Pompeo Batoni, 1753, Hercules at the Crossroads I’ve been staying up way too late this week watching the Olympic games in Rio. It has reminded me how much we love our heroes. It is not just the skill or physical ability of the athlete that we admire; it is what the athlete overcomes that makes him or her a hero. NBC understands this, which is why it seems half the Olympic coverage is dedicated to the “human interest stories” behind the competition.
As a writer, I think a lot about heroes and what makes a hero. You may recall, the Olympic games originated in the 8th Century B.C. in Greece to honor the god Zeus. One of the greatest mythological heroes of all time was Heracles, son of Zeus. You many know him better by his Roman name Hercules. As the story goes, Heracles was half god (son of Zeus) and half man (son of Alcmene, a human). Thrown into madness by his jealous stepmother, Heracles murders his own family. When he comes to his senses he is overwhelmed with guilt. So Heracles goes to an oracle and begs for a way to atone for his actions. The oracle instructs Heracles to serve King Eurystheus for ten years. King Eruystheus assigns ten labors to Heracles. Each task was designed to make Heracles fail and humiliate him on a public stage. The ten labors turned into twelve after the King rejected the work of two of the tasks, claiming Heracles had help. Nonetheless, it was quite a to-do list: Slay the Nemean lion Kill the nine-headed Hydra Catch the Golden Hind of Artemis Catch the Erymanthian boar Clean the Augean stables in a single day Kill the Stymphalian birds Capture the bull of Crete Steal the mares of Diomedes Take the girdle of Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons Steal the cattle of Geryon the Giant Steal the apples of Hesperides Capture Cerberus, three-headed dog of the underworld It is important to note that these were not normal animals, but godlike creatures with extraordinary powers. For example, the Nemean lion had golden fur that was impenetrable by arrows. The nine-headed hydra could regenerate its heads; if you chopped off one head two more grew in its place. To the surprise and horror of the King, Heracles completed each labor. He was fearless and demonstrated incredible cleverness and strength, at times receiving divine help. After Heracles completed the final labor, which involved a trip to the underworld, the King became so terrified of Heracles’ strength that he released him from his service. What I find interesting about Heracles is that his greatest victories were a direct result of his need to atone for his failures. To say Heracles was flawed would be an understatement. Not only was he responsible for his children's death, he was known for his veracious appetite for food, drink, and sex, which eventually brought about his demise. Heracles died when his wife, angered by his philandering, gave him a tunic to wear. It was lined with poison and it burned his human form away until all that was left was his divinity. But here is the thing about Heracles: he had a choice. As the story goes, when Heracles was a boy herding cattle in the mountains he was approached by two nymphs whose names were virtue and pleasure. They offered him a choice between an easy but unremarkable life or a glorious but hard life. Heracles chose glory. We love our heroes and praise them for what they can do, but we forget that heroes don’t live normal lives. Heroes live on the margins where their mistakes are public humiliations and their victories public adorations. I think that’s why we love our heroes despite their flaws. They had the courage to aspire for glory, to choose the hard road. With cleverness, strength, and at times a little help, they overcome their humanness to accomplish something extraordinary. Ultimately, I think heroes give us the hope that we too may not be defined by our weakness but by our courage and strength. Go team USA.
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If I am not the target audience for a film about an improv troupe written and directed by Mike Birbiglia and produced by This American Life’s Ira Glass, I am not sure who is. I made a point to see Don’t Think Twice this weekend. As I took my seat I looked around the theater and recognized the faces of several LA improvisers. The very funny Joe Lo Truglio was sitting in front of me. I wondered if they were thinking the same thing I was: who makes a serious film about improv? I have written about my love for improv in previous posts. I am an alum of Improv Olympic and The Second City. I’ve taught improv for years. Every time I step into black box theater and see an empty stage with a couple chairs on it, I the get the chills. There’s always an urge within me to jump on the stage, to play, to see what happens. Improv is like a splatter painting. Some say it is silliness; others claim it is art. I think it is both. Individual characters and performances can be quite silly, but the discovery that is made as a group is art. What I appreciate about the film is that even though the cast if comprised of very funny individuals, the story is about the group. The film is about the art of improv. The question that drives the narrative of the film is one of success: what is success and what happens to the troupe when some members find success and others don’t? It is an honest story grounded in authentic characters and it hits close to home. I know these people. I’ve been there. I’m still there. The irony of Don't Think Twice is that all the actors in the film have had what most would consider successful careers. I wonder if they made the film for all their improv friends that haven’t found success the way they did. The film isn’t for everyone, but if you are familiar with performance theater and especially improvised theater - or if your twenties were all about hope and you’ve spent your thirties realizing how dumb it was to hope - I highly recommend it. Hollywood is mostly noise.
The noise I am talking about is not the perpetual drone of the 6 million vehicles that pack LA County freeways or the 10 million people who take up residence here. I am talking about the noise that comes from the aspirations of a city swollen with “starving artists”. If you could take that noise and slow the babel down to hear each articulated pronunciation, you would hear one simple message: Look at me. Each year roughly 50,000 screenplays are registered with the Writer’s Guild of America. Hollywood studios release around 150 films a year. If you include the independent films that get limited releases (some very limited) there may be as many as 600 films released a year. Some basic math will reveal that the work of an aspiring screenwriter has a 0.003% chance of getting made into a feature film by a Hollywood studio and a 0.012% chance that the screenplay will get made at all. Furthermore, those 50,000 unproduced screenplays don’t go away at the end of the year. They are deposited into an ocean of existing screenplays that float around with scripts from the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that… To be honest, a large percentage of those 50,000 unproduced screenplays are poorly written and do not warrant consideration to be made into a feature film. However, I assure you that not one of the writers would say their screenplay is not good enough to be made into movie. This is why Hollywood is so noisy. The supply obnoxiously exceeds the demand. So you have a city full of dreamers clamoring, “Look at me! Look at me!” Aside: While I cannot speak for my actor friends – whom I personally think have tougher go of it than us writers – I believe the odds are similarly stacked against them. The same goes for musicians and other performing artists. When people say they got their “break” they mean they broke through the noise. They said “look at me” and someone with influence paid attention. One of the ways a screenwriter can rise above the noise is to have his or her work place in a screenwriting contest. The Nicholl Fellowship is an annual screenwriting competition hosted by the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences (the same Academy that presents the Oscars). It is a well respected competition and while winning the competition can change your life, you don’t need to win. Simply placing as a semi-finalist or quarter-finalist can make a difference. It means your script was scored higher than 95% of the scripts entered. It gives you legitimacy and a chance to rise above the noise. Your name gets on the list. I received my gently worded letter from the Nicholl Fellowship this week. I was informed that my script, The Resurrection of Dennis Munson, did not place in the top 5%. The letter went on to say that it missed placing by the “thinnest of margins, only a point or two.” In fact, it placed in the top 6%. But, like placing 4th in the Olympics, that is not good enough to get on the list. So for now, I remain in the ranks of the noise, but I raise my glass for being among the best of the noise. I discovered an app this week called HOOKED. It is an app for people to read and write chat stories (stories told via text message). I thought the idea fascinating. I had an idea for a story this past Christmas when I took a red-eye flight home on Christmas Eve. At the time, I thought it would be a fun story if told via twitter. I started it, but didn’t finish it. When I read about the HOOKED app, I immediately thought of this story and decided to take another shot at it. Instead of telling the story via tweets, I would write the story as chat messages. This is my first draft of the story. It’s a bit rough in spots, but I thought I would share what I’ve have. My goal is to rewrite and polish over the next week and post the story in HOOKED by next weekend. JFK -> LHR: A Christmas (Chat) Story
I arrived at JFK during the quiet hours and I was in Manhattan an hour after dawn. The sidewalks were peaceful, just me and the homeless. Makes sense, I can’t imagine you get much sleep when you’re sleeping on the streets. It was 13 hours until show time, so I spent the day with the reminders that New York is one of the greatest cities in the world: the High Line, the museums, Central Park, NY delicatessens. The city captures my imagination. The forest of buildings, concrete and steel, has my mind daydreaming. Each apartment, each office, each space unique. I can’t help but wonder: who are the people that occupy so much space? I checked into my Air B&B. The view from the 40th floor flat is mesmerizing. Out the south window I see One World Trade Center and the Statue of Liberty. Out the East window I see the Empire State Building and Times Square. After a brief, but much needed nap, I went to the Met. I waded through its crowded halls, observing the framed masterpieces of the greats. I then strolled through Central Park, which teemed with life on this warm and sunny day. I couldn’t have scripted a better day if I tried. The evening came. I arrived at the theatre and took my seat. I found a friend in the girl sitting next to me. We swapped stories. I discovered she was on a pilgrimage of her own. We waited together for the show to begin. The danger going into this was that my expectations were so high they had become fantasy. Was I asking too much of the experience? Did the show I dreamed of really exist? The houselights dimmed and thunderous rapture erupted in the theatre. The audience’s anticipation was feverish. Everyone in the room was there because they wanted to be there. Some, like me, have journeyed far to be there. The show began and I immediately felt I was witnessing something special. Over the next two hours and forty-five minutes the story of Alexander Hamilton and the birth of our nation unfolded like a Shakespearean tragedy. Courage. Ambition. Love. War. Power. Politics. Pride. Friendship. Loss. Forgiveness. Betrayal. Death. It truly has something for everyone. I’ve had a week to think about the show and to talk about it with fellow fans. Hamilton is one of the greatest pieces of performance art I’ve witnessed. Its story, and the telling of it, affects me, much like Les Miserable and RENT. When the bullet exits Aaron Burr’s gun, time stops. Hamilton launches into a soliloquy. I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. Is this where it gets me, on my feet, several feet ahead of me? I see it coming. Do I run, or fire my gun, or let it be? There is no beat, no melody. Burr, my first friend, my enemy, maybe the last face I ever see. If I throw away my shot, is this how you remember me? What if this bullet is my legacy?... In the end, Hamilton does the one thing he swore he would never do: He throws away his shot and by doing so he writes his place in history. He is the flawed but brilliant founding father who overcame impossible odds only to be killed by his rival, Aaron Burr, in a duel.
Aaron Burr goes down in history as the prideful and jealous villain, remembered for his worst behavior on the worst day of his life. What does it say about me that I find Aaron Burr’s character the most compelling of them all? My 48-hour pilgrimage to see Hamilton was worth every penny. I am so grateful I had the opportunity to go and be a witness to this culturally significant event. I left humbled. I left inspired. And I left with this question: who tells my story when I am gone? “Wait. Are you guys talking about Hamilton?”
I was in the commissary at work when I overhead two women talking about the Schuyler Sisters. “I’m going this Saturday.” I said. The two women turned to me; their eyes grew wide and giddy. “You’re going?! It will change your life!” They told me their Hamilton stories. One saw it last fall, the other this past January. They are still reveling in the wake of the experience. My relationship with the two women, whom I’d known professionally for a couple years, changed in that instant. We weren’t just co-workers anymore. We were Hamilton fans. I've been listening to the Hamilton soundtrack over and over and over for the past few months. With each listen I fell deeper into the obsessive trenches of this sort-of, but not really, familiar story. It’s poetic lyrics roll through my head like a new dance I’m trying to learn. I’ve got feel for the rhythm but my feet won’t keep up. But it’s not just about a catchy tune; it’s those people, the characters. Hamilton. Washington. Jefferson. Madison. Adams. Burr. I know those names. But I didn’t know them, not like this. The show opens with a question and it concludes with a question. When it begins I think they’re telling me a story about Alexander Hamilton. Later, I think, no, they are telling me a story about America. By the end I understand; it’s a story about me. Those questions are meant for me. I was visiting a long-time friend and kindred spirit over Memorial Day weekend. She had recently returned from a weekend trip to New York to see it. She said, Nathan you have to go. I hemmed and hawed. As much as I love the music, it’s a lot of money. Plus I live in LA. That’s a long way to go for one show. She said, “You don’t understand. It’s Hamilton. You have to see it. Do whatever it takes. You have to go, soon.” I returned to LA. I had a dream I was there, watching it. I was moved by it. The next day a feeling of inevitability came over me. It was no longer a question of do I want to go or do I feel like going. It was a question of when. The decision was already made; now I had to make peace with it. Last Sunday, I decided no more waiting. No more debating. It’s time to go. So I bought a ticket for Saturday night. I take a red-eye Friday night, see the show Saturday night, and fly back to LA Sunday afternoon. A 48-hour trip. But it doesn’t feel like a trip. It feels more like a pilgrimage. I’m going by myself. The thought of inviting someone to join me never really crossed my mind. It doesn’t matter if anyone else is going. I’m going. Doubts still whisper in the back of my mind: Is this really going to be worth the small fortune I’m spending to make this happen? I tell the whispers to be quiet. I can’t answer that question, not yet. The definition of a pilgrim is a person who journeys to a sacred place for a spiritual reason. Some go to Jerusalem, some to India, some trek the Camino de Santiago. This weekend I’m going to the Richard Rogers theatre in New York City. I’ll let you know if it was worth it. In the 1988 Chevy Chase comedy classic, Funny Farm, Chase plays Andy, a sports journalist who quits his job and moves to the countryside to write the great American novel. He sits in his idyllic farmhouse in a room with a view, a hot cup of coffee close at hand and his trusty typewriter loaded and ready. Andy puts his hands on the keyboard and… nothing happens. He peers deep into the white page. The words must be there somewhere, but his fingers remain frozen. Nothing. Writer’s Block is the condition that at its most elementary is simply “not knowing how to proceed.” The block is not unique to writers. Leaders face them. Parents face them. You can have a career block, a life block, a drunk-angry-guy-who-wants-to-fight block. When the answer to “What happens next?” is “I don’t know.” We freeze. The cursor blinks on the white pixel canvas. With each flash it taunts us: Blink. Blink. Blink. What. Are. You. Waiting. For. There are two sources of writer’s block: bewilderment and fear. Daniel Boone was once asked if he had ever been lost in the wilderness. He responded, “I’ve never been lost, but I was bewildered once for a few days.” Bewilderment is when you understand the problem, but you are unsure how to solve it. Like finding your way out of a forest, bewilderment is overcome in time with perseverance. You show up and you work toward a solution. For me, overcoming bewilderment in writing often means not writing at all. If my problem is: how do I get a character from point A to point B? And all the possibilities I’ve come up with don’t feel honest to the story, I walk away from it. Some call it “percolate” or “noodle” or “brew.” I “circle” the problem. The image of an eagle circling its prey comes to mind. I believe the answers to writer’s bewilderment are hidden in the daily routines of life: eat, sleep, shower, work, exercise. These are the rhythms of epiphany. I give my mind and imagination space to find a solution. The practice has become so familiar that I can often predict within a day or two when the solution will present itself. The second source of writer’s block is fear. You know what you want to write, but you’re afraid it’s not good enough. You may think the problem is you don’t know where to start, but really the problem is you’re afraid to start. The blinking cursor taunts you. Blink. Blink. Blink. Who. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Insecurity is the soul mate of every artist. Just this past week I heard both Steven Spielberg and Shane Black talk about how insecure they feel with every film they make. They are arguably two of the very best at their craft with years of experience and a résumé of success and yet the fear is as real to them today as it was when they first started. The only way to overcome writer’s fear is to put words on the page. You must write. Something. Anything. Every key strike is a battle cry. With each word you type you forge your way through the wilderness of insecurity. And as you do, don’t look back. The blinking cursor can’t taunt you if it doesn’t have time to rest. I have experienced note sessions more painful than breaking up with a girlfriend.
A note session, for those unfamiliar, is when you muster the courage to put your ideas on paper, you spend hours writing and re-writing, wordsmithing and crafting, then you take your story to a group of people and say, “What do you think?” I’ve sat through hours of note sessions over the years, either giving notes or receiving them, most in the context of a writers group. They are incredibly valuable, but can also be, at times, painful. Your story is your baby and you really want people to love your baby. So when they start pointing out your baby's flaws, it can be an unpleasant experience. Here’s the thing: if you write a script and you don’t listen to any notes you receive, the end result will be a bad script. On the other hand, if you write a script and you try to implement every note you receive, the end result will also be a bad script. I’m convinced that receiving notes and knowing how to apply them is a skill that must be honed with practice. Here are few things I’ve learned over the years: Find people you trust. Note sessions are useless if the readers are not going to be honest with you. So giving your script to a curious friend probably isn’t going to do you much good. They’ll tell you they liked it. You need to find people who you trust to tell you the truth. Paying a service for an anonymous evaluation may be worth the investment if you don’t feel you have those honest voices in your life. Listen. Listen. Listen. Don’t be defensive. It’s amateur. Be grateful. They could have been reading Shakespeare, but instead they took time to read your work. Conserve your energy for the rewrite instead of arguing with the reader that they just don’t “get it.” Beware. Not all notes are good notes. Some people will give you all sort of ways to make your story, their story. Good notes will help you tell the story you want to tell. Look for patterns. If you’re not sure where to begin, start with the most consistent feedback. If two people commented that they were confused in act one, even if it is not at the same point, then you have an act one problem. Start there. Get back to work. The note session may reveal that you have a lot more work to do. This can be disheartening. If you need time to lick your wounds, put a clock on it. You have 24 hours to sulk. When the time is up, get back to work. Treat yourself to Ice Cream. Feedback is part of the creative process. Yes, it can be painful, but it is absolutely necessary. Embrace it. Don’t fight it. When it’s over, treat yourself to some ice cream and tell yourself, “You’ve made it this far. Don’t stop now.” I was in Indonesia a few years ago with a non-profit organization that partners with churches in impoverished communities to offer supplemental education, medical care, and skills training. We were in Bali and they wanted to take us to one their centers in the rural mountains. They said that because of the remote location, the community there rarely receives visitors and it would mean a lot to them if we came. So we did. We left the tourist magnet of Denpasar on the southern end of the island and winded our way north into the rural heart of the ancient Hindu island. When we arrived, the smiling faces of children greeted us as their proud parents and teachers stood close by. It was later, when I was kicking around a soccer ball with a group of teens that I discovered the pictures painted on the wall. It was my old pal Mickey Mouse. I love these pictures for so many reasons. I love that they are not perfect. I love that they are faded and cracked. I love that the tools of a caretaker drape the walls. But more than anything, I love the mystery of it. How in the world did Mickey Mouse get here? Who brought Mickey Mouse and his friends to this remote, resource-strapped community so geographically and culturally removed from the western civilization that created him? I would have thought it an isolated and coincidental mystery had it not happened again. A few months ago I was in Kolkata, India visiting a community nestled on the Ganges River about a two-and-a-half hour drive northwest of the city. I walked into an old Anglican mission that dated back to time of British Raj. And there it he was again. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The walls of the mission were adorned with pictures, most were of Jesus, some were of Mickey Mouse... with a mustache. In retrospect I wish I had grabbed the priest and asked my questions: Who painted the images? How long have they been there? Why Mickey Mouse? I didn’t get an answer, but I did get a clue. Later on that same trip I met a charming and bright young Indian woman who was raised in the slums; a child of poverty, but through education, hard work, and faith she is now in college studying to be a teacher. (Her name was Cinderella, no joke.) I asked her if she knew who Mickey Mouse was. She smiled and said, “Oh, yes, I know Mickey Mouse. I watched the cartoons as a child.” Even the poorest of the poor enjoy their Saturday morning cartoons. (For the record, her favorite cartoons were Mr. Bean cartoons because they were “so funny.”) Much has been written about the globalization of the Disney brand. But when the images of the brand appear in communities that hold no purchasing power, any cynicism regarding the consuming reach of western capitalism can be suspended. Instead, what I see is the power of a story. The story is of a mouse and his band of loyal friends who always seem to find themselves in a whirl of trouble, but through cleverness, resilience, and sometimes a little mischief, they overcome. They always overcome. And that is the genius of Mickey Mouse. He is not just an American symbol. He is a story of the human spirit. And those kind of stories reach beyond borders and languages and customs. And sometimes, like ancient cave drawings, we paint them on walls, so we can remember. In my role as Head Mentor for Young Storytellers I lead ten fifth grade students and ten adult mentors through the story writing process. We start by teaching the kids the basics of storytelling. Stories have a beginning, middle, and end. Stories occur in a certain time and place (setting). They have a protagonist (character) that wants something (goal) and the goal must not easily be achieved; there must be a struggle (conflict). Sometimes the obstacle that gets in the way of achieving the goal is another person called an antagonist. The struggle culminates in the most exciting part of the story (climax) which reveals whether or not the hero gets what he or she wants (resolution). By the end, the characters or the audience should learn something from the story (lesson). This is all Story 101, but I never get tired of teaching it.
One of my favorite exercises is when we have the students create loglines. A logline is a mad-lib style one-sentence summary of a story that the students use as a springboard to writing their scripts. The logline goes like this: In ________________________ (setting), ____________________ (protagonist) wants ______________________ (goal), but ________________________________ (conflict) stands in their, so they ___________________________________ (resolution), having learned __________________ (lesson). Here are a few of my current students’ loglines. I can’t help but smile when I read them. In Pancake land, Jeff the puppy wants to be President but Sembulock stands in his way, so they talk about healthcare learning everyone needs healthcare. On a planet, Spaceman Guy wants a spaceship but anti-spaceship corp. stands in his way, so he makes anti-anti-spaceship corp. learning that you should be nice. In a small town called Woodlake, Zach wants to make realistic animation and a cartoon for his little brother, but his brother presses a button that brings animation icons come to life and they take Zach’s computer, so Zach calls his friend to help, learning to always lock his door. On Milky Mountain, Nimuay wants to reach the Golden Goblet that’s on top of Milky Mountain but Lord of the Chickens stands in the way, so they decide not to fight but to get the golden goblet together learning that you can achieve something even when you could use a little help. Brilliant, right? I think so. The students are thick in the process of turning these loglines into scripts and I cannot wait to see the end result performed on stage by professional actors in just a few weeks. The logline exercise isn’t just something you can do when you’re trying to break a story. It is a helpful (and fun) exercise to do when trying to explain a complex situation. For example: In Hollyland, Nathan wants to be a writer, but The Gatekeepers stand in his way, so he creates a website to share his ideas having learned that you don’t need to wait for someone to tell you “yes” to do what you love to do. In the land of the free, Donald wants power, but the Electoral College stands in his way, so he travels around the land promising he’ll make everything “Great!” learning that people will vote for you if you are loud and divisive. In Wrigleyville, the Cubs want to win the big game, but a curse and the lack of talent stand in their way, so they trade away their current players for the very best young talent learning that curses are meant to be broken and sometimes you have to lose before you can start to win. What’s your logline? |
AuthorA WRITER AND TRAVELER KEEPING THE FAITH IN LOS ANGELES Subjects
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