The Artist Talk:

After the Sunday matinee, there was an hour break and then the Artist Talk began.  This, I must say, was a crushing disappointment.

I had been beyond excited about the fact that I had a front row seat for this.  I didn't really know what to expect, but front row has got to be good, right?

 I'm such a massive geek, so I actually sent Alan a card, with a photograph of a "John Lego Borkman" scene I made out of Lego, after reading the play.  Yep. I wrote that I was flying all the way from California to see him on stage, and was going to be right up front for the Artist Talk.  How wonderful!  So looking forward to it! 

So we go into the theater, full house, and they've got four seats arranged on stage in such a way that the person sitting in the left-most seat will be perpendicular to me, because I was at the end of a curved row.  So guess what?  I got a perfect view of Alan Rickman's left sideburn, but couldn't see his face at all.  WTF?! Similarly, he could look out into the audience all he wanted, and never see me.  I don't think he really looks at people in the audience directly anyway.  Dog knows I wouldn't.  But still.   So that was a big fat disappointment with knobs on.

Okay, but not only that...  The "moderator" was this pretentious git who posed a series of questions, each stupider than the next.

Here's an example of the type of question this moron asked:

"I have here a fascinating quote from Nietzsche (Chomsky, Proust, whatever):  'Inasmuch as the blah blah blah blah blah blah underlying metaphor of blah blah blah blah nineteenth century gender roles blah blah blah blah blah blah oedipal complex blah blah blah innovation of the charismatic posterior. '   Could you, as actors, tell us how this relates to your interpretation of this play?"

So the actors all sit there in bewildered silence for a moment, with a few nervous titters from the audience, trying to make some sense out of all that drivel and turn it into something they can work with.  Eventually one of them says something, and the moderator keeps interrupting to finish their sentence for them.

Someone's cell phone rang in the audience, and Lindsey Duncan spent the next five minutes glowering at them.  Sure, I probably would have done the same thing, but I'm not proud of it. I mean, it didn't exactly improve the experience.

Fiona Shaw was a bright spot in the whole thing.  She consistently came out with priceless gems, all of which basically said, "You're asking stupid questions", only in a veiled way that the moderator never cottoned on to.

At one point the moderator asked Alan, "What do you think your character died of?  We are told  it was an icy, iron hand, gripping his heart, so I assume it was a heart attack.  But what do you think killed him?  Was he killed by his own emptiness?  Blah Blah Blah." 

I know, some people love picking apart works of art or literature, but as far as I'm concerned, we all saw the same play, and all the answers you need are right there in the play itself.  Time and again, I see that people expect the actors to have some kind of magical insight into the character, beyond what is in the writing.  If there is ambiguity or mystery about how the guy died, then don't expect the actor to have some definitive answer.  Just let it be.


I don't remember what Alan said exactly, but I believe it was basically what I just said, more or less.  But the moderator kept interrupting him to complete his sentence with his own thoughts, and then asking the question again, until everyone seemed exasperated.  There was this moment of silence, and then Fiona said,

"He died of the plague." 

That got a huge laugh, because the audience recognized it for what it was.  She is definitely a cool lady.
 

Stupid Git moderator also asked Alan if his character was a madman, because surly no sane person could bear to be in near-isolation for even a week, let alone eight years.  Here I roll my eyes.  In my not-so-humble opinion, anyone who can't handle a week in their own company has a screw loose.  I mean come on!  Are you an infant or what?  This guy clearly needs a constant dose of reassurance of his own cleverness, judging from all the irrelevant quote mining.

I guess the main thing that made him so irritating is that he, like so many interviewers, kept the focus on himself.  The best thing they could have done is get rid of him and just say whatever the hell they want.  I'd be happy to listen to Alan Rickman and Fiona Shaw talking about Ibsen, acting in general, or even grocery shopping, because they are clearly interesting, witty people.  But the moderator ruined it.

To make matters worse, this was the same guy who did the Artist Talk for Creditors last year, and apparently ruined it then as well.  Who allowed him back, and why?

The last fifteen minutes was audience question time.  I suppose I could have used that opportunity to ask a question as an excuse to get Alan to notice me, which seems to be what most people's motivation was, but I had nothing to say other than the question in the previous paragraph.  The questions ranged from, "It's such an honor to be in your presence, Mr. Rickman.  I just watched the play like everyone else, but could you explain it to me?"  to "Can you give me advice about the theater business?"  to "Alan, next time you do a play, could you do it some place not so cold?  Har! Har!"


Alan mentioned banging his head against the pillar every night (this rough pillar he has to lean against), and I thought, yeah, this Artist Talk makes me want to bang my head against the pillar too.  Or better yet, bang the moderator's head against the pillar. Heh heh!

Oh my goodness.


When it all was over, I went to the stage door again, this time kind of thinking that I might just go ahead and ask him to sign the poster I got, even though the only one available was that ugly promo picture.  That Artist Talk had left such a bad taste in my mouth that I thought maybe this would make up for it, despite the fact that I really think autographs are silly.  I already knew I wouldn't actually get to talk to him more than two words, but if conditions were right for an autograph, that might lift my mood.

So I went out there and joined the crowd, which was even bigger than last night.  He came right out, stood in a mutually inconvenient spot for all the photo seekers, right in a puddle of slush in the street, smiled sweetly for a few seconds

while everyone (except me) pointed their cell phones at him, then he got in the back of a car (different from last night) and disappeared into the night, probably relieved to be going home.

Who can blame him?

I walked back to my hotel room, feeling the opposite of the previous night.  Very disappointed with how that whole thing went.  I went straight to bed.