Recess: On the Radio

A few years ago I came up with an idea...a really good idea...so good that it sits in a trunk with all the other "good ideas" that I've never acted on.

On AM radio there are shrinks, pundits and yahoos offering life advice and points of view. Listeners call up to weigh in or receive help (usually with errant husbands or meddling mothers-in-law) and are given thirty seconds of — well, you fill in the euphemism.

My idea was for a local call-in radio program for actors, on a nice NPR station.

I'd host a show where actors could call in before an audition, or for advice once they got a job, or to chat about their lives as actors in this showbiz city.

I'd have guests on: writers, directors, casting directors, designers, critics, agents, publicists and other actors to riff about the profession and to hand out their perspectives about working on set or in the theatre.

What do directors and writers want from actors? What do they not want from actors? How should actors work with their designers, agents and publicists? How should actors work with each other? What do you do with all the time off when you're not acting? How do you keep your spirits up and pay your rent?

Good idea, right? A radio show for actors.

Sometimes I wander into the dusty attic in my head, open the trunk and have a look-see. It amuses me how much I will never, ever do.

Sir Toby and Sir Andrew: Little Bits

April, 2009

"Okay, you two, we have to work on the scene where you meet up."

SIR TOBYArt thou good at kickshaws, knight?

SIR ANDREWFaith, I can cut a caper.

SIR TOBYAnd I can cut the mutton to't.

SIR ANDREWAnd I think I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

SIR TOBYMy very walk should be a jig. Shall we set about some revels?

SIR ANDREWWhat shall we do else?

SIR TOBYLet me see thee caper. Ha! Higher! Ha! Ha! Excellent!

Geoffrey, Luis and I are on our way to the library for a serious look at a couple of buddies who drink, dance and flirt with chambermaids. Lifelong lessons. If this doesn't help them at college, I'm at a loss.

"Look at these words, guys: kickshaws, caper, mutton, back-trick and jig. And can anyone guess what revels are?"

"Alls I know is I'm pretty drunk," offers Geoffrey, and he weaves around the library like a Saturday-night sailor on leave.

"And I like bear-baiting," Luis follows-up with a twinkle, his fingers clutching the air like paws.

Luis and I had previously chatted about the sick blood sport of an idiot teasing a bear in a cage to enthrall a crowd hungry for gore.

Where ten-year-old Geoffrey picked up his intimate knowledge of inebriation is something I'm not certain I wish to know, but it's dead-on accurate.

"Revels are parties and those other words are dance steps. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew are all about eating, drinking and goofing off. It's what drives Malvolio nuts. And why, by the way, do you play that mean trick on Malvolio with the fake letter?"

"Because he's so bossy!" Luis answers.

"Exactly right. He's a real pip, telling you what to do, when to go to bed and pushing his weight around and what a fool...he thinks he can marry Olivia."

"He makes me crazy," Geoffrey says.

It's hardly a reach for these two to get into character. I'm not sure that's a good thing but it makes for excellent performances.

"Geoffrey, do you have your harmonica ready?"

"Yup." And he pulls it out of his pocket.

"So, let's try some steps and I think we'll have you play your instrument on the exit when you get Andrew to kick higher and higher."

On their own, the boys come up with a dance duel.

Geoffrey starts with his "kickshaw." He clicks his heels together and nearly falls over but catches himself.

Luis follows suit with a "caper" by throwing his leg up to the side and slamming the other into it from underneath.

When Luis does his "back-trick" he stretches a foot toward the back of his head and then collapses forward as if wrenching his sciatic nerve.

"Luis, that's great...really, that's a funny bit."

"What?" he looks at me, genuinely clueless.

"The joke you made about your back going out like that...it's good."

"That wasn't a joke, Ms. Ryane. I hurt it."

"Really? Gosh, are you okay?"

"Yeah." And he rubs his back.

"I thought you were acting. When an actor does something funny like that...it's called a 'bit'."

"Hmmm. You think that's a funny bit then?"

"I think it's a riot but I don't want you to hurt yourself, so if you want to keep it, let's do it safely."

Got a huge laugh every performance. I was ready to bring a cow onstage for all the milking Luis did with that bit.

Geoffrey matched him — bit for bit.

He pranced around Luis in a circle — "My very walk should be a jig" — and the little kids in the audience screamed in laughter.

I sat back and marveled. Some days all I have to do is show up.


CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

I achieved making the people laugh thise play and felt asome like a wave.

—Luis, 5th grade

The Artists

March, 2009 The actors readied their roles in Room 39, the stage manager, Lyndon, took notes, Rachel and I shot each other looks of "Will this be presentable?" and a heavy-duty artistic endeavor was gathering steam next door in the art studio. The parents' booster club had raised enough money to pay an art teacher, Diane, to elucidate young minds and hands beyond the basics of coloring books. Diane agreed to donate her lunch break every Wednesday to lead a group of children, known as "The Props Crew," in constructing art pieces for "Twelfth Night." My idea was to involve the kids who didn't make the club this year. I envisioned perhaps painted cut-outs of fish glued to sticks. My knowledge of visual art is as vast as the Sahara. Diane swept fourteen children together and divided them into teams. When one team set out to create a bush for Toby, Andrew and Feste to hide behind, she used it as an opportunity to examine the works of Matisse and Monet. When I asked for signs that said "Orsino's House" or "Welcome to Illryia" and "Olivia's House," Diane introduced the kids to Russian Constructivism.

For the fish that would dance behind the flowing silky sea, the children gathered recycled materials, studied sea life on the internet and went to town with a turtle made of paint chips, an eight-foot-long shark complete with bloody teeth, a sparkly gold starfish and a dolphin constructed with shreds of blue and green fabric. Under Diane's leadership, these kids collaborated in choosing materials, sharing tools and creating magic. During the performances, the artists took pride in pointing out their handiwork as it passed by onstage before the audience. Of course, I'm tremendously grateful to Diane and the kids for their effort and at the same time feeling like a bit of a ninny that I had to learn about Russian Constructivism from an eight-year-old. Never too early and never too late, I suppose.

Hard News: Elizabethan Chubbies

"Hey, so did you guys know that in Elizabethan England it was considered cute to be chubby? Seriously. Skinny old Paris Hilton would have been kicked out of the cool club. If you were thin, it meant you were too poor to buy food and if you were plump it meant you were rich. Makes sense, huh?"

Here's a Shakespeare-in-Lovely about to be bounced from the in-crowd:

While Gwyneth Paltrow converts the Camden home she shares with her husband, Coldplay crooner Chris Martin, into a 33-room mansion, she occasionally moves into a local hotel to get away from the builders.

Gorgeous Gwyneth enjoys dining in the nude, thinking it makes her eat less.

Ms. Paltrow lost credibility with me when she named one of her kids a noun:

"This is Table and his little sister Dish."

If I started eating dinner bare-naked, everyone in our house, including the dog and cat, would verge on anorexic. Talk about an appetite suppressant.


Rich Elizabethans existed on a steady diet of veal, mutton and calves' feet, followed by jams, pies and cakes, all swished down the gullet with wine, ale and mead — at the rate of a gallon per person, per day.

Ergo: Rich Elizabethans enjoyed gout, beaming away with rotten black teeth as they heaved their blubber around dance halls in drunken fits of hilarity.

Poor Elizabethans toiled sun-up to sunset in the fields, sustained on fruits and vegetables.

Thus: The poor lived healthier and had better sex. (I made that last part up.)

If you're feeling rich, whip up one of these fanciful cocktails: Angel's Food or Dragon's Milk. Or perhaps a beer: Dog Bolter or Fursty Ferret.

Myself, I think I'd best get dressed, plow the back forty and dig around for a carrot.

Paltrow article/picture from the Daily Mail

Emilia: Ophelia Left Behind

February, 2007

I recently saw a movie, "The Burning Plain," written and directed by Guillermo Arriaga. Themes of abandonment and betrayal spin characters into life-altering, risky and deadly actions. The film is worth seeing to remember that we are human beings who crave love and acknowledgement, and when it's taken away, we react.

Many of the children in The Shakespeare Club have either a missing mom, a missing dad or, in some cases, both parents are...somewhere else.

In my second year of the club we did "Hamlet" and I cast a bright but shy girl as Ophelia, the girlfriend who goes mad.

Emilia was both excited and terrified about getting the role. Rehearsal after rehearsal she whipped around, tossing her bundle of flowers as quickly as she spat out the words.

"Emilia," I started quietly as we worked alone, "poor Ophelia's been dumped by her boyfriend, her brother has gone away and her dad is dead. She's having a rough time, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," Emilia answered and carefully touched the pages of her script.

"I'm going to ask you to trust me. When you walk in the circle and drop your flowers, I'm going to suggest that you do it in slow-motion...kind of like you're underwater...kind of like you're in a dream...know what I mean?"

"Yeah...but...that's hard, Ms. Ryane."

"I know. I know it is. I'm asking you to do a hard thing but I cast you because I know that you can do it. I promise you, Emilia, I won't let you look silly on stage. I promise. The thing is, Emilia, you have to trust me. Do you know what I mean by that?"

"Sorta."

"Okay, think about some one you already trust. Like...your dad...is he someone you trust?"

"He left us."

Three little words. When she said them she looked straight into my eyes with her clear brown ones. Her face framed by the dark, wild curls of her hair. She was still. She was calm.

"He left us."

And I knew that what I was asking of her was way too much.

Emilia's mom, busy raising three kids and working a full-time job, also had to answer the question, "Where's Dad?"

"He left us," was as simple and true an answer as I'm sure she could come up with.

"Emilia, you're going to be fine. Your Ophelia is going to be perfect. I trust you."

CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

Hi
my name is Emilia. I like being Ophelia but I am just so nervous. I like being her at the same time I don’t. I realy wish I was narrator because I don't want to embaras my self.

The characters I liked were Me. I was so great! That’s the only thing I heard. I think everybody was great. But I still love myself Ophilia!

—Emilia, 5th grade

Recess: Playing Twister

Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers
Toy Boat, Toy Boat, Toy Boat
Sally Sells Seashells....
Peter Piper Picked a Peck....

You know the drill — and it is a drill: over and over. It's the only way.


"Okay, if you guys get these tongue-twisters down, I'm going to teach you the hardest one I know. In fact, it's so difficult you probably won't be able to do it...but...well, we'll see...."

Throw-down.

They love it when I say they likely won't be able to do something.

"When, Ms. Ryane...when will you teach us that one...the hard, hard one?" Lizzie bounces out of her chair.

"We can do it!" Geneva states confidently.

"I can do it!" Henry follows.

"Well, you have to wait a while...really, it's so hard that you might hurt yourself even trying it. Let's do this one again: toy boat, toy boat, toy boat...ten times fast."


By the end of April they thought they were ready and I wrote it on the board.

Okay, readers: Go on, try it...you'll see I wasn't kidding...and most of the club members got it at least once.

The sea ceaseth and sufficeth us.

Go on...ten times fast.

Tip: Go back to this post and do that exercise first.

Good luck.

Remembering the Story

March, 2009

A few times a year the school holds parent-teacher conferences in the classrooms. On these days we lose Room 39.

I gathered the kids into the library for a read-through of the play.

"Okay, we've been working pretty hard on our parts and our blocking. Today we're going to sit around these tables and just read the play. You don't have to worry about knowing your lines because we're going to read it as if it were the first time."

"What about my dancing?" asks Luis.

"No dancing today, give your feet a break. Just reading. Okay? Are we clear? Are we ready?"

They each opened their scripts, sat up and did it. It was one of those remarkable events where they did exactly as I asked and they did it well. They read the play like professional actors do at a first reading on a first rehearsal. There was no squirming and no elbowing. No one asked to go to the bathroom or to the water fountain. Snacks were all but a distant memory.

They acted with intention. They picked up their cues. They listened to each other.

For the first time I thought, we may have something here. This "Twelfth Night" may...may...actually work.... I could have been watching a read-through by actors from the Royal Shakespeare Company or the Moscow Arts Theatre; they were that good.

Their work called for a reward and once they were done I put a movie on the small library television to go along with the SNACK: Juice boxes and raisins.

"She's the Man" is a tweener/teener take on "Twelfth Night" starring Amanda Bynes as Viola, a girl soccer player dressing as a boy for a chance to play on a boy's team.

"Polly, that's you!" Kate nudged her friend.

And Polly scrunched in her chair, shy and proud, as if she really was on screen.


All the main ingredients of Shakespeare's play are wound into the movie comedy and the kids in The Shakespeare Club screamed as they recognized their characters.

Henry thought it was riot that Malvolio was a tarantula spider.

When I show movies to the kids I keep my finger ready to fast forward through any dicey scenes: overt romance, sexual content, extreme violence and so on.

I jumped up on a chair, reached to the DVD player and pressed the button to whisk through some kissing when Luis shouted out:

"No, Ms. Ryane, leave it...I gotta learn that stuff, I gotta be ready."

Ten-year-old Casanova.

"Eat your raisins, Luis; we're moving on to the soccer scenes."

I watched them munch, their eyes glued to the screen. They know the story, they'll play the story...they are the story.

CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

When I red a book cald Wind in the Willows and when I read it it feels that I am in that wold. It feels like I am watching then and here what they are saying. And it feels like when they go somewer I go whith them.

—Lizzie, 3rd grade

Ian McKellen photo by Austin Hargrave

Belinda: Rest Stop

May, 2009

"Do you know when I first saw you, Belinda?"

She shakes her head.

"You were so little, first grade, and only six years old. I saw you at the Heritage Day Celebration, do you remember this? You were chosen to introduce your class and the song you were all going to sing. You stood on tiptoe at the microphone and in a clear, perfect voice you made the announcement.

"I grabbed your teacher and asked, 'Who is that?' And she said, 'That's Belinda.' And I said, 'I want her in The Shakespeare Club,' but I had to wait for two years for you to get to third grade and then you played Juliet because you have so much talent...Belinda...Belinda?"

Asleep.

Because she didn't know what the best day was — she shrugged.
Because she couldn't remember a best meal — she blinked.
Because she couldn't imagine a perfect friend, a delicious bath or a night's sleep without:
"Belinda this and Belinda that."
Because it took so much effort to even think such things —
I waited for answers that didn't come.
In the rear-view mirror I watched her brown eyes droop and close.
I turned down the car radio, her head lolled to one side and I knew the best I could do was to stop the asking.
Let her sleep — maybe today she'd find the best of something.

CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

Well iM still young but when I grow up I want to travel around the world. I don’t just want to travel by plane I want to also travel by books. Like 1 time I went to Paris but I Forgot what book I read because it was when I was small. I also want to go by my Dreams!

I ♥ My Dreams!

—Susan, 5th grade

Hard News: Rolling Over

This is where William Shakespeare is buried. He died April 23, 1616 — he was also born on April 23, proving his need for rhythmic flourish continued until the end.

Word has it a small part of this Stratford-Upon-Avon church is collapsing over Shakespeare's grave and is in urgent need of repair. Any fly-by-night architect is going to tell you that structural disintegration is normal and that under the rainy English climate, roofs wear down.

Yeah well, I say not so fast. I say the Bard is rolling over. I say 393 years of angst have wormed their way into bodily unrest and he has more to say. And I say it's not because he wants residuals, retribution against Marlowe or the arguments of authorship to end. The man is ready to apologize.

William Shakespeare wants to scream, "I'm so sorry, Anne!"

At eighteen years of age, young William began dating the twenty-six-year-old hottie Anne Hathaway. He got her pregnant and a rushed marriage followed. He got her pregnant again, with twins, and decided a life as a glover or carpenter — anything less than stardom — wasn't good enough and he left.

He took off for London and left Anne to raise three children and share a home with her in-laws.

After years of climbing the career ladders of showbiz in the big city, William found his theatrical prominence and wealth. He had a large home built in Stratford dubbed "New Place" which, to my mind, is the only real evidence to question his writing gifts. New Place? Clever.

So, after decades of living as a housewife, raising three kids, having one die and finally having her husband home...he kicks off.

And poor Anne had to suffer a final humiliation at the reading of her husband's will: He left her nothing, nothing but their used bed. Which, let's face it, he barely used.

This is a cautionary tale, gentlemen. Wrong the woman and you will most certainly not rest in peace...guilt will catch up and the roof will crumble.

Repairs Needed at Shakespeare’s Grave (NY Times)

Henry's Adventure

March, 2009

"Here is what I wish for you, long after The Shakespeare Club is over and long after you've left this school."

On the whiteboard I've written:

Peace
Purpose
Adventure


"I want you to have a life of peace, and by that I mean that you will always be able to pay your rent and put food on your table. To do that, I suggest you stick with school, go to college and find a job you love to do."

The room resonates in quiet excitement. Not.


"Second, I want you to have a life of purpose, and I think the best way to find that is to help people even, and especially, when they don't ask you to help.

Mmmm-hmmm, I have them in my grip. Not.


"Finally, I want you to have a life of adventure. Travel is adventure but even if we can't afford a ticket on a plane, bus, train or boat, we can travel other ways. Any ideas?"

"Hey, walk!" cries Luis.

"You can always take a walk and there's a lot to see on a walk, believe me. But one of the best ways to travel is to read. Books can take us all kinds of places. Look where we are just from reading 'Twelfth Night' —"

"Illyria!" Nathan calls out.

"Exactly, we're in a magical place called Illyria. In our journals today I would like you to pick one of these — peace, purpose or adventure — and write about how you see that happening for you. Go!"

After journal writing I always ask if anyone would like to share something they've written. On this day, Henry was busting to share. He hadn't actually written anything, but wanted to wing it with a story. He stood next to me and faced the group.

"My dad."

He stopped and looked up at me and I gave a nod that it was good so far and he could continue.

"Well, anyways...my dad, he goes far away and he has adventures, like you know what?...Like one time he...he was in Antarctica...like where there's so much snow and guess what?...Well, even in all the snow where there's only snow he found a plant!" Henry nodded up and down and up and down at me.

"Really, it's so true...he found a plant growing where there was only snow and I would like to have adventures like my dad and that could be my life."

"Do you mean, Henry, that your dad is a kind of scientist?"

"Yeah, yeah...he's a kind of scientist guy and he goes everywhere!"

"Thank you, Henry for sharing that. I think you will definitely have a life of adventure."

He goes everywhere. He goes everywhere. The phrase haunted me because the one place that dad does not go is home. Henry's dad is not in Henry's life. He's bigger than life in Henry's little head but he's not in Henry's house tucking him into bed at night. He's not reading a story to a little plant called: The Henry.


CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

I would built my house out by the beach. My house is going to be the biggest & the prettiest. I'll raise my family there. I'll pay all the bills as long as I stay with my house & family. I'll bring food to my table every day.

Peace is always going to be in my life!

—Meara, 5th grade