I’m not completely sure what compelled me. I’m not actually a performer, or at least, not an actor. I learned that years ago, even before going to UCLA as a theater major. In fact, in high school, my theater teacher sat me down one day to tell my why he wasn’t casting me in the role I really wanted in our Fall play. He told me that he thought I was one of the most passionate and intelligent students he’d ever had, and he had no doubt that I would find a career in theater if it’s what I wanted; it just wouldn’t be as an actor. Surprisingly, this didn’t actually bother me. It just encouraged me to try other things — tech, directing, producing — which I discovered I enjoyed far more.
And yet, something compelled me. Maybe it was a little bit of slowly getting to know and watching the developing writing career of Kimmi; or my continuing awe at how much Rachel constantly gets done or is doing even as she always feels like she’s falling behind. Or maybe it simply had to do with some personal things I’ve been discovering and thinking about recently regarding how I present myself or relate to people or, in fact, I suppose … perform.
Whatever it was, about two weeks ago, I suddenly felt compelled to participate in one of the Moth StorySLAMs. Obviously, as an addict of film and writing, I’m fascinated by storytelling. As I was saying to a friend of mine at work yesterday, everybody has stories to tell. (He disagreed with me. He was fairly certain his father had none. But I digress ….) It’s not having the story but being able to tell the story that counts. Whether on the page or on the screen, storytelling is both the thing about which I am both most critical and most admiring. And as a writer (meh) and filmmaker (HA!) myself, I obviously hope to think of myself as a storyteller. But also, being as critical of myself as I am, I don’t always, in fact, manage to believe in my own abilities, and that, of course, leads to sometimes not even trying.
The way The Moth StorySLAM works is simple: they have a theme, and you have five minutes to tell your story. You stick your name into the proverbial hat (this time, a bag), and then throughout the evening, 10 people are selected to tell their stories. These aren’t necessarily writers or actors — anyone can do it. The stories are judged by three groups of audience members, and the best score at the end of the night wins.
After putting my name in for selection, I wasn’t sure whether the “please, please, please” running through my head was a “please get picked” or “please skip me.” I don’t really get stage fright; at least, not when I’m on stage. But the anticipation can occasionally kill me. I downed two Heineken’s pretty quickly through the first two storytellers. Halfway through the second beer, the evening’s host Sara Barron called my name. Drink up!
As soon as I stepped-up to the mic, the nerves went away. Not sure why though: I wasn’t really prepared. I had a few specific lines memorized; the rest of the story plotted out; but I hadn’t really rehearsed. It hadn’t been that long since I had last talked in front of large groups of people what with my hellish and exhausting days of Tribeca volunteer orientations, but it has been almost 20 years since my last acting class at UCLA where I had to actually memorize text and “perform” an entertainment for an audience. I never planned on memorizing my story like a monologue — I didn’t want to; I wanted it to feel more conversational and fresh — but I did find that trying to rehearse at all was incredibly difficult. You know what’s a lot harder (at least for me) than getting up in front of a a room full of 100 (or however many; The Bitter End was pretty packed last night) people? Standing in a room by myself, with nobody there to address and trying to talk for five minutes.
Anyway, I got up there; I told my story; people laughed at the right times; nobody really laughed at any of the wrong times; it felt good. It was also quite educational. I spent too much time embellishing the first half; found myself rushing a bit through the second; briefly lost my train of thought when the five-minute whistle blew even though I was very close to the end so I wouldn’t go over that much; proceeded to forget not a vital plot point of the story but an important part of the telling; and then wrapped it up with the ending that I wasn’t all that happy with even before I started.
My scores were OK, but as the night continued, I certainly discovered that unless you know it out of the park, going later definitely has its advantages. I followed a man who was a retired fireman. He told a really fun story about a firehouse practical joke, and aside from one moment in the middle where he actually lost his flow, stopped, and admitted to being really nervous, he did a pretty good job, certainly selling the punchline. But he was also a little like those documentaries that proliferate these days: average-made films which luckily have phenomenal stories to tell, and the subject-matter simply overcomes any flaws in technique. Again, he didn’t tell his story badly at all; but it was pretty simple and straightforward and didn’t really contain any surprises whatsoever. So when this really amiable, nice and even heroic guy who admitted to being baffled at his nervousness on stage since he used to run into burning buildings for a living finished, the crowd was certainly on his side, and the judges gave him all 8s. And I was next.
My scores were OK: the first judges gave me an 8.5; the second a 7.5; the last a 7. So I instantly was thinking to myself: did I do worse than I thought? I mean, the fireman was fun, but I thought I did better, and while I didn’t have the big closing laugh he did, the audience definitely seemed with me and engaged all the way through. And as the evening continued and more people went, with the exception of the guy who won (who followed me, received very high scores, and was by far the most well-crafted out of all of us), I was surprised to see how some of the other scores matched-up compared to me. I felt better when, while waiting in line for the bathroom, one woman told me she loved my story and the judges had screwed me. A few other people came up to me after as well, telling me I did a really good job and seeming quite surprised when I explained I had just lost my Moth-virginity.
I meant to record myself so that I could really examine how I thought I did after and so as to recreate the text — as I performed it — here. Of course, I left my digital recorder at home, so that didn’t happen. But if you’re curious, after the jump, you can read my initial, pre-performance draft of “$18 Million” (the theme for the evening was “Money”). As I mentioned, last night was certainly different than the text which follows — in some good ways and some not so good — and there’s a brief, but whole, section at the end I forgot to do … but if you care, you’ll get the idea.
Sadly, I can’t try again at the next StorySLAM on Sept. 11 as I’ll be in Toronto. The theme of “Beginnings” is one for which I actually have at least three ideas. Instead, I suppose I better start thinking about “Art” for Sept. 24 … just in case I get picked again.
Continue reading ““$18 MILLION”: GNAWING ON WOOL ISN’T SO BAD (EVEN IF THIS PUN IS)”
Out of Focus 