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Dancing With The Big Kids

I'm suddenly surrounded by people who know more than I do.

I'm always with someone who knows more than I do. (Everyone knows something I don't.)

But, now, in this experience, I am surrounded by people who are much more experienced than I am.

A Freshman At the Senior Dance
That's how a participant in an improvisation training recently put it. "I so often feel," she said, "like I'm a freshman at the senior dance." 

That's how I feel.

And I'm going to feel it big, right through this Saturday night's performance at the Riffe Center.

One night only. Tickets will be sold at the door (or in advance here). It's a great play and we will fully stage it (although we will be carrying our scripts).

Meet the Seniors
I'm not the youngest person on stage (unless age = cumulative time, life-to-date, acting on stage).

Consider the formidable talents: 

• Geoffrey Nelson, founding Artistic Director, CATCO
• Jeanine Thompson, Associate Professor, OSU Department of Theatre
• and magnificent AVLT Company Members Elena Perantoni and Acacia Duncan. 

(And me.)

The play will be directed by well-loved actor Ian Short, also known for his direction of Available Light’s Our Town, The Odd Couple, and To Kill A Mockingbird.

So Why Is This Different?
In all the other plays throughout my alleged acting career, there has always been someone beside me on stage — someone — who has less experience acting than I do.

Frankly, I've quietly thought, "Anytime I'm the most experienced actor on stage, the show is in trouble."

That's not happening on Saturday. These rehearsals have been unbelievably eye opening. Everyone around me is more than an actor. Each one is a theatre teacher, too.

Example.
My character — the most complex character I've ever played — has a strange stage direction in the script. I don't know what to do.

So, late last night, I sent a note to Geoff Nelson (who plays "James") asking him what to do. I broke a rule. It's bad form to ask another actor for direction. (That's the director's job.) But I'm in a learning mode and wanted to hear what the other guy on stage might say.

So I asked:

Hey, Geoff, this probably breaks all the rules (not that I know any), but next time I see you would you please demonstrate (from page 45) what you think it might look like when "Schultz convulses in horrible, strained, silent laughter"?

Here is his answer. (Ethical malfeasance alert: I don't have Geoff's permission to post this. There isn't time. I should not post it. I apologize in advance, which is not a true apology. It isn't fair. Geoff didn't prepare this for public viewing.)

But consider how excellently he wrote this in the late night. If you aren't an actor or director you might not appreciate how he does not tell me how to do it. (That would be too much intervention.) He simply teaches — correctly — where I should be spending my energy to "convulse" in the "horrible, strained, silent laughter." 

Geoff's answer, unedited, beautiful as it is:

Sure — but I imagine the problem you are having with it is not how it looks but what his intention is in doing it. Presumably, this is something he does completely consciously as a way to express, either to himself or to her, his reaction to whatever she has said just before this. The fact that "horrible" and "strained" are combined with "laughter" suggest to me that he views what she said (and I don't remember what that was) as incredibly hurtful yet also absurd.  It might be helpful to consider what his "subtext" might be, if you are familiar with that term in the actor sense.  (An actor has a lot of choices about the meaning and intention of every line he says, beyond the literal content of the words. (So a line like "Hi" can have a subtext of "I'm really glad to see you" or "Oh, my God, what are you doing here?" or "Who are you, exactly?"). His subtext might be "She is driving me crazy" or it might be "You are driving me crazy." Since the character himself is "acting" this feeling — illustrating it, in a way — then it is really a gesture, the same sort of thing as hitting yourself on the head and then saying "I could have had a V8!" or pointing your finger at the side of your head about someone or something and humming the Twilight Zone theme.  He is commenting.  The size of the gesture — it's a very large comment — is meant to convey how deeply he is affected by what she is doing.  I don't think you need to worry about it being "real" -- it is his way of giving expression to the depth and pain of feelings that he cannot easily express in a natural way.  It's his symbol of how he is feeling, meant to convey how much more strongly he is feeling it than his outside demeanor might indicate.  It is also a pretty bold and a very brave sort of statement of who he is and what he feels that no other character in this play would have the [courage] to make — at least at this point in the play.  

Anyway, I'd be happy to work on it with you.

Isn't that marvelous? In Geoff's hands — and the others on the cast and crew are equally gifted teachers — this is a truly teachable moment.

I'm sorry for posting Geoff's comments without his permission. I will seek it today.

Come. 
Go ahead. Come, spur of the moment!

 

One great show. One night only.

Two weeks from this Saturday, on August 20th, I'll be appearing in a play called Circle Mirror Transformation. One night only.

It's a wonderful piece that's won a ton of awards all over the country, but there are more reasons to encourage you to attend.

An All-Star Cast (and me)
You'll see Geoffrey Nelson (founding Artistic Director of CATCO) and Jeanine Thompson (the head of OSU's Acting & Directing program), alongside beloved Available Light company members Elena Perantoni and Acacia Duncan (both seen in far too many hits to list here.)

And me.

No Do-Overs
It's a one-night-only production. There's a particular electricity that comes from knowing we've only got one shot to get it right. (It's a staged reading though, so we'll have the scripts to back us up.)

For A Good Cause
And, it's a fundraiser. Available Light's mission is to make great theater accessible for everyone who wants to attend. My appearance in this show, and your attendance, will support their Free Readings Series and their Pay What You Want ticketing program. 

A Personal Note
Personally, I love this show because it's about acting — and about people who dream of being actors. That hits pretty close to home. No. It hits home directly. Right in the home in my heart. 

For Tickets And More Information
Please visit: http://avlt.co/avltcmt or call 614-558-7408.

Hope to see you there.

Busy or best? (And risk of embarrassment.)

A hero speaks.

James Franco to Charlie Rose (May 6, 2011) on how he gets so much done: 

"I'm stretched. I'm very busy.... 

"I find that, if I have free time, it just gets filled. I do do that to myself. But I also don't feel like I need to be the best at everything. I am pursuing these things, not to necessarily master them. I am pursuing them in what, I think, is a very humble way. And I am happy that I am just engaged with them.... 

"I never said I was going to be the best author. I am just trying, you know, to write the best book that I can."

[Later, Rose: "You're not afraid to take a risk."]
"No. Because that's what artists are allowed to do. Actors aren't allowed to do that in the same way. Actors are supposed to deliver good performances and then let the movies speak for themselves. Artists and musicians have a different medium and they're allowed to bring more of the personal to their work... 

"[Describes and quotes Ryan Trecartin, Art For The Age Of YouTube:] 'Look, we are a culture that is getting more and more used to embarrassing ourselves.'

"Embarrassment use to be something that really held me back. I mean I just really didn't want to do that because I didn't want to look bad.... Now? I don't care as long as I know that my intentions are pure, I have the right motives: of trying to something new, of trying to find something new, and if that means that I'm going to fail, it's O.K. I'm going to take that risk."

A Closing Comment
"I am not happy having a lot of other people shape who I am, and telling me how I'm supposed to be."

Who is your hero today?

Pulling Strings

Last weekend, I enjoyed the puppet artistry of Tony Auseon in Available Light Theatre's original Skyscrapers of the Midwest.

(I'm going back next weekend. You?)

Anyway, I remember when Matt Slaybaugh once said: "No puppets."

Well, puppets — and Matt, too, of course — have come a long way.

If You Ever...
...loved a horse...

...loved a puppet...

...were someone's horse or puppet...

...then you will like this TED video. (And you will appreciate Skyscrapers of the Midwest.)

How To Memorize — And Why

Last week, I finally passed a substantial memorization test.

Since 2008, I've been in five theatrical productions. Each one required me to learn lines.

Memorization Has Never Come Easily.
I'm not a natural memorizer. I prefer to wing it, relying on wit and improvisation.

So, I failed to fully memorize my lines for the first four plays. There were moments of stage panic, the blood chilling fear of falling out of character. During the best moments, I was acting, but was never free enough — from The Fear — to truly be the character. Not good enough.

But last week during ConAm's XMAS, I had my lines. They came to me, reliably, without undue anxiety. I was able to play the role, enjoyably for me and the audience. What was different this time?

I knew my lines. I had memorized them. Not cold, but darn near completely.

That let me act, rather than recite. It was a lot more fun.

I Believe In Memorization.
During the past decade or so, we — as a nation seeking to educate its people — rejected rote memorization. Memorization became the sign of an education producing doers rather than thinkers: factory workers and masons rather than engineers and architects.

And what, pray tell, is ignoble about working in a factory or a trade? Why would we ignorantly disregard the skills and efforts that built — and are needed to sustain — this country? Why would we disdain the hands that sew and hew for us? O, short-sighted, comfort-seeking countryman, learn to fix thy own commode!

Now, when everything is on the Interwebs, we don't need to remember anything — except where we put that damn cell phone. Because, once the beloved cell phone is found, our facts are at hand, a mere Google away.

But memorization is a fundamental exercise of the brain. It is the bench press of mental fitness training. It helps the brain stay pliable and plastic — and neuroplasticity matters. We memorize, not only to remember a fact or song, but also to have stronger memory muscle.

I'm going to get my next creativity class to team memorize a poem, each student taking one stanza of Robert Browning's beautiful Rabbi Ben Ezra. ("Grow old along with me! / The best is yet to be,....")

How To Memorize
A year ago, I wrote about memorizing. I wrote about it, rather than spending the time actually memorizing my lines. (That's a sign that I wasn't going to be ready. And writing about memorization is not memorizing. It's like porno, a poor substitute for the real thing.)

Anyway, I used new methods this year and they really worked. Actually, they are old methods, with some technology thrown in. Here's what I did.

I followed the effective suggestions of four memorable teachers from Available Light Theatre: Matt Slaybaugh, Ian Short, Eleni Papaleonardos and Acacia Duncan. Here are their suggestions:

1. One line at a time. Repeat a line aloud 100 times without acting. Just chant it with a variety of inflection and with no inflection. Over and over again. It quickly becomes muscle memory. After repeating the line so many times, there really is no other way — no other words in no other order —  those words could come out. After mastering a line, add a second line. And the next. Onward. This seems slow and painstaking, but it works wonderfully and — objectively — you only have so many lines and each of them needs to be memorized. One at at time makes sense.
2. Listen to the play. Record the entire play — swiftly again without much inflection — and listen to it over and over again. (I use Garage Band on my Macintosh, then burn it to a CD.) Speak or whisper along with the recording. It's great while driving. This teaches the flow of the narrative, the order of scenes, the logic of the structure. Again: over and over.
3. Learn your cues. Record a different version of the play: just the others' lines. Leave the right amount of silence between for your lines — so you can say your lines as you listen to the recording. Practice it over and over and you will master your cues.
4. Don't lose your voice. I need to hear my mouth forming the words but, if I am too nervous about the memorization, my neck will be tight and my voice strained. And I will lose my voice during the memorization. How terrible: to know the lines, but not be able to say them! Separate memorization from acting.
5. Take breaks. It's too dull to keep at it endlessly. Take a break every half hour.
6. Review all lines every morning and every afternoon. Even after you know the lines and are off-book. Even on the days of performances.

Sound like drugery? Poor baby. Want to know your lines?

You'll know you have them memorized when you can go about your day — taking a shower, folding laundry — reciting your lines.

Which reminds me of a joke.

An aspiring actor humbly peeks into the door of a theatre agent's shabby office on Broadway.

The agent is on the phone, saying "Yeah.... Yeah.... Yeah.... Hang on a minute." He looks at the actor and barks, "Say: 'Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?'"

The actor screws up his best dramatic face and deeply intones, "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?"

"Great," says the agent. Then, into the phone, "Yeah, I got a guy for that. Sure. He's on his way." He hangs up the phone. "O.K., kid. this is your lucky day. You're hired," says his agent. "Go to Grand Central. Take the first train on the New Haven Rail Line. Get off at Stamford. A car will be waiting for you at the station. You're going to the dinner theatre there. An actor just fell sick. You have one line: 'Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?' Got it? Good. Go."

Rushing to Grand Central, the actor prepares for his moment on stage: "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?" He hustles to the train, "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?" All the way on the train, "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?... Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?... Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?"

He bounds off the train at Stamford and a cab driver says, "You the actor?" 

He replies: "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?"

"Get in," says the driver. "We ain't got a moment to lose."

They careen to the theatre and screech to a stop on the gravel drive at the stage entrance. "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?... Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?..."

He rushes into the door where the stage manager says, "Who are you?"

"Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?"

"Great," says the stage manager. "Just in time." And shoves the actor through the curtain.

As the actor lands on the stage: FLASH! BOOM!

"What the hell was that?"

Which reminds me of a true story.
The day before the off-book rehearsal — when everything is to be memorized and the scripts are no longer used on stage by the actors — I asked Matt Slaybaugh, the director: "Do any actors really know their lines at off-book?"

"Some do," he said. "Do you know what we call them?"

"What?"

"The good ones."

Learn your lines.

It's About Us, Here, Now.

Charles Dickens wrote to change England.

(If you don't want to read, just check out the video trailer to my next show.)

And he did, many times, in many ways, with many stories. He wrote truth to power — felling abusive institutions and unkind traditions.

A Christmas Carol, for example, changed employers' denial of a day off for a major holiday. The wealthy industrialists of mid-19th century England stood on the backs of a working poor. And those poor, those who were fortunate enough to be working, were working endless hours for sub-poverty wages.

But This Isn't About Them Back Then.
Dickens cared for his British society, but — for us, here, now — that's merely a quaint moment in history.

When we hear the title, "A Christmas Carol," we smilingly recall the characters — Scrooge, Cratchit, and Tiny Tim — and the story of the three ghosts. But the story is stuck in its time: coated with 150+ years of literary dust and bestowed our deserving love and respect.   

But Dickens didn't write A Christmas Carol to be an old story. He wrote it to change England.

So, Can We Use It To Change Us, Here, Now?
Frankly, A Christmas Carol isn't — as I see it — really about Christmas. It's about being human, including developing the ability to engage with others.

It's like the Bible: old stories about them, back then. They become powerful only when we relate to those stories. We have to make them about us, here, now. 

This is the secret to the Passover Seder, and possibly the reason Jews do disproportionately well in Hollywood. We have learned to tell an old story — Exodus — to our children every year at Passover in a way that it is newly relevent to us, so that we address our own bondage (to wealth, to work, to whatever) and the bondage of those around us — and cause our own redemption.

We tell Exodus as if it is about us, here, now.

And That's What We're Doing With A Christmas Carol
The playwrights and actors (I'm one of both) recognize that our friends and neighbors are all too often disappointed with the year-end holidays. Why is that? Are expectations not met?

Or is it because we disengage with our true, current passions during the holidays — as we try to recreate the passions of our past.

We seek — with this show — to encourage audiences, upon leaving the theatre, to approach the holidays mindfully, with intention: to engage with others, to teach our children, to know who we are.

No matter what holiday we each choose to embrace. 

The basics: Riffe Center's Studio Two Theatre for five days only starting December 8th. Details about the show (tickets, times, dates) are at XMASwithArtie.com. 

In the meantime, enjoy this brief video trailer which shows scenes from last year's premiere. (Last year's audiences made many suggestions — and the play is, as a result, about 25% new). 

 

Co-written by Matt Slaybaugh, Sean Christopher Lewis and me. Directed by Matt Slaybaugh.

Showtimes, ticketing and other show details are here: XMASwithArtie.com. Feel free to contact me with any questions.

Sweet Treat

It's become quite a tradition.

Whenever I'm in a play, my mother makes candy for opening night. (Like tonight.)

Not just for me. Not just for the cast. 

For everybody. Every last person in the theatre.

Jackie (that might be "Mrs. Isaac" to you) spends weeks making the candy, hours bagging it — and twelve months negotiating with me about how it is and is not to be distributed.

Through her generosity, candy making talent, love of son, and motherly desire for control, Jackie has taught me something about my own motivation in the theatre. (She has taught me nothing about letting her preview blog posts that mention her.)

First, her thirst for control.
Just to help me keep this straight, let me summarize the rules...

Basic Idea:
"Do you really want me to do this again? I'm happy to make candy for everyone."

What It Is:
Two pieces per tiny bag: one dark chocolate, one milk chocolate, both with a lovely, crunchy, buttery brittle inside. (There is a long-lasting family debate over which chocolate is better. People have taken sides and dug in. In a rare defection, I recently switched — for good — to the younger, more life-affirming milk chocolate team.) 

Prohibition Against Selling:
No leftover candy may be sold at the rest of the shows. 
Sure, people might want to pay for it, but noooo. We cannot sell it. Why, Mom? "If we sell it, we face greater expectations — and perhaps litigation if someone doesn't like it, chokes on it, or dies from it. I'm not a professional candy maker, so it is free." Then, sotto voce, "I'm warning you, Artie."

Only in your own mother's face can you see the world's most beautiful smile combined with a withering, disapproving glare. 

Official Annual Protest Over Bags: 
"The bag has no class." It is a tiny ziplock bag. It is humiliating to both candy and candy maker. But better bags make too much noise in a theatre. And we don't want to contribute to that in any way. This is a yearly frustration, as noted in the minutes.

What Does The Label Mean?
"The labels that Artie printed don't make sense." Each bag bears a no-class mailing label with a cheerful call to action. [Note to Mom: It's adapted from a line from the play.]

There are more rules, but — really — you just want the candy.

Learning From Mom
I've already shown you a poem written about her and extolled her civic engagement.

Now I shall describe how her candy making is like my acting. (Just crunchier. And universally appealing.)

They are both sweet treats
created by hobbyists
who eschew going pro. 
Mom doesn't want to be a professional candy maker. People have long asked Jackie, "Why don't you sell this?"

Her answer: "I don't want to."

She doesn't want the litigation and headaches.

And I don't want to be a professional actor. People have asked me (with a smile): "Is your goal Broadway?"

My answer: "Heavens no."

I want to live with my family. They are Ohioans.

Like my mother, I just want to offer a sweet treat to our friends and beloved town. 

Must every ambition be world domination?

Get some.
Jackie's candy will be given to everyone in the theatre tonight. (Please see above for rules.) Any candy left over will be offered — egad — for free at the bake sale in the lobby during later performances. (Feel free to make an unrelated, spontaneous, tax-deductible contribution to Available Light at the rate of $1.25 per piece of free candy.)

Tickets are selling briskly — happily, some remain available for all shows. Ticket information: HarperLeeAVLT.com.

Why Act? To Fail Brilliantly!

In the wings of the stage, or out in the empty house, or in the green room, while some of the cast rehearses on stage, the rest of us wait to be called for our next scene on stage.

We chat quietly.

A Recurring Topic
We chat about our characters and our motivations. We chat about our struggle to memorize lines. We praise the other actors. ("Oh, those kids. They are simply amazing.")

A frequent question: Why? Why do you act?

Why? comes in many forms. "What acting have you done?" "What shows have you been in?" "What do you like about this experience?"

Each question begs a different answer, but they all deal with a central aspect of acting: The Actor's Motivation.

The Actor's Motivation
No, not that motivation. Not the character's motivation, which is the actor's primary concern at hand.

These backstage conversations deal with the actor's motivation. Why are you acting?

I hear Why? from co-actors — and well beyond the theatre: family, friends, business colleagues, mentors, teachers, blog readers. They wonder why I invest so much time and energy in the process.

If I had a therapist, my therapist would be asking, "And how do you feel about acting?"

So that I don't repeat myself (the core mission of this blogsite), here's my answer.

Why I Am Acting
There are several reasons, none of which are my primary reason:

• The catalyst that returned me to theatre. You know this story. It was the single largest lesson I learned at Yale. It's when I rediscovered Our Town, after 25 years, at the college reunion that changed my life. I am making up for lost time. 
• The joy and delight of working with such lovely, talented people. We all ogle celebrities of stage and screen. To be sure, the superstars are not accessible. But the same skills and beauty are available more broadly than you might presume. Come see Mockingbird. Look with fresh eyes at the talent on the stage. They are lovely and talented beyond measure. I get to be with them, admiring them, for approximately 100 hours.
• The energy of it all. This is a Flow moment: heightened engagement in life, the optimal experience. We each need to find what brings us into Flow and do it. You are seeing me at my most alive. 
• The memorization. The worst part of this process is fast becoming the best part. Memorization can be drudgery, but the effects on my mind have been tangible. It's making me smarter, more focused, more able to pay attention to others. Memorization is strengthening my memory. 

Here's The Primary Reason
I am acting because life can be so serious. 

Everywhere I turn, every moment of the day, it feels like all the chips are on the table. It's as if, none of us can afford to fail:

• I cannot fail with our family's money. In this economy, a stupid — even unlucky move — would punish us, limiting our future, creating real hardship.
• I cannot fail with our children. In this world, even though the social scientists say that parents are (beyond genetics) insignificant in forming children, any failure of our children feels like a personal failure.
• I cannot fail behind the wheel. One stupid moment of inattention can be fatal. As Malcolm Gladwell writes in "Wrong Turn" in The New Yorker:

Every two miles, the average driver makes four hundred observations, forty decisions, and one mistake. Once every five hundred miles, one of those mistakes leads to a near collision, and once every sixty-one thousand miles one of those mistakes leads to a crash.

It goes on and on. Our lives seem to be a series of ultimatums (ultimati?): mess this up, lose your job; mess that up, lose your wife; mess that up, lose your health. 

That's life? That's hell!

I can't always play not to lose.

I need a place where I can fail: publicly, unabashedly.

Acting is where I can fail.
This turns out to be why I act: because I can freely fail at it.

When Arnett Howard stepped out of The Odd Couple last year, he taught us all a great deal about stepping up. He accepted a risk — acting — that was beyond his comfort zone. He took a risk that no one should take off stage — not behind the wheel, not with our children. He risked failing.

He played to win. He did not play not to lose.

That motivates me. That is my primary answer to: Why?

I am playing to win. I willingly, eagerly embrace my potential failure.

You want to see someone who won't fail as Atticus? 
You want a guarantee? 

Watch Gregory Peck. There's no risk. He can't fail; it's recorded. 

And, while we're at it: his Atticus can't really lose everything, because, well, he's The Handsome, Perfect Gregory Peck. (I'm no Gregory Peck.)

Am I being cavalier?
Don't I have a responsibility to the other actors and the audience? 

I mean, the actors are relying on each other (and me) to get it right. And the audience paid good money. (We are closing in on a sell-out for opening night, thank you.)

Yes. I owe it to them, to you, and to myself to do my very best. And I have prepared earnestly to do just that.

But let us remind ourselves.
Everything in life is not life 'n' death. 

As the old man said:

If I'd known it wasn't going to kill me, I wouldn't have been so freaked out all the time.   

Let us place Mockingbird in proper context: this is a play. A play. Play!

So, can we not play with light hearts — even when the dramatic subject matter is injustice?

Isn't this why most golfers come to hate their game: because it ceases to be play?

Come see me fail.
(Advance tickets here.  Any unsold tickets will be offered at the door for pay what you want.)

My goal: to fail so subtly that you don't notice. That you — and I — remain in the moment. 

But, holy cow: if I fail brilliantly, what is truly lost? Will my acting career be over? Maybe!

Piffle.

Trusting Dad To Do Right

Staging To Kill A Mockingbird this year has been a lucky choice.

The audience is motivated — and briskly buying advance tickets — by the book's well publicized fiftieth anniversary. 

It's just our dumb luck that the media is celebrating Harper Lee's only published novel as a national treasure. 

For example, NPR 820 WOSU-AM's Ann Fisher has invited me to discuss Mockingbird on her All Sides on Wednesday from 11 a.m.-noon. (During the hour, there will also be a 20-minute interview with Mary McDonagh Murphy, author of Scout, Atticus, and Boo: A Celebration of Fifty Years of To Kill a Mockingbird.)

What is it about this book? Plenty of books turn 50. Why is Mockingbird so treasured? Why is it routinely rated by Americans as the #2 book that all civilized people should read? (The Bible is #1. No matter how wonderful our performance, Mockingbird seems unlikely to take over first place.)

It's About Dad.
While the classic text plumbs a great many important themes (as previously covered here), I think there is a reason why it's a national treasure, routinely rated by Americans as the #2 book everyone should read. (The Bible is #1. No matter how wonderful our performance, we're unlikely to take the top spot.)

Mockingbird is so treasured, I believe, because it is a beautifully written, easily savored expression of appreciation for our fathers. 

Our hearts are warmed when Miss Maudie summarizes the town's admiration of Atticus Finch: "We trust him to do right." (Playing Atticus can go to one's head.)  

Perhaps you might not have benefited from a great relationship with your father. Still, you understand when — moments later — Dill stops in his tracks to reiterate the opinion. "They trust him to do right."

We love good fathers. 
This respect is hard wired into us as animals. 

Laws — from the Fifth Commandment (upgraded to #4 for Catholics and Lutherans) to the national commemoration of Father's Day — merely codify the eternal appreciation of fatherhood done right.

Happy Father's Day
My own father (of blessed memory for 18 years) was someone trusted to do right.

Trust was placed in him for two reasons:

• He knew how to do right. His insights were ethical. He could hear your problem and respond with helpful words.
• He actually did right. Once you sought his counsel, he didn't betray you by speaking of you to others. He knew that your story was not his to tell. 

An example: he never told me who his clients were. He didn't consider that to be his story to tell.

I've learned who they were since his death because many have told me. Some I learned at his deathbed, when they came to pay final respects. 

I was initially astounded to realize that his clients were such brilliant, powerful people. They could have worked with any stockbroker in the world. They chose my father. They trusted him to do right.

And he kept their trust by never revealing them to anyone.

Two Stories About My Father
 I won't reveal his clients here and now, but here are two stories that reveal something about my dad, trusted to do right. 

At a community lunch some years ago, a fellow introduced himself and asked if I was indeed the son of "Art Isaac, the stockbroker."

Yes, I said, expecting to hear a simple: "He was a great guy." (I've heard that a lot.)

But, rather, he launched into this story: 

Your father was a great guy. Let me tell you how I met him. When I was in college, I was a bicycle messenger for [big name in town]. Every couple of weeks, [Mr. Big] would give me an envelope and say, "Take this to Art Isaac." I would rush it to him.

Your father would always come greet me personally. As I handed him each envelope, I'd ask: "Whatever you're buying for [Mr. Big], please get me one, too."

The amazing thing: he did. I'd pay for the single share of stock, but he never charged me a commission, let alone an premium for an odd lot transaction. I didn't know how valuable this was. 

I never realized it at the time, but he was generously giving me the highest kindness.

I immediately suggested that my father was just being smart. After all, this young man was bringing envelopes filled with cash. Shoot, anyone would have made him jelly doughnuts on the spot, if that might have kept the bike wheels rolling in the same direction.

But the fellow said, "No. Your father would take me — a bike messenger! — to his office to explain why he was recommending the specific investment. He wanted me to learn how to invest. And, because of him, I did. Those lessons served me well."

He did right.

More Important Than Money: Music
Another story, from another grown man who I met in recent years. We met in the same way: "Was Art Isaac your father?"

Some background is helpful. My father was an introvert. He could entertain groups of people, but he repaired to his solitude, in his beloved home office, where he recharged. 

It was a small room off the kitchen — originally a maid's room, now wallpapered in grass, harkening back to his army days in the South Pacific. 

In a cloth recliner beside his desk, his typewriter, and his library of first editions of W.H. Auden, he would read, with music softly playing.

One evening, he was in The Office, where this fellow found him:

I was a high school friend of your sister. She had a group of kids over. For some reason, I wandered off and started poking around your house.

I opened a door and was startled to be face to face with this man, your father. It was like he was in some sort of magic room. 

I'd never met him. He immediately said, "Come in. Sit down."

We talked. And that night, we talked about the music he was enjoying. It was jazz. I had never heard jazz before. Your father told me of his love of jazz. And he did it in such a way that I immediately became a jazz fan.

And I have ever been so. I am a lifelong lover of jazz. Your father gave me that gift. I have always been grateful to him for that gift. 

Just jazz? Just music? No big deal?

Wrong. 

Very Big Deal 
These are the moments that make us what we are.

It's best if those moments are with people worthy of our trust. The people we trust to do right.

We all think of Atticus.
We all think very similarly about Atticus, because he stared down the drunken lynch mob, fighting to defend another human being.

Playing him this coming week, I'm also thinking of Atticus as a father. He was a single parent. Oddly, his children (and their friends) called him by his first name.

Last week, during a break in our evening rehearsal, I asked the young people in the cast, "Why do you call me Atticus? As Southerners, shouldn't you call me 'diddy' — not just in childhood, but throughout your lives? And shouldn't your friend Dill call me Mr. Finch?"

The answers were telling. These actors understand their roles and motivation. (If you come to the show, you're in for a treat.) They said: "Because we respect each other as equals."

I am the son of Atticus.
I've always thought of my father not so much as A Father, but as Someone I Was Lucky Enough To Befriend. 

I dedicate my performance this coming week to the loving memory of my father, Arthur J. Isaac, Jr. They trusted him to do right.

The Meaning of Maycomb

As a budding Yankee, I once spent a summer bartending at a fancy resort outside Charleston, South Carolina. 

I was often stunned at the Southern customs, especially as they regarded race. I often felt like a fish — lox at that — out of water.

Now I'm the Public Defender
of Maycomb, Alabama.
For the past couple months, I've been preparing to portray Atticus Finch, the noble, righteous lawyer who focuses his life — and the teaching of his kids — on one primary message.

To be sure, To Kill A Mockingbird is about a lot of things: race relations, community and sub-communities, civil rights, small town gossip, xenophobia, respect and disrespect, the wayward bent of mob mentality, single parenthood, neglected children, opium addiction, gun use, law enforcement and, of course, capital punishment. (I'm sure I'm missing something here.)

But Atticus focuses all his energy on one thing.
His message is this: humanity.

In his teaching of his kids, in his own actions, and in all his dealings in court, his home and his neighborhood, Atticus is a living reminder of the importance of our common humanity.

Why does he care about humanity? Because he is a man of justice, a tzadik.  

And he deeply believes that justice — in the court of law and the Court Of Life — is based on our individual ability to appreciate each person as a living, mortal expression of our shared humanity.

The Sharing's The Thing
Atticus teaches Jem and Scout (Dill already knows) — and all of us — that "you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

Atticus can't truly walk in another's skin. But he probably comes as close as any white person can to understanding Tom's ultimate explanation for fleeing the scene of Mayella's advances: "Mr. Finch, if you was black like me, you'd be scared, too."

The Mockingbird Message
The play has changed me. (That's why I wanted to do it. I'm an actor in search of epiphany.)

I find that I am looking at people more deeply (whatever their color). The clerk at Kroger's, the woman behind me in line, the man waiting for the bus — I am trying my best to appreciate their situation and the implications for how that might influence who they are.

I even stare at the other actors in rehearsal — amid the continuing challenge of spilling out the lines in the right order at the right time — and wonder: "What must it be like to be him or her?"

All this birdwatching is helping me understand how I must appear to others, too.

Come hear the song of the mockingbird.
Ask not for whom the mockingbird sings. It sings for thee.

Advance tickets for Mockingbird are online. Any tickets left at the door will be sold at the price of Pay What You Want.

Why? Because, given the choice between having your money or having you in the theater, we'd cheerfully choose the latter. We'd like some of the former, of course, but don't let the price of tickets keep you away. Pay what you want.

I just handed a card for the show to The New York Times/Columbus Dispatch delivery man as he drove past the house. I told him, "I'm in a show. The tickets are priced at Pay What You Want."

His reply: "Really? Cool. Thanks."

Tell everyone. This is a show for everyone.

The show opens and closes next week.
Details are here at HarperLeeAVLT.com.

I hope you're coming. It's going to be a great show.