More Farnsworth. Now More Farnsworthy Than Ever!

When we last met, I was in the middle of describing this whole “Farnsworth Fiasco.”

There were developments Thursday night, though, but not in a direction I ever would have expected – in two regards.

But I’ll get to them in due course.

So this group of protestors (with their own website: http://www.farnovision.com/. See what a great guy I am? To give them a free plug like that?) began a media-saturation campaign, writing letters to make sure the Bay Area’s various newspapers and television stations were aware of the miscarriage of justice that we were about to perpetrate. (Think I’m exaggerating? Look at the letter from Philo’s great-granddaughter on that site – and that’s mild compared to the version she sent the theatre.) 

Philo's great-granddaughter Jessica Lauren Moulton; 

I'd imagine I'm not her favorite person.

As far as I can tell, all but one of those outlets ignored the letters. The San Jose Mercury-News decided to follow up, however, and not only gave us an online slide show, but also a front-page above-the-fold feature (and that’s the front front page, not the arts front page).

All this agita could have turned sour, but the PAP management took the initiative of approaching the protestors and addressing their concerns – even adding links and information about their cause and suggested reading to the theatre’s website. They still planned on protesting opening night, but were made aware that we were – and are – on their side. Even though we can’t change the text of the play, we’ve made sure that Philo gets his due credit throughout the evening.

Phil himself. I use this image twice in the show.

Now, in spite of what could have turned out to be an ugly situation – our trying to shut down the protestors or ignoring them or mocking them – it all turned out to be a win-win. Not only did the group get its message out, but ticket sales soared. (Our first four houses have probably averaged about 300 each, very good for a straight drama in my experience, and above the company’s expectations for sales.)

All of this said, though, we had no idea of what to expect on opening night. We knew they had plans to assemble in the forecourt of the theatre, as is their right, to distribute literature and make sure the audience knew the facts (or, at least, the facts as they see them). We were told they had bought tickets, but had no idea if they planned on disrupting the show when the incorrect – or “ahistorical” might be a better term – verdict came down. We made plans on how to deal with any disruptions (basically, “freeze until it’s over; wait for the house staff to deal with it”) and got ready to open.

 The forecourt of the Lucie Stern Theatre -- the scene of the non-crime.

Our Friday preview went quite well, thank you, but Saturday (being the actual opening) was the key day. We got word before the show that they were indeed out front, so I went out to see and meet them (along with members of the PAP staff). Much to my relief, the “protestors” couldn’t have been nicer. They were mainly older folks, but bright, friendly, and enthusiastic. Some had signs, but they all had handouts detailing their objections. I spoke to a couple, and they were just really nice people, not at all combative or obstinate – and, in fact, not all dedicated to “the cause.” (One man told us that he really didn’t know what all the fuss was about, and that he’d been asked by his next-door neighbor to come to the theatre and hold a sign.) In light of all of this, we don’t expect them to cause a ruckus when they do come to see the show – whenever that is. (At least one of them was at the Thursday night show, and was just as nice after the show as they were Friday night. He was very complimentary, as well.)

Thanks to the front-page story, Sorkin himself finally responded to the situation. (The theatre had tried contacting him through his agents to ask about some things in the play itself. We got no response, but I guess the siren call of the media was too much to resist.) Short version: not only did he not know about either the production or the protests (both perfectly acceptable and believable), he didn’t understand all the fuss. He thought he had done all he could to paint Philo as television’s father and Sarnoff and NBC/RCA as outright villains trying to steal it. Watching the show that night with his words in my head, I could see how he was doing that, but in such a way as to allow for the other interpretation.

Aaron Sorkin: my new best friend.

The story doesn’t end there, though. As I mentioned above, the Farnsworth family added its own two cents (as they're entitled to do), but what isn’t mentioned is a family situation that we apparently provoked. But I’ll deal with that tomorrow. (One good thing about being so long-winded is that my posts are invariably so long, I can break them into parts and save myself some of the daily struggle for devising topics.)

To be continued …

The "Farnsworth" Controversy, Part I

Ever since I was a wee small child, I wanted to direct a controversial show.

I don’t mean just a show that some people might like and others would feel non-committal about. (“Yeah, it was okay, I guess …”)

I wanted fistfights. I wanted riots. I wanted a production that was interrupted by shouts and blood and police being called.

Now, I didn’t want extreme bloodshed or extended mayhem; I wanted something like the opening night of Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring,” where the shouting of the two rival factions in the audience drowned out the orchestra, or the opening of Synge’s “The Playboy of the Western World,” which caused actual riots and which was dismissed by the head of Sinn Féin – not exactly the most sensitive of groups -- as "a vile and inhuman story told in the foulest language we have ever listened to from a public platform." (And who wouldn’t want to see that show?). 

Booooooooo!

While I’d prefer not to go to the extent of the Astor Place riot of 1849 (where at least 25 people died because of groups arguing over which of two actors playing “Macbeth” was better), I’d still have settled for the nightly police raid that greeted Cal State Fullerton’s production of “The Beard” in the 70s (mentioned earlier in thesevirtual pages).

This was apparently supposed to make people not want to see it.

The problem is, given the nature of the plays I’ve directed at the companies I’ve worked for, that kind of reception is unlikely. Is anyone really going to get that upset over “Run for Your Wife” or “Copenhagen” or “Long Day’s Journey?” People may leave if the show isn’t to their tastes, but they rarely rise to the point of fisticuffs.

Okay, the wigs aren't that good, but we didn't use them in the show, 

and they're not worth rioting over.

I always thought it would be hopeless. Until last week.

It finally happened, and who knew it would be Aaron Sorkin’s “The Farnsworth Invention,” of all shows?

 There are a lot of bad theatre publicity 

photos out there. This isn't one of them.

When I was approached to do the show a year ago, I thought it might be problematic for artistic reasons. The script started life as a screenplay, and, as anyone who’s read my Facebook comments about “The Newsroom,” “The West Wing,” or – especially – “Sports Night” knows, I’m not Sorkin’s biggest fan. In fact, I downright loathe his television work. It’s been demonstrated how he repeats dialogue and phrases from show to show and how he has trouble writing for character; everyone on his shows sounds like everyone else. His biggest sin (in my opinion) is how he can’t end things; but lets them drag out long past the point at which they should have been resolved. Long-form is not his forte.

His stage- and screenplays are different animals, though; they’re much tighter and taut, and the character differentiation is clear. I think it’s, like the prospect of hanging, the prospect of knowing he needs to get an audience out in a couple of hours focuses his mind wonderfully.

The plot of “The Farnsworth Invention” deals with Philo T. Farnsworth, a farm kid from Utah and Idaho, who devised the first practical electronic television system. There had been previous successes with mechanical television – which involved a spinning disc that gave a blurry picture at best – but Philo’s system scanned an image electronically, a method that’s still used today, even with high-definition equipment. Philo’s arch-enemy (in the play and in life) was David Sarnoff, the head of both RCA and NBC, who had an obsession with controlling broadcast media, especially television. He wanted control over all the patents involved, and if he didn’t employ the scientists who invented the necessary equipment, he’d either buy out the original inventor, take that inventor to court and either break them financially or wait out the patent’s exclusivity period of 17 years, or just outright steal the invention.

Mechanical television. Yeah, it didn't work well.

When Farnsworth wouldn’t sell his patents, Sarnoff flat out stole the technology. Philo took him to court, and was eventually declared the inventor of television. The problem with the play is that Sorkin has the judge in the case declare Philo the loser.

It took me forever to figure out why Sorkin did this. It’s a clear break from the historical record, and makes little sense in the overall context of the play. When I finally did understand his motivations, I got it, but still questioned his methods. Regardless, even if I were allowed to, I wouldn’t have changed the text. I’d have had to rewrite the last fifteen minutes, which would be illegal, impractical, and (frankly) inept. I can write, but not as well as Sorkin. We actually approached Sorkin and his representatives to try to get an explanation (not a correction, mind you; just his reasons) and were met with silence.

What we (meaning myself and Palo Alto Players, who are producing the play – at the Lucie Stern Theatre in Palo Alto – tickets still available here …) didn’t realize until just before the play opened was that there’s a group that is dedicated not only to making sure that Philo Farnsworth has wider recognition as the inventor of television, but that theatres don’t do “The Farnsworth Invention” at all – or, at the very least, that they don’t do it without warning the audience as to its historical inaccuracies. (It may seem contradictory that they’d want to suppress the play, given that it gives so much credit to the unfortunately-mostly-unknown Farnsworth, but as near as I can tell, they find the whole thing too fatally flawed.)

I'll continue this saga of suppression tomorrow -- when there'll actually be new details. 

The Only List Harder Would Be One of Desserts

I listen to a lot of podcasts.

Currently, on my phone alone, I have (let me count) 210 episodes of over 30 shows of various kinds – and that’s only the ones I’ve been able to download or haven’t yet listened do. Jeebus only know how many episodes of “Radiolab” or “The Nerdist” or “The Sporkful” I have to go through – or even how many podcasts I’ve yet to discover and will want to catch up on eventually. (There are, of course, some I can't stand; don't even get me started on "This American Life.")

My opinion of Ira Glass.

Now, I don’t know how you listen to podcasts, but I tend to binge; that is, I’ll wait until I have a critical mass of something, then listen to all the episodes, one after another. I just finished the Warner Archive podcast (which my long-suffering wife found unlistenable) and am currently in the midst of the BBC’s “Desert Island Discs.” I’ll deal with DID in a moment, but want to digress (I know, I know …) to talk about the WACcast. When I first discovered it, I thought it was a natural for me; three guys who are really knowledgeable about movies – especially old ones – talk every week about the “new” movies the Warner Archive is releasing.

George Feltenstein, who hosts the Warner Archive podcast, 

and who sounds exactly like he looks.

The Warner Archive includes everything M-G-M made before the mid-80s, I believe, and everything RKO and Warner Bros. made at all, not to mention the output of a few other studios, so it’s a rich stew of celluloid. The thing about the podcast was, no matter how dismal or uninteresting was the movie they were discussing, they could find only things to praise. “Well,” I thought (reminding myself of my online rep), “they need someone like me, to be the voice of realism and to point out some of the negative points of the movies.

And then, I of course realized that the reason the hosts spoke so positively of every movie was because the podcast is basically a commercial and they’re trying to sell product. Any kind of negative comment would tend to depress sales – and, for all I know, they may genuinely enjoy everything they’re watching – which is a lot. These guys are intimately familiar with movies even I haven’t heard of.

But, back to my point. of my binge-listening. When I complete catching up on a podcast, I look for the show that now has the largest number of episodes remaining. (When I finish DID, I’ll be moving on to either KCRW’s “The Business” (about the movie and TV business) or “The Treatment” (critic Elvis Mitchell, one of my favorites, interviews actors, directors, and other movie people), or even my NPR stories – though I tend to wait on those since the NPR app is so awful.

Elvis Mitchell; great host, better critic.

But back to my point. Listening to “Desert Island Discs” always makes me wonder what discs I would choose. For those not familiar with the show, the guest – almost always a Brit that no one outside the UK has heard of (“World famous in Britain”) – is interviewed about their life and career, and asked what eight records they would take with them if they were to be marooned on a desert island. They’re also asked what book they would take (the complete works of Shakespeare and The Bible are already provided – though I’d fight them on the second, having no use for it) and what useless luxury – emphasis on the “useless;”  they’re not allowed to take, say, a boat, or anything that would help them escape or contact help.

So, in listening to the show, I compare my choices to the guests’ – some are surprising (Bishop Desmond Tutu had Nat Cole’s “Unforgettable” and Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” in his octet; I had him pegged for sacred and classical music) and some are not (a lot of people choose Bach, and – according to Wikipedia – the most popular choice is Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony). It’s always interesting to hear not only what choices they make, but why. Most often, it’s to remind them of a particular person or moment in their lives.

Bishop Tutu -- Nat Cole fan (but who isn't?).

It struck me that compiling a list like that might make for an interesting blog post – unlike this one – so, later this week, I’ll work one up.

To be continued …

Harry x 2, Part II

So, when we left our intrepid hero, he was on the verge of solving the mystery of the haunted donut shop. The original version was a skin-tight 500 words (the limit I was given, you may recall), while this version is slightly longer (about 700 words). While I can see the advantages of editing, I also felt a little constrained in places I wanted to let the narrative breathe. And while some might cry “Long-winded!,” it’s not like I’m approaching Faulkneresque heights here. I’m just adding some lousy Chandler-like similes. (All private-eye parodists must bow and pay homage to the master.)

Given the sour look on his face, I'd imagine 

Chandler just read the story below.

So, presented for your edification and (hopefully) entertainment, I give you the “official” unexpurgated version of Houdini’s newest adventure. See you on the other side.

HARRY AND THE DONUTS

I sat in my office, staring at a calendar that was older than Methuselah’s great-uncle Max. Even that felt like it was newer than my last case, though. I hadn’t had a new client Einstein needed remedial math.

If I smoked, I’d’ve lit up a coffin nail. If I was a drinking man, I’d’ve poured a shot from the bottle I would’ve kept in my desk drawer. I have my vices, but those ain’t among ‘em, so I watched the cobwebs and dust hang sleepily in the humid summer air. Even they seemed to lack purpose.

That’s the thing about my business; not a lot of people need you, but when they do, they really need you.

And what is that business? When I tell you my name, you’ll know. Or you think you will.

My name is Harry Houdini.

Yeah. Him.

I know what you’re thinkin’: “Oh, the handcuffs guy.”

That’s just what I do to pay the bills, though; it’s not my passion. It’s not what I was put on this planet to do. Y’see, I’m what they call a “ghost breaker.” Or, more accurately, I’m the guy people call when they want to find out if a ghost is real.

And they never are – ever. I’ve traveled from Cairo to Kalamazoo, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that ghosts are the bunk. I’ve seen too many people who were desperate to contact dead loved ones get taken by quack “mediums” to take any of it lightly, though.

My reverie was broken by the explosive ringing of the phone. I grabbed the earpiece and drawled into the mouthpiece: “It’s your nickel.”

“Harry?” It was a dame. “Holly Halliwell here.” Brother, was it a dame.

Holly ran the donut shop down the block. “Ran” was a relative term – as was “donuts.” While her looks made Rita Hayworth look like Moe Howard, her cooking would have made Moe Howard look nauseated. Even though the donut shop was all hers, she could make only two kinds: jelly donuts and long johns, and even those were dicey.

I could read the terrified tone in her voice the way a rabbi reads the Torah. She stammered that her shop was suddenly haunted. Her donuts, which were better suited to being used as doorstops or ship’s anchors, were suddenly lighter than air – literally. “Harry, they’re flying out the door!”

After telling her I’d be there quicker than a fat kid with the key to the ice cream locker, I jammed my fedora on my noggin and hoofed it the two blocks to her shop.

I walked in, expecting to see evidence of a disturbed or fraudulent mind, but nearly got pounded in the puss by a jet-propelled jelly donut zooming its way out the door. That pastry was followed by a baker’s dozen of the same, all in a hurry to get some fresh air.

Holly explained that she’d tried a new recipe only that morning, and as soon as she pulled the first batch from the fryer, they’d started flying around the shop. “Poltergeists” was her only explanation.

Using my world-renowned powers of observation, I quickly cracked this cruller caper. “It ain’t pastrygeists, Holly; it’s yeast.” Clearly, these sinkers were being souped-up by the superheated yeast trapped inside. “It’s leavening, not levitation, doll.”

The solution was simple: instead of jelly buns, she needed to make the traditional ring type; the hole would not only allow the yeast to escape, but it’s well-known in my business that those treats were blessed by St. Honoré, the Patron Saint of Bakers, himself and were thus impervious to any kind of demonic possession.

Holly’s grateful face lit up like a “Hot Now” sign. “You mean …?”

“That’s right, doll,” I said. “Those donuts? They’re wholly holy holey, Holly.”

I didn’t know if she was gonna paste my kisser with her fist or her lips, but fortunately, she chose the latter.

Didn’t see that tag line coming, did you?

For which, you should probably consider yourself lucky.

The thing was, when I was originally given the assignment, my first thought was to cannibalize one of my Houdini plays, but – and you can probably guess this, given my verbosity in this form – the plays are pretty talky and plot-heavy. (They are pretty funny, though.) So, I thought, “Okay, I’ll write a new Houdini story. But I need a plot.”

I decided to follow the inspiration that led me to the original play, which was trying to figure out what the connection between Harry and Macbeth was. In the same way, I thought “I’ll just let the first thing I see be my inspiration,” so I looked over the top of this very laptop and saw a poster that the inestimable Rob Dario did for the cast of “Superior Donuts” at the Custom Made Theatre Company. “Okay, then; a haunted donut shop it is.”

 It wasn't easy to find a shot from the show with me in it.

My immediate thought was “holy” and “donut hole,” but how I was going to get there was anyone’s guess.

Whether it succeeded, I have no idea, but you have to admit, it’s unique.