so we can dance. i'm determined to get some british action. like, soon.

yesterday i went shopping in oxford circus and spent too much money. i got some ridiculous american apparel clothes - don't judge me, please. also, we went to topshop, which is like the british equivalent of century 21/h and m, i think. it was a clusterfuck, though. also, not cheap. i didn't buy anything from there. it was too scary.

everything here is very expensive. it's killing me.

we haven't gotten the chance to do anything really touristy yet. we did a bus tour, saw buckingham palace, and saw "merry wives of windsor" at the globe, which was phenomenal. but i still wanna see tower of london, tate modern, british museum, etc. so i have a to-do list. keep you posted.


**since i wrote this, many things have occurred. more on that later.**

6.alan rickman

tonight,
in a crisp and cosy pocket of leicester square, london,
i found myself at a crossroads of life.

whilst on my way to "creditors"
(a strindberg piece showing with donmar theatre co.)
i was stopped dead in my tracks:
right before my eyes,
not ten feet away,

was. ALAN. fucking. RICKMAN.



let me explain:
at some point in my life before high school but after age 12,
i found myself curiously obsessed with this man.
i cannot say how or when or why it began,
all i know is this:
it was sick.
and over the course of approximately 7 years,
i painted not one, but two portraits of him,
became infatuated with Colonel Brandon, Metatron, Severus Snape, and many others,
downloaded various sound clips of the "velvet" voice,
searched many a blockbuster for rarities such as "Rasputin" and "Dark Harbor,"
and changed my computer desktop image to a new picture of him every week.
the most monumental statement i can make about this man:
he's the only male alive who i would go straight for.
that's right, folks. he's 63, sexy as hell, and i would switch teams for him.
i'm not ashamed to admit this.

and what's more -
he's taught many a master class at b.a.d.a. before,
and let's just say i've been more-than-pushy towards the b.a.d.a. office staff about getting his fine welsh ass over to regents park to teach us!

thus, you can imagine:
seeing him - FINALLY - was
a BIG MOTHERFUCKING DEAL
in my life.

so standing there tonight, like a deer in the headlights and practically wetting myself,
i was quite quite torn:

do i approach?
what if he's an asshole?
what if he thinks i'm an asshole?
should i interrupt his conversation just to say hello?
am i going to look like a big american idiot?
or will he be flattered and totally cool and personable?
.....
I MUST!

and i did!
i grabbed tess by the hand,
took a deep, deep breath,
and marched forward with all the gusto of an airline stewardess.
at the moment, he was in the middle of what appeared to be quite an animated discussion with two other men (who they were, i have no clue. i only had eyes for mr. rickman) but he looked just as i'd imagine him to (i.e. exactly how he looked on the cover of 'backstage' in august). he had the blonde-ish/brown-ish/gray-ish wispy hair and a delightful grin. he looked older, but not nearly as old as you'd imagine him to look at 63. he was wearing all black (ala severus snape) - slacks, a dress shirt, and a blazer. he was not drinking but i think he'd been earlier. he was warm and lovely and ever-so-sexy. so my heart was beating with all the force of a sledgehammer at this point. i approached with caution, ready for whatever he might throw at me...

the convo went a little something like this:

anne: excuse me? hi! sorry to interrupt your conversation
alan: (turning to face me full on, smiling genuinely and kindly) tha's quite alright
anne: i just had to say hello; i'm a student at b.a.d.a. and, just, a huge fan (very sincere)
alan: oh, thank you. and how do you like b.a.d.a.?
anne: oh god, i love it - it's wonderful!
alan: mmhhmm (a sound of pleased understanding)
anne: and we're going to see "creditors" tonight and i'm so very excited
alan: ah, i do hope you enjoy it
anne: i'm sure we will
alan: (looking at his watch) oh, it's 7:15, you'd better go get your seats
anne: oh yes, yes, we're on our way
alan: alright, do enjoy your time at b.a.d.a.
anne: we will! you should teach a master class!
alan: yes, yes (chuckle) we'll see
anne: i mean, if you can (nervous giggle). but thank you so so very much!
alan: of course - and enjoy my show!
anne: we will, we will!
alan: alright, cheers then
anne: goodnight! (gleeful exclamations)

basically, i've never been so excited to meet anyone in my life.
and the real joy was just how wonderful he was - so kind and appreciative.
the funny thing is, i've had this desperate desire to meet him for so long,
and i sort of had the feeling that it would happen whilst on this trip,
and this week in particular.
i mean, maybe i'm psychic, is what i'm saying...
(only joking)
but seriously,
he's just so phoenomenal,
and if i'd had the opportunity, i would have talked to him at great length about all sorts of things concerning art and theatre and politics and harry potter. it would be the grandest thing of all, i think. but i'm so ecstatic to have met him - and to have had the balls to approach him!! definite pat on the back, there. i'm usually much more of a pansy when it comes to these things. but i knew i'd regret it forever if i didn't sieze my chance right then and there.

so i did it.
and i need to do that more often,
sieze the chance.
it's really quite fulfilling, so..
thanks, alan, for making me grow a pair,
and for being such a beautiful man.

oh, and also,
the show was fantastic.

2.sailor(man)

every year,
the new york international fringe festival
hosts a bevy of the world's newest, most innovative theatre pieces

and also a lot of utter shit.

a prime example of such wonderful theatre came to me in the form of one "sailor man," an dark and profoundly moving tale of the misunderstood popeye the sailor man, his arch nemesis, and the love of his life. complete with mind-blowing stage fights, Tony-award-worthy performances, seamless scene changes, and brilliant direction, "sailor man" changed. my. life.

actually i'm being sarcastic. get it?

let me paint you a picture:

john, candy and i arrived at the bleecker street theatre one evening, fully anticipating what was sure to be an incredible show. after all, it received glowing reviews from the fringe press, and how could anyone go wrong with a production about popeye the sailor man, a staple of my childhood? why, the audience was packed, the excitement palpable, the players over-confident and the house manager overly jolly. we took our seats with no hesitation and waited patiently for the show to begin...

i wish it hadn't.

from then on, i was filled with an overwhelming sense of horror at what i was witnessing. everything - EVERYTHING - was. terrible. the man playing popeye put on this heinous voice to try to channel the beloved cartoon, when in actuality, all it did was make me cringe. the first fight scene was painfully amateur, and tried to compensate for its own sloppiness by sloshing around gallons of fake blood for us to "ooo" and "aawwe" at. no cigar, sailor guy. i felt more like i was watching a poorly planned comedy sketch than an actual show at this point. what's more, the scene changes (there were two of them, and it was two too many) took upwards of five minutes. in the dark. with little result. in fact, the only real purpose of these changes was to mop up the puddles of fake blood, which served no purpose anyhow and would have been simpler to clean if someone on their high horse had just decided to keep the lights on. but alas, such was not the case.

much to john's chagrin, the direction was abominable. it looked as though the actors were moving around the space simply for the sake of moving, and standing still simply because they knew not what else to do. it reeked of a poorly-staged high-school production in this sense. and for a 50-minute show, it did seem to go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and....

bottom line: i would equate this to a badly-made porno movie, except instead of unsatisfying sex scenes, we were cursed with unsatisfying stage combat scenes.

but here's the horrifying thing: the audience fucking loved it. they ate that shit right up. i wanted to scream out, "did you fuckheads just SEE the show that i saw?! it was absolute horse shit!!" not only did they receive a standing ovation at curtain call, but made an encore bow after having already left the stage. it was quite an alarming experience, to be frank. and as john, candy and i looked back and forth at each other in sheer horror, i couldn't help but think, is this really what it's come to??

now, i may be slightly pretentious when it comes to reviewing theatre. and that's simply because i have that lens: i work, live, and breath in the theatre; i see and do it every day. but it would not take an expert to appreciate how abominably terrible this show was. in fact, a five-year-old could recognize this. so how was it that all these innocent theatre-goers were so brainwashed by this awful piece of work?? it's one of the great mysteries of life, i suppose.

but i can't help but be quite troubled by this. is "sailor man" what people want in theatre? is this what they're going to shell out their cash for, spend their evenings on, take their children to see? is this what the art world is so eager to produce? and how in the name of fuck did an established entity such as the new york international fringe festival let this piece of trash slip under their nose and into the east village? i've never felt so scared for contemporary theatre.

the fringe festival is the self-proclaimed stage of the "future of theatre" - the innovative, the unapologetic, the modern. it is responsible for such greats as "urinetown," and "dog sees god." it is a playground for contemporary artists to jump start their work and bring something new and exciting to the theatre-goers' table. so what happened, jurors? were you high when you reviewed their proposal? or just lazy? and viewers: are you really so apathetic that you'll allow yourselves to be spoon-fed any amount of shit they dish out?

we, as artists, need to demand more and work harder and climb higher and reach further. we need to say to the shit-heads who make up the "sailor man" shows of the world that we will not let them represent us and we will not let them stamp a sell-by date on our art form. people in the theatre know that we all work too hard and too thanklessly to blindsight audiences with the same old mediocre crap.

it's time for the theatre to seriously consider how we can leave a lasting and profound mark on our world, and how to prevent future "sailor man" endeavors from slipping through the cracks and into the hands of the public. because once they grab hold of that, who knows how willing they'll be to grasp something different?

1.neon pink panic

you don't have to take my word for it
but:

ever since i decided to commit my life to the theatrical art form, i've been existing in a constant state of panic.

on the interweb, panic is defined as "a sudden overwhelming fear, with or without cause, that produces hysterical or irrational behavior, and that often spreads quickly through a group of persons or animals" (dictionary.com). but my panic isn't the panic you may be thinking of. if the panic you're thinking of is the ohmygod-titanic-sinking kind, this isn't it. but i can't really define exactly what "it" is. bear with me.

i guess my panic is more accurately a type of urgency, a need to fulfill a desire and do it fast. the "fear" piece isn't a fear of what i'm doing, but rather of not doing it. and it is, at moments, overwhelming. but i don't often feel the sense that this panic is widespread. that is, i don't always sense it in those around me. but maybe this panic isn't contagious. maybe it's innate and activated at some random moment in life.

so then i have to ask myself: who feels this panic? do business people feel this panic? do botanists feel it? or is this sensation something exclusive to the artistic community? does it click on, like a light switch, because of some outside stimulus, or does it tug at us from the moment we enter the world?

maybe it varies. for instance, i can pinpoint the exact moment in my life when i knew, deep, deep down, that theatre was my "purpose." it's probably the most cliche story i tell. i was a senior in high school, about to graduate with the hope of becoming a filmmaker. i had applied to all the big wig los angeles schools with this plan. but i was in my high school's production of "you can't take it with you," the last show of the season and my first since age 9. at the end of our opening night show, after having stepped out on stage for the first time, scared shitless, and bowing for curtain call - i knew. the light was blinding me, my palms were sweaty from holding my castmates' hands, and i was crying like i'd just won the nobel prize for literature. and right then, whether i realized it or not at the time, my entire future was spread out before me.

does every artist experience a distinct, life-altering moment like this? i'm not sure. but what i do know is that my life since then has been working in a frenzy to create and perform and live in theatre, and all this has awoken a sense of panic in me. i feel as though it's insatiable, that i'll be victim to it as long as i live. because as long as i live, i'll have this desire to create, to express. so this panic isn't like the panic that they give colors to like red and amber and yellow. it isn't a scary panic. i'd say this panic is a little more groovy than that. like, maybe a neon pink. neon pink is pretty groovy.

4.cupcakes

there was an ever-present
unconsious
awareness
of cupcakes.

we searched relentlessly for them
without really realizing it.

our unspoken quest was this:
to find the ::perfect red velvet cupcake::
(somewhere in manhattan)

it was a complex journey that consequently led us to many different sorts of cupcakes variable in size and flavor and sugary-colorful frosting. this was because ::red velvet cupcakes:: were more uncommon than we had presumed. for weeks we searched.

our hunger persisted.