Much Ado About... Nothing?

In the fine tradition of Elizabethan theatre, the Los Angeles County Master of Revels has banned this weekend's performance on account of lewdness or the plague or something. OK, actually it has to do with a conditional use permit that wasn't processed correctly, I think. I'll keep you all posted. In the meantime, here's my chin with a couple of friends, Meegs and Wendibus, whom I met long ago at the Second City Immersion Workshop. Meegs is now in the conservatory program in Chicago, improv capital of the universe (with apologies to the fine improvisators of Alpha Centauri), and was visiting li'l ol' L.A. for the weekend.

Much Ado About Dogberry

Truly, I've been much adoing and not much blogging lately. Last week I was in two student films, one of which answered the question, "What would Jesus smoke?" I played a cigarrete-puffing, sunglasses-wearing Messiah in a film that dealt with the Second Coming, and the director asked me what brand I wanted. Naturally, I chose Camels. (Kids: Jesus probably wouldn't want you to smoke.) But mostly I've been thinking about my upcoming role in Much Ado About Nothing. Now, I tend to view myself as the princely or at least lordly type, but for some reason the director seemed to see me as the clown, so who am I to disagree? Besides, I really wanted to be in this production, so I agreed even though I had reservations about the part. One of the first people I told about this said, "You lucky bastard! That's one of Shakespeare's best roles!" I might still choose Hamlet, Macbeth, Iago, or a number of others, if anyone were offering, but I've come to respect the Dog a bit more than I did. Early on, Verges and I were running lines and drinking Margaritas at Abuelita's when a guy at another table started speaking my part. I asked him when he had played the master constable and he said he hadn't but he'd always wanted to. Instead, he had played Benedick—the male romantic lead. One friend, whom I told that I hadn't pictured myself as this character before, said I'd make a great Dogberry (uh... thanks?), although I could never top Michael Keaton (thanks again). Where would we be without our friends? But I have to try not to think about M.K., or William Kemp or any of the thousands upon thousands of other Dogberrys before me, and just go out there and be my own ass—the biggest, baddest, loudest ass I can be. Yes, the director encouraged me to go over the top, so I've been pushing a little further with each rehearsal, expecting him eventually to ask me to tone it down a notch. Hasn't happened yet.

"Do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass."

Time: Saturday & Sunday @ 1 p.m.
Place: Los Angeles Shakespeare Co., 1909 Topanga Cyn Blvd., Topanga, Calif.

Something About My Ass

In Friday's improv show, we did a game called "Late for Work," in which I played an employee trying to explain to my boss why I was late. The catch was that I was the only person in the theater who didn't know the reason, which was based on suggestions from the audience. Fortunately, I had two helpful coworkers standing behind the boss, acting it out. I figured out fairly early on that my anal region was involved somehow, but for some reason it took me a few dozen wild guesses to figure out that I had stopped off for an enema. (Again, these suggestions come from the audience, so don't blame me.) Backstage, I commented that I didn't think I had ever said the word "ass" in front of my parents before, and I had just said it 50 times in the space of two minutes. My director then told me it was my mother who suggested that the bag had burst. Coincidentally, I will also say "ass" several times in "Much Ado About Nothing," but that's different because it's Shakespeare.

Phoning It In

Last night I had my first audition by phone. I was up for a brief voice-over in a short film. The director was supposed to call me and listen to me read the sides, but somehow I never got the sides, so he explained the scenario to me and asked me to improv something, which I did. There was a moment of silence, during which I thought, well, that's that; I'll never hear from him again. Then he said something to the effect o, that was almost exactly what he had in mind when he wrote it. Then he asked me to try another part, and I did, and he said that was maybe even better than what he wrote. So he called me back later that night and offered me an on-camera role. On a related note, tomorrow night at 8 I perform improv with the Berubians at The Second Stage, 431 N. Brookhurst, Anaheim, Calif. What's a Berubian? Come learn the terrifying answer for only $10.

Comedy Is Easy

Life is hard.

Feeblebrox

As an actor who takes responsibility seriously, I would never show up on the night of a performance under the influence of opiates, at least without letting my director and fellow cast members know. At the start of last Wednesday's improv workshop, the leader told us not to be afraid to leave the stage for a moment and come back when it served the scene. I eagerly volunteered for the first exercise and soon put his advice into action, only to discover that someone, whom I will call F.N. Idiot, had placed a 2x2x2-foot wooden cube directly behind the blackout curtain at the exit I had chosen. I'll just lie here in agony for a few minutes and go back out when I'm ready, I thought to myself, but soon I heard someon calling my character's name, so I gamely and lamely staggered back on stage and sat down. I could hear people talking to me, but couldn't understand what they were saying. As a master of improv, I covered by saying, "I can hear you talking to me, but I can't understand what you're saying." After the scene, I limped off stage, feeling a sense of accomplishment for having completed the exercise. Fearless Leader then stood up in front of the assembly and said, "That was horrible!", stretching the third word out for about five seconds and making a face as if he had just mistaken a cat turd for Almond Roca. At that moment, I learned that harsh criticism, even from a mentor, is not the most painful thing in the world. Compared to a knee injury, it hardly rates. Wounded yet somehow less vulnerable than before, I made my way through another exercise that night. Some people thought the limp was an affectation, but the more observant were beginning to suspect something was seriously wrong. I was still in denial myself, and got up again for the final exercise of the day, but my body had other ideas. While our leader was explaining the rules of the game, I begin to feel cold sweat running down my face, and a queasiness in my stomach, and I quietly left the stage. After the workshop broke up, a couple of people offered to drive me home or to the hospital, but I was kind of shrugging it off until I realized I was too dizzy to drive myself. So about four hours later, after getting X-rays, a tetanus shot and a parting dose of morphine, I rode back to the theater with my friend Mike, a funny guy and a real mensch. I spent the night there and drove to work Thursday morning, from where I called the director of "Hitchhiker's" and told him that I was still willing to do the show, but didn't think I could do all the leaps and falls that I had been doing. I also said I would understand if he decided to step into the role (as writer and the director, he knew the lines). He assured me that was not going to happen. So I e-mailed the cast to warn them that my performance might be very different because of the injury and the painkillers. They were very understanding and adapted their own performances marvelously. They also tell me I said and did some very funny and surprising things. I'll have to take their word for it until I see the video. I do think that not being able to rely so much on the wild flailing and crashing about may have inspired me to dig deeper and find comedic opportunities I had missed before, so injuring myself my have actually helped my performance. I wouldn't recommend it, though.

Never Say Never Again

OK, I confess, I've been going to a weekly improv workshop, and on February 24, 2006, I will be performing as part of an improv ensemble at the Second Stage (431 N. Brookhurst, Anaheim; admission is a paltry $10). Now, loyal and attentive readers might remember when I wrote that I wasn't interested in that sort of thing, and at the time it was true. But I sort of stumbled across this workshop while doing another show at the theater, and I liked the low-key, informal vibe almost as much as the fact that I wasn't being charged anything for the privilege. I decided to attend on a drop-in basis, and ended up dropping in every week until I dropped right into a show. It could be a one-night-stand or a long-term relationship, depending on how that first date goes.

Driven to Succeed?

Hey, I got a part! I guess I'll be wearing a blue-green coat and driving off-road to all my auditions from now on. The role is Dogberry. I'll admit I'm not too familiar with the play, but from that noble surname I'm guessing he's the dashing young hero who saves the day and wins the fair lady.

On the Edge

"Hi, it's a pleasure to meet you; my name's Keith," I said, confidently extending my hand and flashing a big, friendly grin, while my car idled two feet behind me, with its front bumper hanging over a precipice and its rear wheel a foot off the ground. OK, let me do something I couldn't do then and back up a bit. I was feeling pretty confident as I drove to my audition on Topanga Canyon Blvd., a twisting road through wooded hills that seem hundreds of miles from L.A. I had a secret weapon to set me apart from the crowd: a blue-green sport coat I picked up for $5 at a thrift store. He won't forget the guy in the blue-green sport coat, I thought. I found the address, saw a sign that said something about parking, turned into what looked like a driveway, and suddenly found myself staring down into a ravine and experiencing a serious loss of traction. I shifted into park, set the hand brake and jumped out, not bothering to take my keys with me. The wide-eyed director arrived on the scene looking more shaken than I felt, and I cheerfully introduced myself. I'm sure I made an impression, and not with my wardrobe. After that, things went pretty smoothly. I showed my AAA card to a towtruck driver who was finishing up with some other poor sap across the street, and a CHP officer diverted traffic for a few minutes while we got the car back on solid ground. So I did a couple of monologues and a cold reading, and what I want to know is, why did my heart start racing and my mouth dry up when I stepped on stage for the umpteenth time but nearly driving into oblivion scarcely phased me?

Thumbs Up!

My parents were at last night show, along with a couple of Holidaze cast members and a few people from the improv workshop, and they didn't run away in horror. In fact, they stuck around after the show talking, smiling, and laughing. I'd call that a smashing success! In fact, we got some huge laughs, and a couple of them were intentional. I have to say this isn't quite the thought-provoking, heart-rending kind of drama I had envisioned doing when I began this actor's journey. I certainly didn't envision the costume. But this kind of whacky, knockabout comedy is a lot of fun to perform, and, when things work like they're supposed to, to watch. And the bruises barely show.

You Are Where You Are

It's a truism that wherever you go, there you are. But where you are also in part shapes you who are by determining the people you will meet, the things you will see, and the opportunities and obstacles you will encounter. This is not idle philosophical rambling. Well it sort of is, but it's prompted by the fact that my rent's about to go up over 100 percent, so I've got to find a new home. Now, I'm probably not going to go more than 30 miles from my current location. My roots are pretty deep, I've got friends and family here, and I need to be close by when Spielberg calls. ("Mr. Bush, we're looking for some one to play Loser No. 3." "Count me in, Stevarino!" "Never call me Stevarino again.") But 30 miles encompasses a lot of territory in L.A., and I need to think seriously about what it is I'm doing with my life and how much I want to keep doing whatever it is. I hate thinking seriously.

Head Games

I haven't gone on as many auditions as usual in the past few weeks, partly because of my schedule but also because my headshots don't reflect my current hirsute appearance. Anyone who called me in expecting clean-cut, conservative guy would be disappointed. So, just for the heck of it, I submitted to two or three CDs with an outlandish picture of myself that a fellow cast member took at a recent rehearsal. It's pretty much everything a headshot isn't supposed to be. Yet, within an hour, someone called me to set up an audition. That's a higher success rate than the ones I paid specialists hundreds of dollars for! Maybe I had discovered a secret tool for success. So, after a two-hour drive and a two-minute audition, the director says, "That was great, but the client may be looking for someone more conservative-looking." So, I ask you: What is a headshot for, anyway?

Let's Get Hitched

Come see me shine in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I'm not saying I'll be good, just shiny. Second Stage Theatre, 431 N. Brookhurst, Anaheim, (714) 502-2249, Fridays at 8, January 20 to February 10. Click for directions.

Mild and Crazy Guy

OK, for the last four Friday's I've been this shockingly over-the-top, in-your-face party guy on stage. So why am I the one at the cast party standing there like a stiff in the background? Oh, well, I had a great time, really. I just internalized it. This Friday I get to try to be even loonier than last week in a brand-new production. I hope there are witnesses. Click on the link to get a sneak preview, right after the cast party pictures. (If you're reading this in the archives, the link may no longer work as advertised.)

Final Daze

Tomorrow night is the last chance to see me (and some other people) in Holidaze, the show that made the critics say, "A hell of a lot better than A Christmas Carol" (my father) and "Where did we go wrong?" (my mother). Really. Friday night, 8 p.m., 431 N. Brookhurst, a measly $10.

Spirit of Christmas Pants

(From an actual Christmas Eve conversation.) MOM: I've never been one to pry. ME: I've always appreciated that. MOM: But I couldn't help notice you have a pair of shiny silver pants in the back seat of your car. ME: They're for a show. MOM: Oh. (beat) What kind of show? ME: It's a kind of science-fiction/comedy thing. MOM: (skeptically) I see. ME: Look, don't judge the pants without seeing the rest of the outfit, OK? MOM: You aren't going to wear them on the street, are you? ME: They're for a show!

Take a Trip With Me

A friend kindly pointed out that if I want people to attend my current performance, I should provide some information about it. The show is called Holidaze, and I appear as a larger-than-life character in a wild and crazy sketch called "The Day Tripper." It's whacky, zany stuff that the opening-night audience ate up with a spoon.

Fridays at 8 p.m. through Jan. 13
Second Stage
431 N. Brookhurst
Suite 140
Anaheim, CA
(714) 502-2249
http://tinyurl.com/4o7c6

Not So Tiny, Now

A Christmas Carol closed just in time. Tiny Tim, who was pregnant, got harder to carry every week. But I'll sure miss it. It was a great cast and an exciting production to be part of, and although I wasn't the star I got to exercise my chops in a lot of ways: broad comedy, high drama, heavy exposition, even a little singing and dancing. (Although I'm no threat to... uh, you know, that famous singing, dancing, acting guy.) The best show was probably the one we did for a theater full of sixth-graders. I wasn't sure they'd appreciate our faithful telling of this old story, but they laughed without inhibition at the humor and were utterly silent during the dramatic scenes, except for the sniffles. I'd like to think we touched a few of them, but it is cold and flu season. We also had a large group of high-school students (and high-school students do seem larger than ever). I think they were there for extra credit, but even they were very attentive. Maybe there was going to be a quiz afterward, but I like to think we reached them--us and that Dickens guy.

Unorthodox Christmas

I've just taken a role in another holiday show. Holidaze will open Dec. 23, a scant week after Carol closes, and continue well after even Orthodox Christmas is over. Oh, well, if my father can leave the artificial tree up all year, I guess I can do this. Keep the badnjak burning!

Two Little Words

In case you're still wondering, this is a blog of me, by me, and for me. I am my own principal author, chief topic, and target audience. But just to prove I'm not entirely self-centered, I will devote a large chunk of this entry to the opinions of someone else, namely, Press-Telegram theater critic John Farrell: "Keith Bush is a warmly believable Bob Cratchit." OK, so "warmly believable" isn't exactly "stunningly brilliant," but it was nice to see it in print this morning, nonetheless. I didn't know if he'd mention me, or what he'd write if he did. Of all the words he might have chosen, those weren't bad. The first thing the director told me about the character was that warmth was the key to making it work. And Cratchit is so different from me and the range of emotion so great, believability was a big concern of mine. Oh, John also wrote several hundred words that didn't directly concern me. Some highlights: "The sheer complexity of the production is worth the admission price. Nine actors fill the piece's 38 roles.... [Bart Shattuck] has the presence and range to make Scrooge believable, whether he is being penurious, frightened half to death by the ghosts that visit him or gleefully happy when he finally discovers Christmas.... The rest of the cast proves its versatility in quick scene changes, faster costume changes and the ability to use the limited space of the Black Box to full effect. Brando Cutts is perhaps the king of the fast change in this production. He goes from the white ghost of Marley to a storybook genie to three other roles, including the Ghost of Christmas Present, in what seems like less time than it takes to tell about the changes.... Zavanna DeLaRoca is delightful as Tiny Tim.... a homey (and professional) telling of a great story, much of it in the author's rich language. If Christmas is a time for simple pleasures (and it is, despite all the advertising to the contrary), this is exactly the kind of show that brings those pleasures home. Nothing spectacular, nothing too fancy, just a rich and pleasant eveninng for family and those who love Dickens."