Salempost 12: Integration 3

During intermission I try to lay low. Sometimes I look at the clock and imagine my kids asleep, and the journey I have left to go before I see them. I’ve been realizing lately all the things I don’t do – don’t even consider – because it would take me away from them too. I remember a full professor at Villanova telling me, “Never, never use your family as an excuse for not doing something here.” I’m sorry – fuck that. Being an active Dad is a conscious choice in my life. I am aware that it sets me apart from a lot of other professional men with families, who either put other priorities first, or who work in patriarchal environments where men aren’t supposed to be as interested in their kids as they are in their work. If I could, I’d take them to work with me. And while Griff was on spring break, we did just that, and he scooted out into the house to watch the morning shows in between books in the greenroom or computer games on the iBook. My backstage boy, growing up in the theatre.

“Your family is an accomplishment, Ben” my Quaker therapist said to me one day, and a little sun exploded in my chest. I saw then that it’s true – the four of us stand as an accomplishment in a world where artistic careers are belittled, men are supposed to put work first and women are the child rearers. Perhaps it’s because I was raised by my Dad that I have such an instinctive and deep desire to be a father myself. I shock Susan occasionally, and keep Ella home from daycare when I have a free day, not because she’s sick or the place is closed, but because when I am with her I feel complete, joyful and bound to God. And because she’s growing up, and I am already aware that when she is big I will miss terribly this little person with the enormous voice. The world steals me away from my children. Every moment with them is one I steal back.

“Places!” shouts Chaz and we in the 2.1. head into the dim wings. As Chaz’s thumping music begins we dance silly Puritan disco in the offstage darkness. Jeb waves his ass at me and I slap it playfully. Peter seems to be air drumming on something large and Japanese. Mark bends over and beats his thighs in syncopation. Graham hovers in the doorway, removed.

We spill out onto the stage, Giles Corey in a rage. I knew this outburst was coming – Hale has been aware of this pending challenge to the court’s authority but has said nothing. He was determined to present it himself when the moment seemed right, but Cory has blown it all wide open. Soon the room fills with people. Hathorne demanding indictments of contempt, Danforth questioning and Proctor – poor farmer, awkward, unsure – here to plead his case.

I watch and listen. This is the great effort of 2.1 Strangely, I spend most of it just standing on stage, trying to actually listen as opposed to look like I’m listening. The intensity of concentration required to stay engaged is staggering, especially when I have nothing to say for pages. The temptations are legion: wow – there’s a hot chick in the front row; was that Pearce’s laugh? I think that kid’s going to throw something onstage! No – back, back to this. Danforth is considering now – he’s not going to dismiss these charges outright. Good news. But he uses Nurse’s petition as a pretext for issuing more warrants and slaps Giles in contempt. Proctor’s in trouble. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. This girl he’s brought with him is a mess – Danforth’s going to eat her alive. I know – he needs a lawyer, someone who knows how to play this game. I feel the impulse rise. I speak.

When we teach script analysis to actors, we often teach them to break their parts down into a seamless series of tactics united in the pursuit of an objective. But a few years ago I began to feel that this technique was missing something. What about those moments when the character himself doesn’t know what he’s doing, or what he’s looking for? I used to tell my students, well your character may not know, but you need to. But there was always a voice inside me that thought – bullshit. Sometimes you’re just searching – for truth, for direction, for answers. And Hale in this scene is a perfect example. When the scene begins, he has no objective. He is in what I have come to call a transition. He is in between objectives. Broadly speaking, he is searching for the truth. More specifically, he wants to know why Proctor is so convinced this girl Abigail would try to frame his wife. It doesn’t make sense to him. Until the great eruption.