Monday, September 24, 2007

A weekend of love and hate

Saturday: Great! Sunday: Terrible! A heartfelt thanks to Jacey, Rachel, and Lisa, who woke up (presumably) early to volunteer their comedic talents to the Wasteland sketches we filmed on Saturday.  We were very productive, although at the time our direction probably seemed “loose ‘n diffuse.”  Since Lynne left the show, the two remaining girls in our cast have been doing double the work, and even our dudes are being double- and triple-booked for roles.  Happily they’re up to the task.  We filmed from 9:30 to 3:30, and it wasn’t until 2:00 that our minds and bodies started to crumble. Whatever.  Four hard weekends of filming, and we’ve got—at a quick glance—around 24 video sketches in various stages of post-production or outright completion.  We’re on schedule.  We still have too much to do, but each week we chip away a noble amount. Saturday night I became paranoid about how much precious Wasteland footage I didn’t have duplicate copies of.  The raw footage will be on tape for all time, but countless hours have already gone into cutting, splicing, and massaging rough cuts in Premiere.  Well, fuck me for trying to do the right thing—I left Norton Systemworks to make a backup copy of my video directory overnight, and when I woke up, my computer was irreparably frozen.  After several hours of teeth grinding, praying, cursing, and hot angry tears, I unplugged the drive with the Video, reformatted C:, and installed WinXP fresh. At some point in the afternoon, Haas came to our apartment to film another sketch.  We bagged it, and I think (hope) I acted well—I honestly don’t remember much of the shoot, my mind furiously churning through data recovery options instead of learning my lines.  No matter how good the sketch turns out I will inevitably be disappointed with my performance for this very reason, a double-shame since it’s one of the few Wasteland video sketches in which I act. The filming done, I returned to my sputtering machine.  With some BIOS-level tweakage I was able to isolate the corrupted drive in such a way that WinXP doesn’t crash while attempting to detect it in boot.  A glimmer of hope?  I called TechFusion, a local data recovery service who frequently underwrites on WBUR.  I should’ve known that if they can afford to underwrite on WBUR, I can’t afford their services.  $90 for diagnosis?  An estimated $500-2,500 for recovery?  And they market themselves towards students?  More like TechFuckYousion.  (Burrrn) I Googled some freeware data recovery applications.  All failed, either by locking or causing the BSOD-reboot.  Then I tried a demo of this little program which not only revealed to me my directories—pinned beneath layers of corruption—but promised me that the files could be recovered by the full version.  $70 < $500; done. I've been able to retrieve everything from the corrupted drive that is truly irreplaceable: photos and Premiere project files. I also rescued my music collection. However, Premiere project files aren't terribly useful without the raw AVI footage on which they are layered. So far Nucleus's Kernel software has locked each time I tried to recover a larger file, such as the AVIs. I have more digging to do tonight, but it may be that my final two options are:

• Have data recovery specialists retrieve the AVI files and directories, then bend over for payment.
• Re-import all the footage and massage each Premiere file to fit.  Since we haven’t been using timecodes, this will be time consuming (but free!).

I haven’t made up my mind yet.  I’m secretly hoping that I can get those raw files out of the corrupted directory.  (If you nerds and WPIers know of any other cheap/free data recovery methods, do tell.)  At least I have options—there was half a day when I thought all was lost forever. After this debacle is over I’ll be investing in an external backup HDD, and using Gmail for more small-file storage. There’s no reason I can’t email myself Premiere Project files, and since that’s where the bulk of the creative editing is stored, it’s a good permanent failsafe.  If FTP wasn’t so slow I’d consider using my considerable web spaces to store some data, but until I can transfer a 5Gb AVI in one minute, I’m sticking with HDDs and writable media.  Also, I’ll be telling everybody that Norton Systemworks is a buggy piece of shit that attempted to destroy, not protect, several years’ worth of data. So, despite a lot of good things happening this weekend, I’ve been dwelling and obsessing over a fucking computer.  It’s been a few years since I kicked my computer addictions (multiplayer gaming, email, IM), but I’m as reliant on the machines as ever, especially when it comes to creative projects.

Monday, July 30, 2007

DCM Postmortisserie

UCB Theater, 9:30pm Friday night. The lights go up, I walk on stage for the first time, and half of the audience boos.  That’s when I know it’s going to be a good show.

Code Duello
They weren’t booing me, of course, but Mr. Aaron Burr. It’s happened a few times, now, where the audience chooses their side before the show even begins. This is facilitated in part by our show opener—a brief narration refreshing the audience on their post-colonial American history—when the narrator intones the name Aaaron Burrrrr in “spooky-voice,” as if our silly improv play is being told over s’mores by an aging camp counselor.  At this year’s DCM, Aaron Burr was a villain before he even opened his mouth, and that served as a nice little roadmap for the show—hopefully I gave the audience who they wanted, a lovably despicable Vice Presidential man-child.  And Mr. Hamilton turned out to be a pithy cockney lad masquerading as the ex-Secretary of Treasury.

At the DCM you only have 30 minutes before you’re blacked out, and they run a really tight ship, so there’s no leeway. This is a challenge for our show, which has a definite end point we must reach by the 30-minute mark; if Hamilton isn’t dead when the lights go out, we’ve broken our promise to the audience, and god judges broken promises pretty harshly.  Matt kept a better eye on the time than I did, and thank god—he died with 1 second left on the clock. We didn’t get to see the brief aftermath, but at that point the show was so silly it was best to end on another childish tiff (as to whether or not he was truly dying). Cheers and thanks to the UCB’s tech crew, who executed our show flawlessly.

Boston & the DCM
Bostonians made a healthy showing at this year’s marathon. I was able to get my butt in the audience for both Bastards Inc. and Uniprov‘s sets.  I wasn’t able to attend Backstory or Dream Show or This Is Pathetic, but when the topic of Boston improv came up backstage (as it inevitably did), I spread the word about our traveling troubadours. (If you have a recap for a show I missed, post it in the comments!)

Matt Walsh and other UCBers asked me if there’s a big scene in Boston.  My response was, there’s a growing scene.  This seemed to be the consensus amongst non-Bostonians familiar with ImprovBoston and Improv Asylum.  In talking to UCBers and improvisers from around the country, I’ve come to realize that Boston has a reputation for producing theme-heavy shows.  Waiting for Ennis Cotter, Code Duello, Backstory, Uniprov, Dream Show, The Robert Cycle... these shows all have a “hook” because that’s how we draw audiences in Boston, where the interest in improv from non-improvisers is pretty low.  Although shows like Ennis Cotter and Code Duello have traveled well and been well-received, I find the general sentiment in Chicago and New York is, “why would good improv need a hook?”  In New York, Chicago, and LA, good Harold teams are consistently able to entertain audiences without costumes, highbrow themes, crazy structures, consistent characters—the very things that define a “showcase” show in the Boston scene.  At the DCM this year, most of the shows with “hooks” were one-off jokey shows, highly entertaining but ultimately just opportunities for the veterans to fuck around on stage.

It’s a shame that more Bostonians don’t regularly see shows at festivals, particularly the shining gems at the Del Close Marathon.  I remember my mind being blown three years ago by Scheer-McBrayer, Respecto, The Beatbox (from DSI), and Mother.  Two years ago I added The Stepfathers to my list of must-see shows.  This year I wasn’t able to see nearly as much of the veterans as I’d like, but I was delighted by the depression-era antics of The Sunshine Gang, and Chuckle Sandwich was hilarious. 

Anyway, the point is that there are people in our generation doing stage-work that is smarter, faster, funnier, more believable, more organic, and more supportive/supported than anything happening in Boston.  It’s not a matter of personal taste, or of “different styles,” or of a larger pool of talent.  They are simply better ensembles. They work better together. Why?  Training, drive, and practice, I’m guessing—emphasis on the latter two.  At first it’s a bitter pill for Bostonians to swallow, but I have never walked away from a festival intimidated or down-on-Boston.  I always walk away inspired.  The kind of improv that we want to be doing is attainable, and it’s being done by people our age, in commuting distance, in places that we can watch.  The Boston scene is growing, yes, but how much faster would it grow if everybody were inspired by the superior work being done on the national stage?

Backstage @ the UCB
Last year I was super fucking scared of being at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. In retrospect, I feel almost lucky that I was able to pull a good performance out of my jangled mess of nerves. This year I was way, way more relaxed, and consequently was able to enjoy some time backstage, afloat in the sea of free beer, improvisers, improv groupies, and improv celebrities.

I don’t know if it’s my uninformed outsider’s opinion, but there seems to be a fair amount of incest and idol-worship amongst the UCB community.  Boston may be insular, but we don’t have any heroes.  I’ve always been astounded at those moments when you realize that 3/4 of the audience knows every performer on stage by name.  It may be a result of UCB alumni actually being successful in the entertainment world at large.  Let’s face it—those of us who do improv want to have the careers of the famous improv alumni, be they from Second City or the UCB.  But idol worship?  Improv groupies?  I thought I was immune.

And then, I found myself conversing with a few of those people who I want to be.  Whose careers I envy, whose talents I respect, whose genuinely nice personalities seem unaffected by their success in television.  I fell into fanboy mode, covertly drooling after pleasant interactions with writer/performers from The Daily Show, The Office, 30 Rock, and… oh, fuck it, I’m a groupie.  I want to push these men into a dark corner backstage, demand they tell me all their secrets, then kiss them heterosexually.

The icing on the cake is that Code Duello seems to be building a great reputation, both amongst general audiences and improvisers.  Having somebody compliment Matt and I on a great show is awesome, but having somebody tell us they heard we had great shows and were really sorry they missed us… that’s a completely unnecessary (but delicious) courtesy!  And it seems like our audience has a few more returning members with each performance, another wonderful silent compliment.  I feel like I’m able to network, remember names and faces, and generally put myself out into the larger improv community better than I was able to a year ago.

DCM ‘08
Obviously I had a great weekend, and I must thank the DCM selection staff again for giving Matt and I the opportunity to play in the festival.  Next year, Boston, send your best. And until then—fucking see some shows in New York.  If you need direction, I have more raving recommendations than you can handle.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Mercy, Melody!

I blame a tiny deformity in my mouth for my terrible poetry and songwriting.

When I was a wee lad, I had superhuman hearing and a minor cleft in my throat.  The cleft—specifically a submucous cleft—prevented (and still prevents) me from closing off the back of my throat like a normal person. Or so I’m told. I went through speech therapy so long ago that my only memory of it is a tiny plastic ball covered in velcro, which I used to toss against a fuzzy dartboard while a nice lady urged me to say “lamp” instead of “mamp.”  Apparently the therapy worked, because nobody knows I have a speech impediment unless I’m very tipsy.  There are only two things, throat-wise, I can’t accomplish—blowing up balloons, and playing wind instruments.

However, the latter deficiency posed a problem for young Neil, who happened to be enrolled in a public school system obsessed with their band.  In middle school I was asked to choose which instrument I wanted to play. Trumpet? Tuba? Clarinet, flute, trombone? Those were my (affordable) options. It didn’t help that at the time I had no interest in music, and the only tape I owned was a maxi-single of Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti.” God I loved that song. Anyway, I didn’t want to take lessons in piano or drumming, and I couldn’t produce a single note from the instruments the school offered, so, I abstained from taking band.

In my particular school, not-taking-band meant not-being-educated-in-music. All of the school’s budget and teacher resources were dumped into its band (who, among other things, played at the Rose Bowl annually). The rest of the students who were either too musically deficient or too cool for marching band, got to take a single music class in middle school, where we learned about the history of music, not the art. No lessons in rhythm, no memorizing note scales, no blasting simple melodies on shitty recorders, no critical listening.

In college, I took a few classes in poetry. In discussions about meaning, context, and rhyme form, I was en fuego. But when the conversation inevitably turned to rhythm, meter, and other musical terms, I would quietly curse my ineptitude.  I made earnest attempts to get better, but they fell flat.

My Sarah, a music teacher, bless her heart, has made me flashcards so I can memorize some notes.  I’m trying to learn guitar, and even though I’m pretty good at playing chords, I can’t keep time for shit.  I suppose I’m learning, but it’s painfully slow.

And although reading and critically hearing music isn’t a prerequisite for songwriting, it would certainly help me put some words in this goddamn blank Word document I’ve been staring at for an hour, for which I have a hilarious song idea all rarin’ to go, but no pretty rhymes in which to cast it.

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

I already hate blogging

Not four hours have passed since I made the new site design live, and already I feel immense pressure to post something insightful, hilarious, and unique.

I need the internet to love me.