Why I Became a Fucking Comic, Part 1 - August 21, 2008

In October of 2002, I was doing an Off-Broadway play called Burning Blue, a melodrama about gays in the military. Specifically, navy fighter pilots stationed on an aircraft carrier who may or may not be playing 'stealth bomber' in the bunks.

For a change, I got cast as one of the few straight characters in the play (straight? Was I losing my looks?) and got the feeling, early on, that THIS was the role that was going to launch my career. It seemed custom fit for me. My character, Boner, was a hayseed from Arkansas who never took shit too seriously, and loved, loved, loved swinging his hickory stick and romancing the ladies. It was Matthew McConaghey with a flysuit, a buzz cut, and deeper drawl.

In the midst of the hurly-burly of the tortured gayness within the play, I played the much-needed comic relief and, in turn, got some of the most glowing reviews of the Off-Broadway season.

However, and not surprisingly, the play got hammered in the press. The predominant grievance of the critics was the overly dramatic writing and the hackneyed subject matter. When the play was written in 1994, the controversial 'don't ask, don't tell' policy instituted by William Jefferson Clinton was (probably) a great centrifuge for the debate spinning this drama into action. But in Fall 2002, just a year after the attack on the Towers, the issue seemed quaint. "Oh, how cute, gays and their rights. Remember that?"

The feeling amongst the arguably deluded director and producers was 'Hey, this gem worked in London, it must be the cast's fault.' Subsequentially, everyone got micromanaging notes about their performances, because GOD FORBID it was the fault of a mediocre play or an emotionally unstable director going through a divorce... nah, couldn't be. So, despite getting my peestick sucked by every reviewer in town for my work, I was similarly henpecked and hampered by insubstantial and often pointless notes.

The flap of the butterfly wing that started me off as a comic was the following:

During the run of the play, I noticed that there was a line that never seemed to work. When a military investigator asks my Arkansas hayseed character if one of his shipmates is gay, my character's ostensibly funny retort is "Well, he never copped my knob."

I've always been pretty thorough as an actor, so my accent was spot-on. It wasn't southern, it was Arkansan. One of the things Arkansans DON'T do is aspirate, or 'pop,' the 'T' sound in a word like 'copped.' For example, a British guy or, I don't know, an asshole, would pronounce it 'cop't,' which is technically the correct pronunciation. Trailer trash from Arkansan Ozarks would never hit that 't' sound. Furthermore, the line seemed like a mixed metaphor. Whatever the case, it just never really got the laugh the playwright clearly wanted, 't' sound or no 't' sound, and I never felt comfortable with the consonant conundrum. In short, 'copped my knob' sucked donkey dick.

Immediately after saying that line (which got feeble chuckles), the investigator asks my character if he has 'ever had sexual relations with a member of the communist party, the same sex, or a small animal?' Boner, a consummate sensualist and self-avowed cow fucker, takes a lengthy beat and says, "Define small?"

Huge laugh. Aaaaaaaand end of scene. The lights quickly go black, which serves to redouble the laugh - almost like a theatrical rimshot.

Regardless, every time I walked offstage after the scene, I couldn't help but get the feeling that if the 'copped a knob' wasn't disrupting the flow of the humor like a big, slimy rock in a rivulet, comic momentum would build and 'define small' would cause the audience to erupt. And perhaps result in the ultimate goal of any insecure and validation-seeking performer - the applause break.

I mentioned to DMW my concern about the line. His reaction? It was like I had told Pat Robertson that the story of Adam and Eve was a metaphor. It was like I had told a PETA activist that I had just eaten a mink liver dipped in baby seal sauce. It was like I had asked an arch feminist 'Hey, is it cool if I rape you?' He was, to be Suessian and make up a word: 'beflabberfounded!'

Knowing my character backwards and forwards and knowing that he is an irreverent, sexy, and earthy dude, I changed the line on the fly to something that seemed apt for a southern hick bovine-boner. I said, "He never GOBBLED my knob." Like magic, the slight variation uncorked the hidden, visceral laugh in the guts of the blue hairs in the audience like the exact final turn in a DaVinci Code cryptex. So much so that when I said "Define small?" it brought the house down.

Ah ha! I finally solved the puzzle that hadn't been fitting together for the past 3 weeks. I felt important to the creative process. I felt - and I know this is crazy to say for an actor - happy. I felt --

Cli-click.

Out of the corner of my eye, in the second row, the tell-tale blue glow from a pen light came on. The playwright, DMW Greer, was scribbling a note on his pad.

He called me the next morning, furious, saying that the word change was 'disrespecting' him.

I told him I had just wanted to see if changing that one word might make the line work. He told me I just needed to 'trust the text.' Many times. As a matter of fact, he kept saying it like a Buddhist chant. I said, "David, it doesn't work." He said, "Trust the text." I said, "People don't really get the 'copped the knob' line." He said, "Trust the text." "Can I try it one more time?" "Trust the text."

Finally, we reached a 'compromise', which meant I was a dumb actor and the line would stay as written. Oh yeah, and with "renewed vim and vigor, Bill!" However, as God as my witness, David finally relented and said that if it still didn't quite work after another week of shows, I could then go back to my unprofessional 'gobbled my knob' phraseology.

That week, I experimented on that line like Peter North with a newbie runaway porn teen. To no avail. It simply wasn't funny. People laughed out of a bizarre psychological de-individuation -- an 'I'm supposed to laugh' here mentality. The same mindless acceptance of obfuscation that makes senile manatee crowds laugh uproariously at Shakespeare, when they clearly don't have a neuron's worth of information to help them explain WHY they are laughing. The line stunk. I could dress it in an Armani suit, a monocle, and a top hat -- it was still a hobo with Hepatitis C.

After the requisite week passed, I went back to 'gobbled' and it killed again, redoubling the laughs on 'Define small?' as I had originally experienced. Victory! as Johnny Drama would say. Validation! I am a creative force. The collaboration between actor and writer has resulted in a stronger, funnier script at a point when laughs are desperately needed in the play. Yaay--

Cli-click.

It was the pen in the second row. From its torso emanated the ghostly blue glow. Are you fucking kidding me, pen?

All I could think was "How fragile was this guy's ego that he couldn't just admit that ONE word in ONE phrase that didn't emanate from his noggin might actually service the play better?" Shouldn't he, in reality, be grateful for the improvement?

Chad Lowe (who I really like and sincerely hope never reads this) paraphrased his speeches more than George Bush off teleprompter and second-term Ronald Reagan combined into a wonder twins republi-tard, but he got nary a note. I was word perfect except for this ONE, and DMW was fighting me like a Taliban cornered in a cave.

I got the ineluctable note the next day from the stage manager telling me to change the line back to 'copped my knob.' From the stage manager. Not the playwright, who apparently wasn't on speaking terms with me. Okay, being 'right' isn't EVERYTHING so I should just let it go... right? I mean, being right ISN'T everything, is it? Whatever the case may be, I dropped it and settled for the paltry laughs from 'copped my knob.'

The New York Times Review

Still, the dichotomy and insult stuck with me. Particularly considering that my work was being touted as a shoo-in for a Drama Desk nomination and the thoroughly thrashed play was going to close shortly, shouldn't I be given a little lee-way?

Proof?

As an illustration of the dichotomy between the reception of the play and the reception of my performance, here's the play's review in the New York Times, unquestionably the last word in theatre reviews.

One week after that review, I was fired. But not for the 'copped' controversy.

Read Part 2...

Posted by Bill Dawes at 10:32 PM

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Posted by: Andrew McMillen at August 22, 2008 04:18 AM

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