Casting Call to Staff, but only the Floor responds!
Sent this out last week, hoping to get my fillum cast before the weekend was out. But, as you can see from the date of this entry, it didn't happen. Currently, I've got gmails to Ann Leckie and Jetse de Vries (current and past VC respectively) to take a part. Depending on people's improvisational skills, it should translate into a masterpiece of contemporary film because the script itself, as you can see, is rather shitty.
Yo. Here's the script. We need to get together and perform this soon either on gmail chat or in the Dojo. Let me know which part you'd prefer. There needs to be a narrator to act as kind of a ringmaster, who will cut off the wild ad libbing that will ensue by interjecting the blocks of exposition that exist betwixt the dialogue. The advantage of doing it on gmail chat is that it automatically saves a transcript whereas getting a transcript is a 'cut and paste' affair and includes the need for a cast member who is solely responsible for having their 'refresh' button unchecked and cutting and pasting the transcript once it's over with. The rub is that the only way somebody with their refresh button unchecked can see other people's posts is by posting some gibberish or other themselves then the result of what has gone before that splats wholly onto the screen, in other words, the cut and paster wouldn't know when the performance was over, but would have to sit there looking at a blank screen and estimating the time of the fini of the performance, then type in some gibberish and then do their job (that is if the performance is complete!). So... much ado about nothing. I will attach the script.
BOLIGARD REPLIES:
i am all over Brian, that be da fact, jack. i've nearly memorized my lines, and i've developed some makeup techniques that i believe really fill the character out. so doomey is brian, mofos.
GABRIEL REPLIES:
Uh huh. I have read the script in its fine form and although I do not yet feel kinship or the inside of Sonia's skin, she will be me and I will become her like the chameleon, Zonad who was the first wife of Carmel, first-born son of the seventh son of the lost and forgotten grandfather of Isaac Hayes who, without knowing it, lived for many years on a street named Abraxas next to the third cousin of King Miles who was, when not sustaining hallucinations brought on by his copious intake of opium, the Man. That's where Willie and Muddy and Johnny and all who followed after got the inspiration for the song where they spell it over and over again just in case you forget when you're listening: 'at spell EM AY EN. IMAMAN. Spell hit agin: EM AY EN. 'at spell MAN.
I, of course, am not a MAN but a WO man. Though I feel that this WO man of Portus', this Sonia, is portrayed in the adaptation as slightly dumber and less intuitive than dear monsieur Colvin must have intended, my interpretation and diction, my poise [you cannot walk the tightwire with Cirque de Soleil and not possess constant poise! mon dieux...] will elevate her to her rightful position. She will rise to, but not surpass, the great Portus. They will reign like King and Queen of Zippy Marts throughout the Land. They will change the product line and the lighting in every store. They will invite beggars to dine with them at a feast fit to be a royal banquet. They will fart in the wind and yodel until the cows come home.
But when is this engagement, this rehearsal of parts of which you two speak in such hushed but excited tones? What if I am at confession or defending myself against a bear in the woods when it is scheduled? What if I do not know my lines and have to, um wham jum, er..what if I have to i-m-p-r-o-v-i-s-e?
Is Stable Boy to appear as the alien? H3K the mothership?
Who is directing? Non! Don't tell me. Is this one of those free form productions we've tried before and fallen hard on our respective ass cheeks against the cold cement of an empty dojo floor when even the rugs had been lifted?
What is the sound of one hand clapping? Who has seen the wind?
Portus! Pass me that large potato sack so I can camouflage the chile. We will never surrender her to these heathens!
And bring me my moon boots. I have some kick-boxing to do.
Yo. Here's the script. We need to get together and perform this soon either on gmail chat or in the Dojo. Let me know which part you'd prefer. There needs to be a narrator to act as kind of a ringmaster, who will cut off the wild ad libbing that will ensue by interjecting the blocks of exposition that exist betwixt the dialogue. The advantage of doing it on gmail chat is that it automatically saves a transcript whereas getting a transcript is a 'cut and paste' affair and includes the need for a cast member who is solely responsible for having their 'refresh' button unchecked and cutting and pasting the transcript once it's over with. The rub is that the only way somebody with their refresh button unchecked can see other people's posts is by posting some gibberish or other themselves then the result of what has gone before that splats wholly onto the screen, in other words, the cut and paster wouldn't know when the performance was over, but would have to sit there looking at a blank screen and estimating the time of the fini of the performance, then type in some gibberish and then do their job (that is if the performance is complete!). So... much ado about nothing. I will attach the script.
BOLIGARD REPLIES:
i am all over Brian, that be da fact, jack. i've nearly memorized my lines, and i've developed some makeup techniques that i believe really fill the character out. so doomey is brian, mofos.
GABRIEL REPLIES:
Uh huh. I have read the script in its fine form and although I do not yet feel kinship or the inside of Sonia's skin, she will be me and I will become her like the chameleon, Zonad who was the first wife of Carmel, first-born son of the seventh son of the lost and forgotten grandfather of Isaac Hayes who, without knowing it, lived for many years on a street named Abraxas next to the third cousin of King Miles who was, when not sustaining hallucinations brought on by his copious intake of opium, the Man. That's where Willie and Muddy and Johnny and all who followed after got the inspiration for the song where they spell it over and over again just in case you forget when you're listening: 'at spell EM AY EN. IMAMAN. Spell hit agin: EM AY EN. 'at spell MAN.
I, of course, am not a MAN but a WO man. Though I feel that this WO man of Portus', this Sonia, is portrayed in the adaptation as slightly dumber and less intuitive than dear monsieur Colvin must have intended, my interpretation and diction, my poise [you cannot walk the tightwire with Cirque de Soleil and not possess constant poise! mon dieux...] will elevate her to her rightful position. She will rise to, but not surpass, the great Portus. They will reign like King and Queen of Zippy Marts throughout the Land. They will change the product line and the lighting in every store. They will invite beggars to dine with them at a feast fit to be a royal banquet. They will fart in the wind and yodel until the cows come home.
But when is this engagement, this rehearsal of parts of which you two speak in such hushed but excited tones? What if I am at confession or defending myself against a bear in the woods when it is scheduled? What if I do not know my lines and have to, um wham jum, er..what if I have to i-m-p-r-o-v-i-s-e?
Is Stable Boy to appear as the alien? H3K the mothership?
Who is directing? Non! Don't tell me. Is this one of those free form productions we've tried before and fallen hard on our respective ass cheeks against the cold cement of an empty dojo floor when even the rugs had been lifted?
What is the sound of one hand clapping? Who has seen the wind?
Portus! Pass me that large potato sack so I can camouflage the chile. We will never surrender her to these heathens!
And bring me my moon boots. I have some kick-boxing to do.
posted by Theodore Q. Rorschalk at
1:25 PM
|
0 comments
