After filling out all those quizzes on Quizilla, I finally gave in to my urge to make one myself.
I discovered quickly that this is a great way to waste enormous amounts of time. My defense is that, since this is a quiz based on Animal Farm, originally inspired by my students and their reactions to the book, I can actually make students go take it and report their findings.
So here you are: What Animal Farm Character Are You?
Feel free to post your reactions here, and let me know what you think. It's a bit messy, as the quiz editor is kind of clunky, but hopefully it'll be an entertaining few moments of your life. You'll also help me test it out and see if it's in any way accurate. Sadly, the results have no fun pictures or fancy fonts; it's pretty basic.
To show willing, here was my result:
You are Snowball.
"Snowball was a more vivacious pig than
Napoleon, quicker in speech and more inventive,
but was not considered to have the same depth
of character."
You may have some elitist tendencies, but at heart
you really do want to see the world become a
better place. You have many ideas about how to
improve life and are willing to take risks to
bring those changes about. You may be naive
about political maneuvering, assuming everyone
must see the world as you do, and you feel that
you do deserve some praise and
compensation for your efforts, but your
greatest reward would be to see positive change
in society.
What Animal Farm Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Two words: En-joy.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Massive Malapropism Madness, Vol. II
It's that time again. It's the end of the semester and I'm combing through dozens of essays. Whether it's lack of sleep or just the brain-melting effects of reading so much student writing, a few strange turns of phrase have caught my attention the last day or two, and I knew you'd want to hear about them. Mind you, if I had been paying better attention in the grading session on Wednesday, I'd have a few dozen more to add here, but as it is I'll just entertain you with a few examples.
My 101 class has produced a couple of interesting statements. One student was writing about the spread of Christianity during the late Renaissance and bemoaned the cruel treatment of "the ingenuous peoples of South America." No matter what your opinion of the inhabitants of the southern-western hemisphere, to call them liars is just not okay. Once again, spell checking on the computer does not pick up all errors...
The same happened to another student writing about public transportation, only this time in such a way that I wasn't at all certain it was a mistake to begin with. The student was pleading for better public transport in Southern California, because such measures would help "to move the asses of young and old to their destinations in comfort." I had to read the sentence a few times, and I had nearly concluded that the student actually meant that, either in a fit of colloquial language or as a transcription from a less-formal draft into the final. Finally it occurred to me that she probably meant masses of people. That made me feel better, though it was hard to apologize to the person at the next table whom I had sprayed coffee all over upon first reading the passage.
Then came my 914 class finals, in which they had to write an essay on Orwell's Animal Farm. Now, if you know anything about Orwell at all, you can probably guess that his writing is going to be political in nature. No matter how much we discussed this in class, the students were bound and determined to read what they wanted into the text. The final question asked them to write on one of the lessons that Orwell might have been trying to convey in the novel. It's a low-level class and I'm pretty generous on such matters, but you wouldn't believe how many people wrote to me that Orwell's main point was to get people to be nicer to animals. No, really. The treatise on the animal revolution at Manor Farm, the power struggles between the elitist pigs Napoleon and Snowball, the parallels with communism, the eventual transformation of the pigs into creatures so closely resembling their former human masters that the animals can no longer tell them apart--all this to get us to be a little less mean to cows and chickens.
Most of the responses were also hopelessly muddled and convoluted. Take, for example, this sentence that is meant to discuss the relation between two characters:
Um... okay. If you say so.
Some of them became disturbingly bizarre and made me uncomfortable:
I read that over and over, and I still cannot figure out what it was supposed to say. I'm open to ideas, 'cause what's there now disturbs me deeply.
On the other hand, this contained a timely warning:
Aaaaahhh! They have mines! Yes, I suppose we definitely should be nice to them. Imagine:
Farmer Bob: (walking to the pasture with a bucket in his hand) Hey, you rotton cows! Stupid filthy bastards! Here's your--"
KA-BOOM!
(A huge explosion rocks the meadow. As the smoke clears, we see, Monty Python-style, Farmer Bob's smoking boots. After a few seconds, the twisted and charred bucket drops to the ground from the sky.)
Cow: (smugly) Moo.
Remember: be kind to the species below us. They're armed, and they demand respect.
My 101 class has produced a couple of interesting statements. One student was writing about the spread of Christianity during the late Renaissance and bemoaned the cruel treatment of "the ingenuous peoples of South America." No matter what your opinion of the inhabitants of the southern-western hemisphere, to call them liars is just not okay. Once again, spell checking on the computer does not pick up all errors...
The same happened to another student writing about public transportation, only this time in such a way that I wasn't at all certain it was a mistake to begin with. The student was pleading for better public transport in Southern California, because such measures would help "to move the asses of young and old to their destinations in comfort." I had to read the sentence a few times, and I had nearly concluded that the student actually meant that, either in a fit of colloquial language or as a transcription from a less-formal draft into the final. Finally it occurred to me that she probably meant masses of people. That made me feel better, though it was hard to apologize to the person at the next table whom I had sprayed coffee all over upon first reading the passage.
Then came my 914 class finals, in which they had to write an essay on Orwell's Animal Farm. Now, if you know anything about Orwell at all, you can probably guess that his writing is going to be political in nature. No matter how much we discussed this in class, the students were bound and determined to read what they wanted into the text. The final question asked them to write on one of the lessons that Orwell might have been trying to convey in the novel. It's a low-level class and I'm pretty generous on such matters, but you wouldn't believe how many people wrote to me that Orwell's main point was to get people to be nicer to animals. No, really. The treatise on the animal revolution at Manor Farm, the power struggles between the elitist pigs Napoleon and Snowball, the parallels with communism, the eventual transformation of the pigs into creatures so closely resembling their former human masters that the animals can no longer tell them apart--all this to get us to be a little less mean to cows and chickens.
Most of the responses were also hopelessly muddled and convoluted. Take, for example, this sentence that is meant to discuss the relation between two characters:
I also think that out of all the characters that they had the most comparing and contracting, but more then less comparing."
Um... okay. If you say so.
Some of them became disturbingly bizarre and made me uncomfortable:
Napoleon sensually sanded another pig to say or simplify his long speeches.
I read that over and over, and I still cannot figure out what it was supposed to say. I'm open to ideas, 'cause what's there now disturbs me deeply.
On the other hand, this contained a timely warning:
What the book was trying to tell us was not to be mean to animals, that they have mines and they want to live.
Aaaaahhh! They have mines! Yes, I suppose we definitely should be nice to them. Imagine:
Farmer Bob: (walking to the pasture with a bucket in his hand) Hey, you rotton cows! Stupid filthy bastards! Here's your--"
KA-BOOM!
(A huge explosion rocks the meadow. As the smoke clears, we see, Monty Python-style, Farmer Bob's smoking boots. After a few seconds, the twisted and charred bucket drops to the ground from the sky.)
Cow: (smugly) Moo.
Remember: be kind to the species below us. They're armed, and they demand respect.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Whither Goest the Blog?
Well.
Been a bit, hasn't it? It's been a strange time, but that's nothing new. In fact, there's not much new I could put down here by way of explanation. I tried warning you people that at some point these things would get unendingly repetitive and self-pitying, yet you encouraged me anyway. What were you thinking?
So, interesting things, interesting things...
I'm still working on the secret project mentioned earlier. It's a little more tricky than I expected, of course, as all things are in life. I still have some hopes, but time is running short. It has to do with Christmas, and it may involve blood, devestation, death, war, and horror. Or not.
I'm in the final stretch of grading (seems like I'm always saying that... it's a long stretch), with our large "holistic" grading session for English 015 tomorrow. English 015 is Preparation for College Writing, and all the classes take the same final exam. It's a short essay in response to a reading presented at the time of the final, and all of the instructors in the department participate in an all-day grading session. The exams are done by student number rather than by name and most essays are graded by two instructors who did not have the student in question in their classes. The resulting grade--pass or fail--is the departmental recommendation of whether the student should continue on to English 101 or not. It's not the only factor in the final grade (that would be illegal, actually), but it is a strong indicator of offical approval or disapproval. You can always argue against the recommendation of the department, but it's time consuming and considered bad form without very good evidence of student ability.
It's a great point of debate in the department. Many argue that such an exam does not show all the skills a student has learned during the semester, that it puts too much emphasis on a single test, and that it is generally icky. The counter argument is usually that it is a test of many useful skills, it is a fair indicator of future success, and that ickiness is better than lack of preparation. I fall, as always, somewhere in the middle. It certainly doesn't require students to use every skill they've developed--the only way to really do that would be to have a departmental review of portfolios of student work, which would take years off our lives--and it carries more weight than would be completely useful. However, if you've got basic writing skills, it's something you ought to be able to do reasonably well, and having other instructors review the student's work is no bad thing. I get too many students as it is who clearly just showed up every day and were relatively nice and so were allowed to pass 015 when they were not ready. Without the "gatekeeping" function of the final, I suspect even more unprepared students would find their way into Freshman Composition, and my life would be that much more annoying.
I had best get to bed so I can get up and stay awake through 80-100 short essays, each one saying very much the same thing as the last, just with different vague rationalizations and varying degrees of awful grammar (you can tell I'm excited, can't you?). There is a sick little part of me that enjoys the session--being with other instructors as we work through the texts, discussions of what we're looking for in a good paper (I'm always there to argue that we ought to be meaner rather than nicer, just like in all other aspects of my life), drinking too much coffee and getting a big chunk of final grading out of the way in one sitting...
There's something deeply wrong with me, I know. Now if I could just fix it, that would be sweet. Your suggestions are welcome.
postscript--In other news, I was endlessly pleased today to open a fortune cookie and find an actual fortune within. Apparently, I will "enjoy good health" and "be surrounded by wealth and luxury." Heck, that even has the delightful mystical lack of clarity I so enjoy--will I actually be healthy, or will I just delight in my positive health for the short time I possess it? Will I be wealthy, or just a bum who dies on the street corner in a posh neighborhood? Well done, China--well done.
Been a bit, hasn't it? It's been a strange time, but that's nothing new. In fact, there's not much new I could put down here by way of explanation. I tried warning you people that at some point these things would get unendingly repetitive and self-pitying, yet you encouraged me anyway. What were you thinking?
So, interesting things, interesting things...
I'm still working on the secret project mentioned earlier. It's a little more tricky than I expected, of course, as all things are in life. I still have some hopes, but time is running short. It has to do with Christmas, and it may involve blood, devestation, death, war, and horror. Or not.
I'm in the final stretch of grading (seems like I'm always saying that... it's a long stretch), with our large "holistic" grading session for English 015 tomorrow. English 015 is Preparation for College Writing, and all the classes take the same final exam. It's a short essay in response to a reading presented at the time of the final, and all of the instructors in the department participate in an all-day grading session. The exams are done by student number rather than by name and most essays are graded by two instructors who did not have the student in question in their classes. The resulting grade--pass or fail--is the departmental recommendation of whether the student should continue on to English 101 or not. It's not the only factor in the final grade (that would be illegal, actually), but it is a strong indicator of offical approval or disapproval. You can always argue against the recommendation of the department, but it's time consuming and considered bad form without very good evidence of student ability.
It's a great point of debate in the department. Many argue that such an exam does not show all the skills a student has learned during the semester, that it puts too much emphasis on a single test, and that it is generally icky. The counter argument is usually that it is a test of many useful skills, it is a fair indicator of future success, and that ickiness is better than lack of preparation. I fall, as always, somewhere in the middle. It certainly doesn't require students to use every skill they've developed--the only way to really do that would be to have a departmental review of portfolios of student work, which would take years off our lives--and it carries more weight than would be completely useful. However, if you've got basic writing skills, it's something you ought to be able to do reasonably well, and having other instructors review the student's work is no bad thing. I get too many students as it is who clearly just showed up every day and were relatively nice and so were allowed to pass 015 when they were not ready. Without the "gatekeeping" function of the final, I suspect even more unprepared students would find their way into Freshman Composition, and my life would be that much more annoying.
I had best get to bed so I can get up and stay awake through 80-100 short essays, each one saying very much the same thing as the last, just with different vague rationalizations and varying degrees of awful grammar (you can tell I'm excited, can't you?). There is a sick little part of me that enjoys the session--being with other instructors as we work through the texts, discussions of what we're looking for in a good paper (I'm always there to argue that we ought to be meaner rather than nicer, just like in all other aspects of my life), drinking too much coffee and getting a big chunk of final grading out of the way in one sitting...
There's something deeply wrong with me, I know. Now if I could just fix it, that would be sweet. Your suggestions are welcome.
postscript--In other news, I was endlessly pleased today to open a fortune cookie and find an actual fortune within. Apparently, I will "enjoy good health" and "be surrounded by wealth and luxury." Heck, that even has the delightful mystical lack of clarity I so enjoy--will I actually be healthy, or will I just delight in my positive health for the short time I possess it? Will I be wealthy, or just a bum who dies on the street corner in a posh neighborhood? Well done, China--well done.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Unfortunate
I decry a great public evil that has reared its ugly head these last few years. An insidious plague that threatens to rob us of our hopes and dreams has made its way unremarked upon by the general populace and now it is so widespread that our means of fighting it have almost been robbed from us before we realized we needed them.
I speak, of course, of the awful decline in the quality of fortunes found in fortune cookies.
I had occasion to eat Chinese food the other day, which always makes me happy. And, as always, I approached my crisp dessert delicacy at the end of the meal with anticipation and delight. But what I found within was not delightful but insipid and uninspired.
You hardly ever get an actual fortune in your fortune cookies anymore. I mean a solid, straightforward, honest-to-goodness prediction of a future event. I like my cookies to perform as advertised, so that little slip of paper should read something like, "You will die in 17 minutes," or, "Something slightly unpleasant is about to happen to you, like having an onion drop on your head."
But nowadays cookies at your better Asian restaurants come in three varieties: Compliment Cookies, Advice Cookies, and Aphorism Cookies.
Compliment Cookies are the cheap substitute for fortunes. They say something nice about you, as if that was what you turned to baked goods for. "Your kindness is evident to all," or, "Your hard work makes you stand out," are not predictions of the future. I don't know if a compliment from a cookie is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn't usually work. How does it know? I bet total jerks get cookies that say, "You are warm-hearted and well loved." Where's the mystery in that?
Now, if there were insult cookies, that would be worth the price of admission. "What are you looking at, asshat?" or, "You've put on a few pounds--maybe drop the rest of this cookie, eh, Chunk-style?" I'd pay extra for those.
Advice Cookies just seem pushy and unhelpful, like an elderly uncle who always thinks he has the answers to all the problems in your life even though he last knew what was going on during the Cleveland administration and has never had successful human contact. "Always do your best," "Do the work you love," and, "Save a little every day," are not any more useful than the morals of after-school specials and motivational posters. They're also kind of insulting in that they suggest you are slacking before you even start. I usually hold the cookie in my fist and shake it, yelling, "I'm already doing my best, evil pastry!" before hurling the sharp fragments across the restaurant.
Aphorism Cookies, though, are the worst. At least Compliment and Advice Cookies show some slight interest in you as a person; Aphorism cookies just have bland admonishments about general topics. "A clean workplace is a good workplace," "Chopsticks don't kill people; people kill people--with chopsticks," "British television is often more pretentious than witty," or, "Licking toads is a cheap and effective high," don't even speak to me where I live. There's no mystical insight into my soul, no numinous foretelling of my fate, just some tired quote from Benjamin Franklin wrestled into no more than nine words for space considerations. I could get that from opening the almanac randomly, or by reading matchbooks in cheap midwestern diners. My oracular cookies are supposed to do more than the placemats at Cracker Barrel, you know?
I'm about to give up my stereotype of the Orient as mysterious and mystical if this keeps up.
It's late--can you tell?
I speak, of course, of the awful decline in the quality of fortunes found in fortune cookies.
I had occasion to eat Chinese food the other day, which always makes me happy. And, as always, I approached my crisp dessert delicacy at the end of the meal with anticipation and delight. But what I found within was not delightful but insipid and uninspired.
You hardly ever get an actual fortune in your fortune cookies anymore. I mean a solid, straightforward, honest-to-goodness prediction of a future event. I like my cookies to perform as advertised, so that little slip of paper should read something like, "You will die in 17 minutes," or, "Something slightly unpleasant is about to happen to you, like having an onion drop on your head."
But nowadays cookies at your better Asian restaurants come in three varieties: Compliment Cookies, Advice Cookies, and Aphorism Cookies.
Compliment Cookies are the cheap substitute for fortunes. They say something nice about you, as if that was what you turned to baked goods for. "Your kindness is evident to all," or, "Your hard work makes you stand out," are not predictions of the future. I don't know if a compliment from a cookie is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn't usually work. How does it know? I bet total jerks get cookies that say, "You are warm-hearted and well loved." Where's the mystery in that?
Now, if there were insult cookies, that would be worth the price of admission. "What are you looking at, asshat?" or, "You've put on a few pounds--maybe drop the rest of this cookie, eh, Chunk-style?" I'd pay extra for those.
Advice Cookies just seem pushy and unhelpful, like an elderly uncle who always thinks he has the answers to all the problems in your life even though he last knew what was going on during the Cleveland administration and has never had successful human contact. "Always do your best," "Do the work you love," and, "Save a little every day," are not any more useful than the morals of after-school specials and motivational posters. They're also kind of insulting in that they suggest you are slacking before you even start. I usually hold the cookie in my fist and shake it, yelling, "I'm already doing my best, evil pastry!" before hurling the sharp fragments across the restaurant.
Aphorism Cookies, though, are the worst. At least Compliment and Advice Cookies show some slight interest in you as a person; Aphorism cookies just have bland admonishments about general topics. "A clean workplace is a good workplace," "Chopsticks don't kill people; people kill people--with chopsticks," "British television is often more pretentious than witty," or, "Licking toads is a cheap and effective high," don't even speak to me where I live. There's no mystical insight into my soul, no numinous foretelling of my fate, just some tired quote from Benjamin Franklin wrestled into no more than nine words for space considerations. I could get that from opening the almanac randomly, or by reading matchbooks in cheap midwestern diners. My oracular cookies are supposed to do more than the placemats at Cracker Barrel, you know?
I'm about to give up my stereotype of the Orient as mysterious and mystical if this keeps up.
It's late--can you tell?
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Life? Don't Talk to Me About Life
I apologize for my lack of postage recently. I had thought to get by without comment, but some parties have made it known that I am a bad person for not posting, and with that I cannot argue. I sort of let myself fall out of the habit--I was without access to a computer on Saturday night down at my in-laws', and Sunday night was simply busy and I am a bad person. Last night was yet another "fell-asleep-on-the-couch-when-I-needed-to-grade" evenings; this night is not so different, only I woke up when I was supposed to so now I can grade.
Nothing looks quite as bleak as a stack of essays that must be marked at 3:32am.
Class this weekend was a mixed bag. Saturday morning we had a booth director out from ICM, which is the talent agency that represents Samantha (you can take a listen to her demo, along with many another famous client (like Mark Hamill, Jim Belushi, and Kathy Najimy), here; check out Jim Cummings and Maurice LaMarche for familiar voices you may not have put a name to before), which was fun; I didn't stand out particularly, and the director was generally nice to everyone, so no breakout hit there. In the afternoon we had Ned Lott (he of Disney vocal casting) again, and we got to read from the script to the new Narnia movie, which was very cool (we had to promise not to show anyone the script until next week). Again, an entertaining time, but while I may be able to imitate Mr. Beaver's accent, I'm just not a voice match for him, so it won't be my voice you hear from the plush doll or the video game. The clips of the film he brought in, while rough, looked very cool.
Then I stayed on to engineer the evening class, a Scene Study acting course taught by Susan Blu (also previously mentioned; she was the Pillsbury Dough Girl [for those old enough to remember that--I'm not one of them] and the mother in Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood; she's also over at ICM). It was very small--out of eight registered students, only five showed up. Though I was only really opening the door and making the coffee, it felt strange and powerful to be the only one in the studio for a while there, and because the numbers were low I was allowed to participate in the class.
I am the first to admit I could be a better actor, and (believe it or not) since the heart of doing well in this business is being believable no matter what kind of kooky role you're asked to play, an acting class is definitely in line with what I need. I had to pray to make myself take it seriously, though, because I'm simply no good at acting exercises. I've got a built-in smirk that pops up when people are "playing" at acting, and something about most theater games makes them seem goofy and pretentious. It's also hard to imagine DeNiro pretending to be a rabbit or Judy Dench trying to really be a telephone (not that I'm on that level or anything). I did take it more seriously than usual, and the exercises Susan had us do were not of the silly variety, but a great deal of self-consciousness that I've not experienced at Voicetrax before did creep in. I think there's some real value in bringing your "real" self to the work, and I know I need that more in most of the creative areas of my life, so it was good; still, I was not overly sad when, because of the low numbers, the class was ended early on Sunday and I was able to head home.
Onward and upward. This grading should (should, mind you) be my last late-night session this semester, as this is the last week of the semester. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the break, busy as it will be. As always, I'm disappointed with my performance this semester and look forward to a chance to start fresh next time around. I do start my CCC class this Wednesday evening (tonight, actually), but that tends to be fairly small with somewhat more motivated students, so it's not as bad.
There--you asked for more posts, and you get this kind of drivel in response. I hope you're happy.
Nothing looks quite as bleak as a stack of essays that must be marked at 3:32am.
Class this weekend was a mixed bag. Saturday morning we had a booth director out from ICM, which is the talent agency that represents Samantha (you can take a listen to her demo, along with many another famous client (like Mark Hamill, Jim Belushi, and Kathy Najimy), here; check out Jim Cummings and Maurice LaMarche for familiar voices you may not have put a name to before), which was fun; I didn't stand out particularly, and the director was generally nice to everyone, so no breakout hit there. In the afternoon we had Ned Lott (he of Disney vocal casting) again, and we got to read from the script to the new Narnia movie, which was very cool (we had to promise not to show anyone the script until next week). Again, an entertaining time, but while I may be able to imitate Mr. Beaver's accent, I'm just not a voice match for him, so it won't be my voice you hear from the plush doll or the video game. The clips of the film he brought in, while rough, looked very cool.
Then I stayed on to engineer the evening class, a Scene Study acting course taught by Susan Blu (also previously mentioned; she was the Pillsbury Dough Girl [for those old enough to remember that--I'm not one of them] and the mother in Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood; she's also over at ICM). It was very small--out of eight registered students, only five showed up. Though I was only really opening the door and making the coffee, it felt strange and powerful to be the only one in the studio for a while there, and because the numbers were low I was allowed to participate in the class.
I am the first to admit I could be a better actor, and (believe it or not) since the heart of doing well in this business is being believable no matter what kind of kooky role you're asked to play, an acting class is definitely in line with what I need. I had to pray to make myself take it seriously, though, because I'm simply no good at acting exercises. I've got a built-in smirk that pops up when people are "playing" at acting, and something about most theater games makes them seem goofy and pretentious. It's also hard to imagine DeNiro pretending to be a rabbit or Judy Dench trying to really be a telephone (not that I'm on that level or anything). I did take it more seriously than usual, and the exercises Susan had us do were not of the silly variety, but a great deal of self-consciousness that I've not experienced at Voicetrax before did creep in. I think there's some real value in bringing your "real" self to the work, and I know I need that more in most of the creative areas of my life, so it was good; still, I was not overly sad when, because of the low numbers, the class was ended early on Sunday and I was able to head home.
Onward and upward. This grading should (should, mind you) be my last late-night session this semester, as this is the last week of the semester. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the break, busy as it will be. As always, I'm disappointed with my performance this semester and look forward to a chance to start fresh next time around. I do start my CCC class this Wednesday evening (tonight, actually), but that tends to be fairly small with somewhat more motivated students, so it's not as bad.
There--you asked for more posts, and you get this kind of drivel in response. I hope you're happy.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity-Jig
I made it through the wind and the rain to my home once more. I am beyond pleased that the foul weather has put in an appearance again--now if only it would snow, and it would stay this way for a few months...
Class tonight went well enough, though not spectacularly. Our LA agent was a very nice fellow--he'd do perfectly as Christopher Guest's younger brother, and he was friendly and supportive. I did okay. It's hard because sometimes I do fantastically well, which means that when I'm just competent or close to, it feels like I've failed.
The tricky bit is, I'm never positive about what it is that makes the difference. In some ways I feel like I've plateaued in the voice work; I can do well with coaching and my instructors have been encouraging, but I can't seem to make the leap to doing a great job the first time out of the gate. And that is what the industry demands, because you usually only get a few minutes to look over the script, then have to jump into a booth and do the thing spot-on the first time before they usher you back out. Time is money in this industry, and a producer might read two dozen people for the same spot--and that just from your agency. The real professional is able to look at a script, figure out all its "beats" and turns, latch on to what the producer/writer/director/whatever is looking for, and is able to interpret the part terrifically, giving the creators more than they were hoping for and imparting a bit of the performer that is unique at the same time.
It's a tall order. At this point I can read a script and get a feel for it rather quickly, but it's figuring out what I bring to it that no one else can that's difficult, as well as making my performance match what I mean to convey. Samantha or other directors can coax it out after a few tries, but I have to learn to self-direct and get this on my own if I want to succeed. I don't seem to be getting noticably better at it. As always, I have to keep my eyes on God so that I don't become too attached to any particular outcome of any particular class.
On a closing note, I have discovered that the future Douglas Adams predicted has come one step closer to reality: tonight, I ran into a gas station pump with a Genuine People Personality.
No, really. Anyone who's read The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or even saw the movie, may recall that Marvin the paranoid android was a prototype GPP robot who was terminally depressed. If you recall, as he took Ford and Arthur through the Heart of Gold, he complained about the cheery personalities of the doors, which would thank the passer-by for allowing them to open and would hum with satisfaction for a job well done when they closed. Arthur reacted with horror to the idea of robots with personalities, and I could never quite figure out what bugged him so deeply about happy robots. Until tonight.
I had to fill the truck in Palm Springs, so stopped at Mobil station by the freeway. I was slightly annoyed at the canned Christmas music they were playing, which was bland and generic and was interrupted every 25.6 seconds for some smarmy announcement of snack items available in the Snak Stop. Then suddenly the recording started playing something along the lines of, "Hi! I'm your automated gas pump, and I'd just like to say it's been great to be of service this evening."
I almost screamed. It was terribly off-putting. I didn't know how to respond. Should I accept the gas pump's thanks? Should I ignore it? What part of it is the hose and nozzle, after all? And above all else, why in the world would we need a gas pump that was grateful for being used? Let's let inanimate objects remain inanimate, shall we? That way I don't risk offending my trash can for putting my garbage in it, or have to counsel my toaster about the sheer monotony of doing nothing but making toast. In the Hitchiker's Guide series, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has to devote entire operations to the psychological counseling of neurotic machinery; let's not see that played out here.
Class tonight went well enough, though not spectacularly. Our LA agent was a very nice fellow--he'd do perfectly as Christopher Guest's younger brother, and he was friendly and supportive. I did okay. It's hard because sometimes I do fantastically well, which means that when I'm just competent or close to, it feels like I've failed.
The tricky bit is, I'm never positive about what it is that makes the difference. In some ways I feel like I've plateaued in the voice work; I can do well with coaching and my instructors have been encouraging, but I can't seem to make the leap to doing a great job the first time out of the gate. And that is what the industry demands, because you usually only get a few minutes to look over the script, then have to jump into a booth and do the thing spot-on the first time before they usher you back out. Time is money in this industry, and a producer might read two dozen people for the same spot--and that just from your agency. The real professional is able to look at a script, figure out all its "beats" and turns, latch on to what the producer/writer/director/whatever is looking for, and is able to interpret the part terrifically, giving the creators more than they were hoping for and imparting a bit of the performer that is unique at the same time.
It's a tall order. At this point I can read a script and get a feel for it rather quickly, but it's figuring out what I bring to it that no one else can that's difficult, as well as making my performance match what I mean to convey. Samantha or other directors can coax it out after a few tries, but I have to learn to self-direct and get this on my own if I want to succeed. I don't seem to be getting noticably better at it. As always, I have to keep my eyes on God so that I don't become too attached to any particular outcome of any particular class.
On a closing note, I have discovered that the future Douglas Adams predicted has come one step closer to reality: tonight, I ran into a gas station pump with a Genuine People Personality.
No, really. Anyone who's read The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, or even saw the movie, may recall that Marvin the paranoid android was a prototype GPP robot who was terminally depressed. If you recall, as he took Ford and Arthur through the Heart of Gold, he complained about the cheery personalities of the doors, which would thank the passer-by for allowing them to open and would hum with satisfaction for a job well done when they closed. Arthur reacted with horror to the idea of robots with personalities, and I could never quite figure out what bugged him so deeply about happy robots. Until tonight.
I had to fill the truck in Palm Springs, so stopped at Mobil station by the freeway. I was slightly annoyed at the canned Christmas music they were playing, which was bland and generic and was interrupted every 25.6 seconds for some smarmy announcement of snack items available in the Snak Stop. Then suddenly the recording started playing something along the lines of, "Hi! I'm your automated gas pump, and I'd just like to say it's been great to be of service this evening."
I almost screamed. It was terribly off-putting. I didn't know how to respond. Should I accept the gas pump's thanks? Should I ignore it? What part of it is the hose and nozzle, after all? And above all else, why in the world would we need a gas pump that was grateful for being used? Let's let inanimate objects remain inanimate, shall we? That way I don't risk offending my trash can for putting my garbage in it, or have to counsel my toaster about the sheer monotony of doing nothing but making toast. In the Hitchiker's Guide series, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation has to devote entire operations to the psychological counseling of neurotic machinery; let's not see that played out here.
Friday, December 02, 2005
My Mind as a Blank
I sat here last night trying to think of something to write, and I failed.
And tonight, other than that issue, I'm blank again.
A lot of grading, a lot of outside issues, a lot of craziness seem to be taking over my brain. Yet none of it is particularly noteworthy: it's all very dull, mundane stuff.
I am looking forward to this weekend. I have a class titled "LA Connection" out at Voicetrax, at which several agents from LA agencies will be in attendance. It's not one of those classes at the end of which a student gets to audition at an agency, but it's always good to be up in front of real agents who can give you honest opinions about your actual standing. Just after that, I'm engineering for a second class, a scene study with Susan Blu, mentioned here before for the vast number of shows she provided a voice for and the yet vaster number she now produces. She's a terrifically nice lady and just cute as a bug--she's cemented in my mind the idea that to succeed in this business, you have to be a tiny blonde woman (like she and Samantha both, as well as a few other instructors).
And on Sunday, we celebrate St. Nicholas Day (a couple of days early). Maybe I'll explain that for the newcomers next time around. It's really a preview of Christmas, to make sure you're on the right path before the big day arrives; thanks primarily to my mother, it's really a kind of mini-Christmas itself. But I'm not one to complain about two Christmases.
Okay--this has taken a couple of hours to put up, thanks to the baby being unconscionably awake. I must stumble to bed. Until tomorrow, friends.
And tonight, other than that issue, I'm blank again.
A lot of grading, a lot of outside issues, a lot of craziness seem to be taking over my brain. Yet none of it is particularly noteworthy: it's all very dull, mundane stuff.
I am looking forward to this weekend. I have a class titled "LA Connection" out at Voicetrax, at which several agents from LA agencies will be in attendance. It's not one of those classes at the end of which a student gets to audition at an agency, but it's always good to be up in front of real agents who can give you honest opinions about your actual standing. Just after that, I'm engineering for a second class, a scene study with Susan Blu, mentioned here before for the vast number of shows she provided a voice for and the yet vaster number she now produces. She's a terrifically nice lady and just cute as a bug--she's cemented in my mind the idea that to succeed in this business, you have to be a tiny blonde woman (like she and Samantha both, as well as a few other instructors).
And on Sunday, we celebrate St. Nicholas Day (a couple of days early). Maybe I'll explain that for the newcomers next time around. It's really a preview of Christmas, to make sure you're on the right path before the big day arrives; thanks primarily to my mother, it's really a kind of mini-Christmas itself. But I'm not one to complain about two Christmases.
Okay--this has taken a couple of hours to put up, thanks to the baby being unconscionably awake. I must stumble to bed. Until tomorrow, friends.