Dear Earnie
Dear Earnie,
I don’t remember whose idea it was that we room together in Connover Kronsage at UW Madison, but I do remember why I admired you from our high school days in Kenosha.
You were a boy of uncommon grace and determination. Ambitious people can sometimes be overbearing. I myself have sometime been fierce and aggressive. You, on the other hand, seemed always to be steady and consistent in a passionate but courtly manner. I have no doubt that current friends and colleagues say that that same young man became the dedicated father, husband, surgeon and colleague they know now and love.
You stretched and limbered up systematically and thoroughly in the spring prior to track practice. You kidded me about not preparing as carefully. You were right. I think I joked that maybe there was something wrong with you, because I had olive oil in my joints, and as a fellow Italian surely you must have had, too. Obviously your discipline made a lasting impression on me.
Some days, I walked by your house to join you on the way to Mary D. Bradford High School. Kenosha High, to us then. You and your brother Ron were mandated by your attentive father to finish breakfast before leaving. I think oatmeal was a staple, and your father was firm. I liked that. Again, I hold the good memory.
I don’t remember at all what we must have talked about. We just got along. What we three had in common was that we studied and learned. We paid attention. And most probably held common views.
No one knew I was already thinking about becoming an actor. You may already have decided to be a doctor. I know for certain that you were taking pre-med courses in your sophomore year when I was a freshman and we were roommates. I know you found studies demanding. Tough going. I recall you telling us that while viewing your first dissection of a cadaver that you were nauseated and had to leave the viewing; but that you returned to overcome it. More than once, before your stomach settled? Uncommon grace and determination.
You had a heavy course schedule. You spent long hours reading and writing. I did, too. However it came about—you recall the decision—I knew you were a person I wanted to have as a friend and colleague. I was in fact flattered that you, an upper classman (though but barely) would consider me for a roommate. But I take some credit that I had the good sense to choose you, too. One of my better decisions in life.
When I began to appear in plays on the Student Union stage, you and others kidded me a little. I guess acting made me the Bohemian on the floor. But you enjoyed the idea. You and others came to see me in all five productions. Thanks for the encouragement. Remember Carter Denniston, Kent Gregorious, Bill Kaiser? Scholars, all.
The next year I roomed with them just off campus.
They and you, especially, in a seminal way, helped steady me in that sometimes wildest, most bewildering, exhilarating, gratifying yet often frightening, doubting and ultimately nourishing time of our lives.
I am grateful. You live in my heart.
With hugs and kisses, I am
Yours Truly forever,
Daniel J. Travanti
Dear Mary
Dear Mary,
To continue. Not that Hollywood is fine. The traffic is unmoving. It moves you, to wonder why. Why do so many put up with inadequate roadways? More cars than any other nation. Yes, the U.S. is first, California is second.
And the architecture is silly. Downtown has its wonders. The Disney Hall of Frank Gehry is startling. So shiny that crews have had to buff down the glint because it was blinding condo livers nearby. And down the road, no doubt. But the malls—everywhere!—are obese. Yes, they are overeating, over-selling, over-stocked, over-emblazoned. There are so many signs that they are un-seeable. Impossible to actually read. Store aisles are not traversable. Too many displays stuffed into open spaces. Customers are intruding. Strange. Whimsy is dead. Killed by garnish and gold (fake) and zig-zaggy. TOO MUCH.
But Saturdays on Ventura Boulevard, the Valley’s main drag, was pleasant. Quiet and sunny, breezy in my two weeks, and old-fashioned. I am actually thinking of a condo, but not there. In El Segundo. I wonder where El Primo is. The former is near the airport. The bike path, wide and breezy, separated from the sea by a hundred foot deep pristine sandy beach. People go there only on the hottest sunny days. Ninety-eight percent of the time it’s yours alone. I rode my bike from Santa Monica twenty miles some days, down past El Segundo through Redondo and Manhattan Beach. Stopping to read my school assignments. At ages 34-37. They gave me an M.A. in Literature. The rides helped save my sanity. Sobriety left me wide open to totally clear, razor-sharp life, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY! My brain was hungry, my body screamed for ACTION. So…bike rides A.A. meetings, school, appointments, bike rides.
Three years later I was about to be famous.
Since then I have been…grateful, happy, miserable, certain, confused, resigned, enraged, chastened, disappointed, gratified and still determined. The condo would be for family and friends, too. But only if I can expect regular work there.
The breezes and the traffic are freer, spaces are uncluttered and the bike path beckons.
Dear Nancy
Dear Nancy,
Over twelve years ago, an agent had a compilation tape of my film work. I couldn’t look at it. I stashed it.
It surfaced last year, out of the lake of flotsam and jetsam after ten years in this house. I could barely watch. Snippets don’t work! Not Brando’s, not Judi Dench’s.
I have sent you ADAM and MURROW.
I’m much older, natch. But by the end of MURROW I’ve grown old and sick. I told Buzz Berger (remember Herb Brodkin’s and his THE DEFENDERS?) that I didn’t think I looked bad enough. He smiled and said, “Oh, yes, you do, and the acting does it all anyway.” Thanks.
These should be watched straight through. Though I have never believed that producers or directors ever do just sit down and pay attention. They want you in their wardrobe saying their words for their particular project, and they won’t admit that. Plus. . . most of them have no imagination.
However! These are for you and your people, correct? I hope you enjoy them.
Kisses,
Daniel J.
P.S. I’m curious myself. The photos you have are only four years old. I had misgivings last week, thinking they misrepresent me. And I have no patience with actors’ photos that clearly lie—ten years old and touched up, you know? This very day, I am having new ones made, by the same photographer, in Chicago.
Dear Eileen
Dear Eileen,
I love and respect you. And I shall always be grateful for our friendship and our collaboration. As you have told me, “Old Wicked Songs” helped you a bit in a time of need. Me, too.
Your board are an impressive band of believers: intelligent, generous and dedicated. I have been pleased to share in their exemplary qualities. I have not been much use, as I told you would be the case when you first asked me to join. This alone would not be enough to cause me to leave.
I kvetch about my industry. I cry about my lost art. The art, I mean, that has been traded away by tee vee and movies, and too often disdained (literally, by the NEA) by sponsors of all stripes. Sponsors of the Boob Tube presentations (who cater not to their own tastes, to be fair to them, but to the masses, who disappoint me most gravely at the polls) are not in the only business I ever cared to show. My heart’s business has been always to show artfully crafted pieces of entertainment. High standards—too high, some have suggested to me—can keep an artist isolated. I have isolated myself, and my industry has given up trying to woo me back. I have not acted at all in almost two and a half years. I have cried about it and lain awake nights and brooded some mornings and afternoons. I have reasoned and rallied, bled and healed, railed and quietly accepted. I am feeling more peaceful about it than I have felt in ten years.
Partly because I am accepting that I am the artist I claim to be, and have proved it enough times. I want more. But I have no power left to snatch it. My work speaks for itself, and it is seen and heard or it is not. It could be characterized as a Buddhist or even Talmudic resignation. Or the Existential defiance of Sartre, or Nietzsche’s aggressive despair. My only comfort is in release.
When I feel I have finished my work, I feel better. When I take myself out of the theater, live and filmed, I feel better. When I disengage, I feel free. I have a household to run and family and friends to care for. I must take care of me and them.
I want you to find someone to fill my spot who wishes passionately to build your new theater and present exciting plays and players. I shall continue to support you with dollars, but I respectfully withdraw from active promotion. With a proper optimism, I consider that someday I may regain my enthusiasm for my own work and for the theater. When the big light comes back on, I’ll call you.
Stay well. And interested.
Sincerely, and with LOVE,
Daniel J.
If you feel it appropriate, do read this to the board.
Entries 2001-2002
(Letter to Sybil Trubin, Santa Monica, California 1/1/02)
Sybilla—the food boobs think oil and butter are foods, but the staff are sweet, affectionate and efficient. Too much smoke escapes the designated ashtray areas, but the excursions are informative and well-conducted. The entertainment has been energetic, sometimes melodious, often frenetic, and a few evenings inept. McDonald’s arches loom like tombstones in every road-cracked, crumbling, dust-coated town. The penguins are nonchalant, pure and precious. We’ve sucked out of the trip every droplet of recuperative liquor allowed.
Love,
Daniel J.
(Note on the absurdity of human prejudice)
Coleridge in the nineteenth century wrote of Iago’s motiveless malignity.
Ralph Ellison writes of his hero in “Invisible Man” that he must be dogged. Bledsoe, a black man, a university president, someone who ought to be proud and glad of the chance to promote a young African American, instead writes in letters to influential white men the suggestion that they “keep this ****** running.”
The viciousness seems unexplainable. So outrageous that is almost implausible. But we accept it as the author’s truth; but we try to make sense of it.
It is not sensible—unless we are prepared to explore Bledsoe’s deep fears and hatreds and paranoia, perhaps. Ellison the author is not writing a book about Bledsoe’s neuroses. The novel is about his hero’s struggles.
Shakespeare writes a play about Othello’s struggle with himself and his society. He is Iago’s ****** being kept running for no discernable reason.
Hatred for a race, a nationality or a culture is not sensible. But it exists in all human tribes; always has existed.
(Iago finds fidelity, purity and friendship absurd—existentialism?)
(12/24/01 Ushuaia Port, Argentina)
Dear Tim
Dear Tim,
I’m relieved to hear. You’re a better man that I am, Gunga Din. I pray your nightmare is over. Have you written about it? I find it helps. You’d know best.
“The Aspern Papers” was an unpleasant experience, though my own fault. Bill Kenwright often hires people giving them two weeks of rehearsal. I was a fool to accept. He is a jerk to show such contempt for the material, actors and audience. But the cast was sweet. I had my own nightmare, returned from 1973, when I collapsed on stage to discover seven months later that I am an alcoholic. This time my distress over not being good, I thought, and the pressures of hanging on desperately to barely-learned lines shut me down early in the first scene one night in Liverpool. It happened twice more in London! After my darling Shepherd Tarot had to be put away. Ed took him in; I fell apart. Enough. But you’ll be interested to hear that an Indian doctor diagnosed grief as the culprit. He was astute, gentle, apparently wise and very soothing. Management was not pleased. I am still grieving for my loss of Tarot and the big girl, Blaze. Both were with me for just under twelve years; a time of need when they filled big holes in me.
Today I have Daisy and Angel, both rescued from the streets of San Fernando Valley, by two women in my life. Angel is a devil and a worrier. She’s adopted Ed. Daisy is an angel and regards me as “food.” And a petting device. She’s enchanting. I know your child is. I hope and expect that she is always a comfort.
On January 10, we closed “A Touch of the Poet” in Denver. Two cities only, I am grateful to tell. I had played Con Melody in 1994 at the Fine American Repertory Theatre in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We were a loud hit. We were appreciated in D.C., but audiences were sparse. I’d play the Madman again, but only in New York, “The Big Spotlight.” The experience exhausted me, in a way that never happened with any other role. O’Neill? Age? Vulnerability—increased, that is. My accountant assures me I am set until age ninety. Do I believe it? I am Italian. I shall at least do my best to accept only roles worth the hard work and in the big arenas. I pray.
Please stay in tough. Be well and peaceful and warm.
Love,
Daniel J. Travanti
Entries December 2, 1993
My God, we are in a mental void! The news lady just said, “And in a chilling coincidence, the man was arrested exactly thirty years to the day of President Kennedy’s slaying; of a man apprehended by a Secret Service Agent outside Jackie Onassis’ home on Long Island (?).” A search found a heavy duty pistol with six spent rounds in it and a box of hollow bullets in his camper. The man said he had just wanted to “hand deliver” his manuscript to the famous editor!! The news lady is relieved. . . . . . . !!!!!!!
And the genes genius are on the trail of a gene that could be causing colon cancer in a large family. A sister has died, one parent has it, and the others are worried. But the researchers are cheerful. At last, perhaps a breakthrough! Of no interest to their made-up minds is the family’s history: what they have been eating, drinking, breathing. What their habits are, good and bad. Their research is justified, maybe, at long last. Science will save us. Common sense, go home. We’ll get our grant renewed, and no one will be the wiser, wiser . .
Follow up to the intruder story: Hi, guy, so are you calmed down now? Not roughed up, are you? Hey, man, this is amazing, I mean, did you REALIZE that you were actually on Mrs. Onassis’ property on the exact day that President Kennedy was assassinated? Wow! I mean, like, that’s a one-in-a-million shot, right? And you hit it, whew, great, just, well . . . just blows my mind. How about you?
Dear Bernardo
Dear Bernardo,
Once again I am having to give up the idea of being an actor. I gave it up about nineteen years ago, too, and felt better for it. My daily relief comes from imagining that the New York apartment is sold, and that the bleeding of money has stopped. I didn’t have this problem all those years ago, and I suppose this situation is better. But, as my first agent said to me once, “If you think your problems will be solved when you become successful, you’re in for a big surprise. I’m afraid you’ll just have a new set of bigger problems.” He was right, of course. As of this week, an offer is being negotiated. As of last week, you are the fourth party to ask to use the apartment. I’m glad it’s being used just in time. But it will not be mine much longer to loan. I hope. The sale will give me some breathing space and some peace of mind that I am not going broke; that I need not accept the next bad role at a small salary, just to stay alive. And I don’t like being a victim.
I have always wanted only one freedom: to play good roles and to work as frequently as I wished. The business of being a star or of being popular I have never quite understood; nor have I believed in their usefulness to me. My old lament was that no one was even going to see what I could do because I was not being given any good chances. My new pain comes with the realization that many people have finally seen some of what I can do; they have applauded and even given me some prizes, but still they do not seek my services. This is a relentless frustration. So, I must give up. I understand that I have no power—I never thought I did have any—and I feel better when I let go. But I’m not yet surrendered so far as to be willing to release this house and its gigantic expenses. One of my excuses is that I would have to give it away in this bad market. I’m giving away the apartment, so I’m not completely stubborn, but I am reluctant to leave this place and comfort, and at a financial loss.
I know, when the pain is too much, I’ll give in.
There is hope for the nation, though, and I am buoyed by it. Mr. Clinton is better than the voters even know. He and Gore and their wives are the most impressively bright and sensitive quartet ever to reign here. Surely, they will be able to accomplish something; but I shall be prepared to be disappointed. Yet, I have never felt this hopeful of an administration. A new generation is in charge, the first which understands the number one problem is the destruction of the planet. The campaign did not emphasize that because that issue does not bring votes, so they stressed the need for jobs. I believe that Gore knows they are the same issue. I think Clinton believes this, too.
Everyone sends love. We’ll be gathering here for Thanksgiving, thinking of you even if we don’t see you…but you’re invited.
Stay warm in that chilly climate—and that chilly household.
Love,
Daniel J.
Entries, November 2, 1992
On the eve of the election, I am hopeful of a new beginning. For the first time, we have a chance to put into the White House two men who know that our destruction of the planet is the biggest problem. That is reason enough to elect them.
I have just told my accountant to stop sending money to the Foster Parents program. I have been supporting eight children in various parts of the world. In 1991, I spent over $1700. Already in 1992, I have spent over $1800. I want to cut that amount by two-thirds in 1993. Just when I feel overwhelmed by the tide of poverty and suffering, drowned in the gloom of man’s grotesque torture and murder of masses of people, I am cutting back my support. Am I protesting, giving up, committing suicide, or trying to protect myself?
Let me try to see it. If I am good, they will find me. They don’t. So maybe I’m not. If I am attractive, they will be attracted. Not; so they aren’t. If I’ve given fine performances, they will want more. They seek nothing from me. If they can only think of you, they will ask for you. The agents make sure they think of you. They still don’t ask. There’s always someone else they’d rather have. So…can I see that I have nothing to offer: is this what is being shown to me by their actions (in-action)? Or, do I see my own worth? Apart from them? Am I the oasis or a mirage? Do I exist even if they don’t see me? I am a tree in the woods. Do I exist if no one sees me? If I fall and no one is there to hear or see me hit the ground, am I cut down and was there a sound? Is it possible for me to be standing and be cut down too? Oh, yes. An oasis or a clearing in the woods, I am alone.
It is 10:23 P.M. Clinton sounds like Kennedy. His left-handed gesture is Jack’s. His running mate is the most impressive in my lifetime of vice presidents. It could be a new era spiritually for America. There is a man in the White House who knows what our problems are. And his partner is his equal! Maybe most impressive is that the two women there are their match. We won. Time, oh Time. Destiny, oh Destiny…I am hope-full. May they have the strength and luck to prevail.
Dear Mrs. Thomas
Dear Mrs. Thomas,
My mother canned so much in the 40’s that the basement floor was carpeted by a mosaic of glass, a bass relief, would appear from the top of the stairs, of shadowy and glittering circles outlined in a terra cotta color of protruding rubber gaskets. She canned everything that came from their gardens. You had to pick your way carefully across the floor to the furnace, for instance, or to find a particular jar. Some jars sat for months or even years, I expect, and from time to time, odd explosions would splutter up through the floor; wheezes and long hissings came slithering up the short stairway into the kitchen. Ma wasted nothing. Almost all our produce came from our own dirt. And our milk was from Fleece’s Farm. I would walk up about five blocks with our boarden Nazareno, with empty bottles. We would wait in the farmhouse kitchen as the Fleece sons would roll in large steel tanks. I remember the smell of the room and the sloshing inside the torpedoes, and the vapor and the sweet steamy white smell of milk just out of the utter, as the containers were tilted by the big boys to fill up Mrs. Fleece’s grand pitcher. I’ve often recalled her sliding her hand way around through the handle to sort of cradle the heavy load with her whole arm so she could poor the creamy streams accurately into our empties. She must’ve used a funnel, but the legend in my memory sees her not spilling a drop as she aimed the milk fall perfectly through the gaping circle mouth of each bottle; and cut off the flow just as the milk reached the right level, exactly at the bottom line of the flared lip. But the final move was the capper, in more ways than one. She’d reach behind her and palm off a shelf several stiff cardboardy circles, each with a tiny protruding tongue. Then she positioned each bottle just so slightly to her right, and jammed snap a lid into each one. The sound gave me a shiver each time. Phlpp, phlpp! One-two. She was smooth, quick, accurate, and cheerful. At the end of the bottle line she’d smile, thumbs out of her palm a couple extra caps and slip them over the counter to me. Fresh ones! Stiff, clean, unused, and the tongue tabs not even bent. They were treasures. As long as they remained stiff and unsoiled. Those slick little heart circles were purity, a new beginning, first time around, original, unstained by use, but useful; only what a shame to press on them, crease them, let the tabs go limp. Keep them dry and lined up, the tabs squarely set a top one another, the edges of the circles aligned exactly. Neat, but this neatness never lasted. The caps got bent and misaligned in my pocket and not a day later they’d be used goods, floppy like the ones pulled off the bottles we brought home. At the kitchen table, the rule was strict: shake the bottle of milk before you pour. ‘Hey, hey, what do ya think yer doin? Shake it!’ That was to get the cream distributed. You weren’t supposed to squander the pale yellow portion that rested in the neck of the bottle, you had to spread the wealth before you filled the glasses. Pa had certain values.
“You’re not very hungry, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m eating.” As I chewed a mouthful of meat.
“Aren’t you going to have some soup?”
“I just want la carne.”
“That’s ale?”
“Yeah, why?”
“If you’re hungry, you should eat. Have some soup, first.”
“I--.” I took some soup and ate it quickly, reaching as I downed the last spoonful, for the plate with the meat on it. Pa was standing with a plate in his hand, probably soup, eating and watching.
“Take some bread.”“I don’t want any.”
“You didn’t eat much soup, you’ll still be hungry, if you don’t eat some bread. Have some bread and meat.”
“But I just want…”
“The breads fresh. It’s good today.” I took some bread. Pa finished his soup, still hovering and reached for some bread. Ma offered him a plate of meat. Pa waved it off. “No, no, per Dan’s,” sticking his chin out in my direction. “For Danny.” Later he took some meat with his bread.
“Giova, why don’t you sit down?”
“No, you eat, never mind me. I’m alright.”
London Pr Matinee September 15,1990
Saturday, September 15, 1990
London 3:45pm
Pre-matinee
Daniel J. Travanti
Far down a long road! Thanks. The next play will have to hold great attractions, before I’ll give much of myself again. The theater is all-consuming.
______________________________________________________________________________
I want to be with my animals in the garden, to walk around the house. I have renewed appreciate. My gratitude has grown.
______________________________________________________________________________
Jeni and Robbie please me. They care, they are aware of living sanely. Jeni inspired Rob, but only while they were together. She is enchanted right now in Venezia.
Oh, to travel light to Kenya! To be paid for it!!
Writing
August-September, 1989
Daniel J. Travanti
Good evening,
My first reaction to your invitation was, “Who else was asked?” My next reaction was, “Why are they asking me?”
I wonder if they’ve heard about Motor Mouth. Maybe they’ve heard about my seminars. Maybe they’ve seen my comments, those uncommon responses to those cliché questions all reporters ask. Well . . . not at all. Most, though.
In Chicago a young lady wanted to know if this film I was doing had any social significance. No, I smiled, into the camera held by a young man (he tried to keep the camera steady after I started my answer), it’s straight porno. But porno has important social significance. It’s relaxing. If it’s good, with beautiful people, good camera work, sound, color, and music. You see, any good piece of work is valuable and socially significant because it enriches instead of diminishing. If it’s good entertainment, it can make you feel better. If it’s beautiful, it can warm you, cheer you up, make life seem more worthwhile—especially on rainy Tuesday afternoons. On rainy Tuesday afternoons in January, when no one is phoning, no one is demanding anything of you, the bills are paid (sort of), the apartment is reasonably clean, you’ve answered any letters or cards, and everyone else is working—or so it seems—and you may just get on the subway or in your car—if you have one—and just ride. A good book, a flower, a good television program, or a good porno flick could cheer you up. That’s socially significant.
Oh, another pretty young lady asked me why I had taken the role. I said, because it was a good script. Oh? Yeah? Well . . . uh, how come? I mean, is it a good script because, um, because, like, of the WRITING??? THE WRITING???!!!! Because of The WRITing?? No, because it was written on my favorite paper. Blue.
You see, most of television is now of three major kinds: The Disease of the Week, The Social Disorder of the Week, and The Crime of the Week. The reason networks want to do these stories is because they’re sensational—they think—and people want to be shocked, outraged, or scared. They want to peep and eavesdrop. See, some people think the story is of paramount importance. I think it’s the least important element of a screenplay.
A screenplay has a story, a plot—which is not the same thing—characters, relationships among characters, a tone, a style, a pace, and an overall aura. AURA. One overwhelming effect. In the end of all, after the director, the cinematographer, and the actors are through with it, the AURA will be complete. If the overall effect is good, people will find it irresistible. So . . . at the top of the list is the STORY. Just a flimsy framework. All the stories have been told. So what could be so exciting about the story? Not much new. BUT . . . the characters could be fascinating and their relationships could be very interesting: surprising, believable, shocking, and satisfying all at the same time. Now you have the makings of a good film. Or a good play. So, if someone tells you the story, you can’t tell much about the drama yet. When they’re trying to get you to do one of these projects, they usually tell you the plot next. “See, so then she runs into him, but he never told her sister, though she thinks her sister has been confiding in him. But the father knows nothing. Even so, he’s almost to make a bid on the rest of the shares, and . . .”
I DON’T CARE!
What about the characters?
And there’s only one way to know. You find out in the writing, YOUNG LADY!
Imagine someone telling an idea for a song: “It’s about a yellow ribbon and a guy in prison and the people in the neighborhood are waiting to welcome him back . . .” Sounds like a great song to me. What does it sound like, though? Well, we don’t know yet, but it’ll be great. Oh, yeah? On the other hand, did you ever hear of Shaw’s comment on Wagner, “He sounds a lot better than he is”?
So, what do I look for?
I look for individuals. I want characters who speak with specific voices, so that you can’t just white out the names and replace them at random, because everyone sounds like all the others anyway. An individual has a way of saying things. It comes from his personality, his experience, his outlook on life, his feelings towards people and situations. He sounds like himself, not like everyone else. That’s good writing.
I look for irony and suggested meaning. I want direct meaning in the lines. I want people to say what they mean, interestingly. But I want what happens in real life, too. I want meaning between the lines. I want shadings, flickers of color, flashes of nuance. That’s good writing.
I want events to occur logically. So that when a moment is over you feel that the result was inevitable. BUT . . . I want you to feel surprised. That sounds like a contradiction in terms. How can you be inevitable and surprising at the same time? A favorite teacher of mine, Nikos Psacharopoulos, at the Yale School of Drama in 1961 said, “To be a good actor all you have to be is believable and entertaining.” That’s all. Just believable and interesting. Now just try it! So, I want you to be left with the impression that that scene could have happened only that way, as if that was the only way it could have turned out. Of course, there were at least two choices and usually more. But the writer and we made you feel that that was the only way it could have been. And even though you thought you saw it coming—maybe—you still liked it. It was just surprising, FRESH, enough. Nikos: “believable and interesting.”
I want grace, eloquence, poetry. WHEW!
In a movie script?
Grace. Talk that sounds like talk. Talk that sings, some. Regular talk, mind you. Talk like our talk. But talk arranged so that it sounds fresh. Graceful. I want it to be eloquent. Not verbose, unless that character is apt to be. Then it would be appropriate. You can be eloquent and terse. You can be eloquent while being silent. I think some of my most eloquent moments were silent. All put together; eloquence, grace, clarity, surprise, convincing talk, interesting personalities. All together they will make a script that transcends the moment. That script will say something about the larger human condition, as told through the circumscribed lives of these select individuals. Such a script ends up saying something about all of us. By being effectively specific and limited it can be universal. If it’s good. GOOD WRITING, young lady.
If you’re lucky and you wait long enough—can afford to wait long enough, you might make a film that’s not just another ONE OF THOSE. You know, the big three:
If you’re lucky and you do it right, you can make a film that stands out, that’s memorable. If you’re caught up in a miraculous cyclone, in a rare gust of odd, shocking, impossibly refreshing creativity, you might even make a television series, a TELEVISION SERIES, that’s worthy and downright indelible—one that may even come Legendary! But that’s almost impossible, so why even discuss it.
You could make ADAM.
You could make A CASE OF LABEL.
You could make MURROW.
You could make I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER.
Dare I say it? You could make MAKING THE CASE FOR MURDER. This one may measure up.
But after twenty-six years, you know what? I don’t care so much anymore.
I have regretted being ambitious. It has always made me nervous. I have said that I liked it. I mean, it gave some meaning to my life. Something to get up for each day. Something to do. All the other kids were trying to get out of things. Well, not all . . . And adults were not happy with their jobs or with their families. So, I knew I liked to act. A good job, if you could get it. And I guess I knew that if I were going to try a career, I’d have to travel light—be free to shift, turn, fly, and sink—without having other people to support and worry about.
While you’re getting, you’re giving up, too—some things, some classic comforts. But aloneness has been easier, I know now for sure, than having a family. I don’t regret my choice. Especially today.
I have know for some time that a good way to help yourself is to help others. It keeps you from sinking into that deep black hole of self-pity and disgustingly lonely pit of self-absorption. It really is true that virtue is its own reward. It gets you out of yourself. Self. EGO, SELF. My greatest enemy.
But. . . .it’s getting harder for me to help. I had a flurry there for about eight years. I cared. It helped. Selfish caring. Creative self-serving.
But PEOPLE. Humankind! HOMO SAPIENS. Sapient. Wise? Obsolete. Like humankind itself. Obsolete. I am so disappointed I want to cry. I do cry. That’s a good thing. A good release. But I’m afraid that I have no respect for rotten human beings. They are bloodthirsty, greedy, grasping, and filthy.
The gorillas aren’t. Nor are the dolphins, the wrens, the snakes, the seals, the whales, the bees, the bears, or even the mosquitos.
HOMO STUPIDO would be closer to the truth. Like Napoleon crowing himself, piddling little humanoid dubbed himself MO-HOMO-SMART. Me so smart that me can eat up everything in sight. Use up everyone and everything and pollute the air, the land, and the water. Kill everything. As long as the economy is thriving. At the expense of life itself. AT THE EXPENSE OF LIFE ITSELF!!!
I know what you’re thinking. Boy, is he pessimistic! Well, when I hear that, I think of pessimism as skin to paranoia. A person who doesn’t have real reason to feel sad, bad, or disappointed in a situation. That person may be inappropriately negative, and so he is perhaps being pessimistic. Just as a person can be afraid when in fact there are no frightening enemies, danger in sight, or around the corner.
Well, I look them up. Pessimism is a “doctrine” and paranoia is a “delusion.”
This view I have is a conclusion based on observation. Curiosity, Observation, Hypothesis, Experiment, and Conclusion. I remember those steps in the scientific process from junior high school, I think. It’s not necessarily a gloomy view, even, because that’s a matter of judgement, opinion, outlook, or predilection. It’s a view that says we’re doing things wrong, destroying the planet. Yes. Does that truth make you gloomy?
I am in danger of slipping into complete cynicism, true. That is a gloomy prospect.
And I blame myself. I blame mankind, too. IT is a BIG DISAPPOINTMENT TO ME. I regret being of this race of creatures.
But, quick, let me cheer you up! Oh, I’m sorry, unless there are anarchists out there. And you nihilists! Wow, I must have really turned you on in the last few minutes.
See, in the old days. Olden, I mean. They weren’t so long ago. In my drinking days, I felt the same way, only I didn’t know it. I was disappointed every day. It was excruciating. The world was not fair enough, honest enough, pretty enough, good enough, clean enough, or nice enough for me. It was never going to be. I was right. But I couldn’t see any way out of my frustration then. Every time disappointment kicked me in the teeth—or in the groin—I took another drink. So, when I was finally sentenced to life—here, present at my own life, no escape until the last breath—I was in bigger trouble yet. I had to find a way to ACCEPT. That’s harder than finding a good script. Almost. When I was out there drinking, I was waging guerilla warfare every day. I was a terrorist of sorts. Nihilists believe in the “destruction of existing political and social institutions.” That’s from THE AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY. I love that part of the definition, because it suggests that a nihilist has a choice depending on what pisses him off in the political or social institutions. Take your pick, Radical. But only one set of governing bodies, please. I should think he’d want to get them all.
Dear Mr. Newman
Dear Mr. Newman,
I enjoy your books. They echo my fear of the utter deterioration of our language, and they entertain and alert me. But some critics are not paying attention. I expect them to be especially careful, but obviously these are not, always. On the book jacket, of I Must Say, someone is quoted as saying “fatally slain.” Is that not redundant; can anyone be slain less than fatally?