"I am a permanent transient..."

Yesterday I finished my honors paper on The Zoo Story / Peter & Jerry and The Goat, or Who is Sylvia? (Notes toward a definition of tragedy). I can't say I'm particularly satisfied with the last 1/3 of it, the part on The Goat, because I rushed. And I'm not happy about it because I really did want to do this right. I realized at the end of the semester that I should have made my paper on Sundance for American Independent Cinema my honors paper, but of course, how was I to know that that was the better idea at the beginning of the semester when I had to hand in my contract? I labored over my Sundance paper. By which I really just mean that I took the time to revise it and refine it until I was fully satisfied. I rarely do that. I didn't do that with Edward Albee and I should have. I just ran out of time.

I think I'm going to do it anyway. Part of the reason I ran out of time is I got caught up when I was doing research. I kept finding this awesome material and trying to fit it into my outline. Fitting it into the outline wasn't the trouble, because it related nicely. The trouble was having to write a longer paper than I anticipated once I added all the stuff I wanted to add to the outline.

My thesis was that Edward Albee's plays are as socially relevant now as they first were in 1958 when he began writing. I realized that even though The Zoo Story, his first play and the first Albee I ever read, and the only I've seen performed, is my first love, I might now love The Goat better. It makes sense though: The Zoo Story was written in the context of the 1950s and it was utterly explosive.

"[Albee's theme] is the enormous and usually insuperable difficulty that human beings find in communicating with each other. More precisely, it is about the maddening effect that the enforced loneliness of the human condition has on the person who is cursed (for in our society it is undoubtedly a curse) with an infinite capacity for love."

- George Wellworth (theater scholar)

Albee addresses this through a single character, the outcast Jerry, in The Zoo Story. The beauty of The Goat is that he addresses this difficulty to communicate and the curse of the "infinite capacity to love" through three of his four characters--a husband, a wife, and their son. The fourth character is the husband and wife's supposed best friend who serves to represent conventional society and their disdain for deviance from their standards. In the same way that a thirty-year-old Albee wrote The Zoo Story within the context of his times and the society of the '50s, a seventy-something Albee--a much more mature and controlled writer by this point--wrote The Goat to reflect society today. And as a member (or outcast?) of that society, I feel like I can appreciate it that much more because it's a world I know--not one I've read about or imagined.

(Note: Quick summary. The Zoo Story is a one-act about two men, Peter and Jerry. Peter is your typical 1950s middle class guy living the American Dream. Jerry is a social outcast living in a terrible boarding house with no family and friends, who cannot get even a dog to love him. Spurned by the world around him, Jerry finds Peter sitting on a park bench one day and tries to talk to him about his isolation. Peter, like everyone else, doesn't understand, so Jerry picks a fight with him, and as Peter holds a knife, Jerry impales himself with it. Jerry's ended his own life, but completely unraveled Peter's, breaking down the pretense everything he thought he knew.

Albee later added another one-act before The Zoo Story, called Homelife, in which Peter is in his apartment with his wife Ann, who tries talking to him about how, even though they have a great, smooth life, she could use a little excitement and chaos--a little imperfection. The main goal is to flesh out Peter's character and set him up for The Zoo Story, but it's nice on its own, too.

The Goat is the story of another man with a seemingly perfect life, Martin Gray. He has a perfect marriage with a woman he loves, Stevie, and a good son, Billy. He's just won what is basically the Nobel Prize of architecture, he's been commissioned to design a $200 billion city, and it's his 50th birthday. However, he is having an affair with a goat with whom he is in love. He tells his best friend Ross in confidence, but Ross tells Stevie, and the rest of the play explores how Stevie deals with the fact that her husband accepts that he is in love with and having sex with a goat, how she deals with the fact that he doesn't understand how this has ruined her life, how Martin deals with himself, and how Billy--a seventeen-year-old gay boy--deals with all of it.)

It's not that other writers don't address how restrained polite society creates feelings of rejection and loss in those who deviate from the norm. But what I love so much about Albee is that he does it with a great appreciation for the ridiculous. It's why so many classify him as "absurdist," even though he rejects that label (he's not a label kind of guy) and, strictly speaking, his plays are much more hopeful than the "more nihilist European absurdist playwrights." Regardless, his plays certainly have absurdist qualities, and it's my kind of humor exactly. The irony and wit, the ridiculousness and absurdity that doesn't take itself too seriously, yet serves to size up the seriousness of a situation--Albee's plays are incredibly balanced in these terms, and I love it.

One critics observes a common thematic thread (well, I guess it's more of a motif) running through several of Albee's play: "the chasm between people, [and] their inability to connect except through pain." When you realize he's been writing about the disconnect between people for fifty full years now, it's daunting. In a sense, it's quite true though. I think a lot of times I've connected with people through my pain, theirs, or mutual pain. And I mean "pain" broadly. Shared frustration with other people. General feelings of loss. Nothing earth-shattering, but still. I wonder why that is. We're the most open and vulnerable when in pain? We need companionship most when we're in pain? It attracts us. It humanizes others. I suppose that try as we might to believe otherwise, in the end we can't survive completely on our own.

You really can see how Albee grew as a writer between The Zoo Story and The Goat. As brilliant as The Zoo Story is, you can see what I'm sure many would condemn as "youthful" indulgence in it--Jerry's what is it, 5 page monologue? The play is hardly 45 pages long. The Goat is much more controlled in tone, and its thematic content is like a mature version of its predecessor, and it is, truly, a tragedy. Albee takes an absurd situation, and that is the "fact" of the play, the foundation; then out of the reactions to the situation, he carefully constructs this this gorgeous family tragedy. He uses what is considered to be an inhumane act to examine the humanity, addressing a host of related themes and ideas: the American dream, marital relations, parent/child relations, a loss of identity in middle age, the way an adolescent searches for identity, the desire to be understood, the way love hurts more than hate, the way it can overcome seemingly unforgivable acts--and the way, sometimes, it seems like love is not enough to overcome.

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Now playing: The Decemberists - O Valencia!

"Lock and load"

So. Lately I've been watching the first two seasons of Boston Legal, which together are 44 episodes. Everyone knocks Boston Legal, in part because William Shatner is in it, and in part because it really is a ridiculous show. I'm rather fond of it, though, for a number of reasons.

1) This is kind of odd, but it reminds me of Edward Albee's stuff. From what I've read, Albee, who is generally considered an Absurdist dramatist, tends to use crazy, seemingly unorganized events and silly characters and plots to bring to the surface bold statements about the human condition. In a way, that's what David E. Kelley does with Boston Legal: he uses absurd plotlines, characters and cases, to communicate social and political commentary, as well as to entertain.

One of the attorneys defends a plastic surgeon who injected his own ass fat into women's faces instead of their own. A little old man kills his mother, then kills his neighbor, with a frying pan - and then a little old woman kills him the same way. A couple fight over a collection of Victorian erotica during their divorce. A group of Christians and a group of Wiccans protest a Halloween pageant at an elementary school. A teacher files for a restraining order because a student's parents keep harassing her about their child's grades. A girl who's brother was in the National Guard and was killed in Iraq performing a task he was not trained for, when his tour was supposed to have ended already, sues the government. A decorated general who was dishonorably discharged for being open about his homosexuality sues the government over their "don't ask, don't tell" policy. A man is fired as a department store's Santa Claus for being a cross-dresser. A mayor tries to ban red meat in his town, putting steakhouses out of business. Two science teachers are fired for refusing to teach Creationism. A doctor is sued for prescribing a drug that isn't approved by the FDA, even though it works. A man sues a nightclub because they won't let him sing "War," claiming it's unpatriotic. While this is all very funny and amusing, beneath all the absurdity there are often legitimate points. Generally there's a liberal slant ("They say when people are scared, the first thing they'll give up is their civil liberties"), but that's not unexpected, and the fact that politics aren't simply ignored or dismissed is refreshing.

Kelley has tackled racial profiling, homophobia, discrimination against people with social and physical disorders, public education, the war in Iraq, the ethics of Guantanamo Bay, the situation in Sudan, foreign financial aid, medical malpractice, environmental issues, unethical credit interest inflation, car companies with faulty vehicles, First Amendment violations, assisted suicide, "pill" parties (and clinical depression due to high parental expectations) in today's youth, the death penalty, cock fighting, gambling and other addictions, and a wealth of other issues. It's nice to see a show address (and in a relatively balanced manner, at that) what most shows wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

2) One character in particular, Jerry Espensen, tends to bring up a theme that kind of resonates with me: the increasing isolation of the individual in today's world. Jerry has Asperger's, and when he didn't make partner at the firm, he snapped and took one of the senior name partners hostage with a cake knife at her throat. He wasn't convicted once diagnosed, but later returned to the firm, claiming that he missed the ties with the people. He points out that people are more and more isolated these days: instead of communicating face to face, or even over the phone, people rely on memos, emailing, and texting. I like that Kelley makes a point of bringing this up every once in a while, since it really is so true. People don't connect; they network. Relationships are less fulfilling, and it seems like everyone is always aloof. :: Shrug ::

3) I just love the characters. They're all incredibly ridiculous. Denny Crane is ancient, senile, sexually offensive, delusional, ultra-conservative, and has a propensity to shoot people. Alan Shore is similarly offensive, and he has no problem with using bribery, extortion, and blackmail to win his cases. In one case, he hints to a client that he should flee before appearing before court, and when he's eventually arrested, he still gets himself off. He also generally has all the women in the office fighting over him. Two of the attorneys, at one point, impersonate FBI agents in order to recover a kidnapped child. Another pretends to be looking for a date at a bar to discover privileged information from opposing counsel. Another flirts and leads opposing counsel on, then blackmails them. In court, they all use their connections and understanding of people to work the jury and judge from the right angle, even if it's in a positively absurd way. The thing is, despite these antics and "theatrics" and seemingly unethical behavior, they all do this with the best intentions, for what they truly believe to be right.

James Spader's Alan Shore is really the star of the show, and even though everyone puzzles over the fact that he's won two Emmys for it (in addition to the 3 other wins and 10 other nominations the show has garnered, plus Golden Globe and SAG Award nominations and wins), he really is very good. He has such a juicy character, though, whom I absolutely love. Alan Shore is despicable. He's vile, crude, offensive, arrogant, self-centered, and inappropriate. Yet, he's aware of his short-comings, even though he tends to hide them behind his words, and he pushes away everyone who discovers both his flaws and his good side - except for Denny. Alan really does possess good qualities: he's deeply compassionate, and as he's wildly liberal, he has huge concern for civil and human rights, the environment, etc. It's more than being liberal, though: he always works for justice in terms of the situation at hand, not in terms of the concrete law. Alan's compassion, sympathy, and empathy for people always steers him straight. He's also incredibly loyal to the very few who are dear to him, and even though he is a lawyer, he only ever twists the truth when necessary, and when he gives his word, he always honors it. He's untrustworthy on some levels, but when he explicitly gives his word, he is always good for it. Alan really is just a good, strong, but fun character, and I bet James Spader has a blast playing him.

4) Also random, but one thing that I really love about this show and about Scrubs is their portrayal of a strong friendship between two men. Both JD and Turk, and Alan and Denny, have very strong bonds - their idea of friendship is almost above and beyond their concepts of marriage, and they are always loyal to it. I feel like today, two guys can't be best friends without being accused of being homosexuals. Girls get away with it all the time. Hanging out, sleeping over, going out. They're not often called lesbians for it. Yet when two guys hang out all the time, go out in public just the two of them, they're called gay. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being gay - I'm saying it's falsely judging and misrepresenting people as something they're not. And I like that even though there are jokingly homosexual undertones (or is it overtones?) in both these shows, they ultimately celebrate the friendship and love between two men. And I love that Scrubs included a song about it in their musical episode: "Guy Love."

And wow, did not think I could / mean to write that much about freaking Boston Legal. I could probably go on, but I'm going to sleep.

Getting back to this...surprise surprise, right...

"An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way."
- Charles Bukowski

Okay, so I fibbed a little. I'm only getting back to one part of this. But it's a good part, I swear.

I love that statement, that distinction, between the intellectual and the artist. Lately I've been thoroughly overwhelmed by the sheer brilliance of a number of different works, and it's made me think about the mediums of art.

I saw Edward Albee's Peter and Jerry the other day. I had read the second act, The Zoo Story, before, and seeing it played out on a stage by two astounding actors was amazing, especially with front row, center seats. But I was even more floored by the first act. The Zoo Story was written in 1958 - it was Albee's first play - and I love it for its timelessness and for its daring, for the way it calls society out on the way they reject eccentricity and those who don't fit into their neat, structured world. Homelife, the first act that Albee wrote in 2001, was quite possibly even better.

In it, Albee looks at one of these picture-perfect people - Peter, who represents The American Dream in The Zoo Story - and looks at the flaws of his relationship with his wife Ann, at the cracks in the egg. Peter has an executive position at a publishing house, two daughters, two cats, two parakeets, and a brownstone on East 74th Street or so. He and his wife live comfortably. Yet, in Homelife, he discovers that though she appreciates the secure, smooth, orderly little world he has built, sometimes it's not what she wants. Ann reveals insecurities, fears, loneliness, and desire that she has been hiding for years as she explains that it's not that she's unhappy, not that she doesn't love him - she just wants more. She wants a little chaos, a little something different. She wants to shake him from his placid perch and rile him up a little - she wants him to act more like the animal he is.

You can see Peter struggle to comprehend this and accept it, and when the second act begins and Jerry presents another threat to his perfect little world, the meaning of it is a thousand times stronger. As is Jerry's final declaration to Peter: "You are an animal - not a vegetable." The depth, the focus, the layers, the intensity of the meaning and the incredible statement about life that these two acts make together - it's amazing to me, not only that Edward Albee wrote it, but that forty years passed between when he wrote the second and when he wrote the first, and that the more recent one is possibly even sharper and more astute than the first. The critic who reviewed it for the New York Times called Homelife a slap in the face and The Zoo Story a punch in the gut. He nailed it. But truly, the playwright is an artist - one with incredible skill and talent.

The other night, then, I watched an old movie called Holiday for the first time. The screenplay, which was by Donald Ogden Stewart, had been adapted from a play by Phillip Barry, who also wrote the play upon which the film The Philadelphia Story was based. Though The Philadelphia Story was better than Holiday, I still enjoyed the latter immensely. It was fun. Playful. Delightful and charming.

Yet, at the same time, it had a lot to say. The main character, Johnny Case, is in finance, and comes of no background worth mentioning. His plan is to make enough money to take a holiday, and then quit his job, and take time to discover himself, and to discover what it is he's working for - he wants what he does to mean something - he wants to find meaning in general. His fiancee Julia Seton is a rich heiress, spoiled and coddled, and she doesn't agree with him at all. Her sister Linda, though, is frustrated with wealth, society, and her life in general, and she rebels and does whatever she can to escape, including spending most of her time in the old "play room." Their brother Ned shares Linda's views, only chooses to avoid his life by seeking solace in alcohol instead of dealing with things or trying to change theme - he lives with a resigned, sluggish attitude.

Aside from making a statement about how people view life and choose to make it worthy, it cleverly shows how people can be blinded by "love" and see a person as they want to see him, not for whom he truly is. Yet, the whole thing is humorous and overall, very amusing. It's marvelous.

In both of these cases, the writing is superb. But what makes them a thousand times stronger to me is the fact they are both also performances. Theater and film are both aural and visual, combining sound and speech and music with setting and physical expression. In Peter and Jerry, you can see what Albee is getting at in his writing. You can understand the words and know what is meant by them. But to see those feelings written on the faces of the characters, in their body language, to hear them in the tone and inflection of their voices - it's so powerful. And in Holiday, Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn and the rest of the cast fall into rhythm perfectly. Their timing as they sail through their repartee over and over is great not only in terms of how they relate to each other, but for capitalizing on every comedic possibility. Their reactions, their smiles, their pauses, are all perfectly synchronized.

Seeing that, as well as a few interviews with actors on working with another director, Nancy Meyer, reminded me how much a film or play relies on the pacing and the rhythm. Movies and plays are really just intricate dances, like a full company number in a musical. Timing does so much - it not only sets the pace, but thereby also sets the mood, the feeling, the undertone. It just really made me appreciate so much more everything that goes into a truly great play or movie. There are so many individual threads that need to be good in order for the whole thing to be great. When you really think about it, it's a wonder that there are as many great films and plays as there are. But I guess you can appreciate them that much more.

P.S. Sorry this is wicked long.