I came to the realization this week that I really am a selfish person.
I go to lunch from time to time with a friend of mine from acting class and we talk about what we're doing in class and where we're having problems and what we think about the whole business and stuff like that. And I was telling her this week about how I feel like I'm finally getting to a place where I trust myself as a performer and the words that all of my teachers have been telling me for fifteen years are starting to sink in as truths, not just random sounds strung together and she asked me how I got there. In my mind, up to this point, I feel like I'm here because I have nothing else to lose. She asked me what I meant by that.
I don't know if I can tell you what it feels like to have nothing left to lose. I had problems telling her. It came out as a sort of "I've been trying for fifteen years to do this and I've not gotten very far in my career. I keep auditioning and not getting cast even though I do a good job. And recently, my great big plans blew up in my face and I had to face the humiliation of telling everyone that no, really, it wasn't happening." And since most of my friends were not there for the heart-wrenching decision weekend, and since most of my friends are lovely, friendly, helpful-type people, they asked me all kinds of obvious questions about what I could have done and I had to tell them that I tried that and it didn't work. I tried just about everything and it wasn't going to work so I had to swallow my pride and not do it. That was hard. That was really fucking hard and I know that I made the right decision, but it still made me feel like just about the biggest loser in the world. As if I had been stood up at the altar or something. And even in my plans to keep moving forward and to give it another shot, I don't feel like I'm really getting anywhere. I'm still auditioning and not getting cast. One of the classes I wanted to take was canceled, another postponed and then two sessions rescheduled. I feel like I have tried so hard for so long and all I really have to show for it is that my classmates think I'm talented and that's lovely, but I would like to at the very least be in a show right now. Which I'm not. And you put this all together and it feels like when it comes to acting, I have nothing left to lose. I have suffered just about every humiliation a person can at the hands of this silly career.
So why do I keep doing it? Why do I keep trying?
Because I love it. I honestly and truly love it. My teacher was apologizing for making me go through the most emotionally difficult moment for me over and over and over again in class, but I loved it. I love having to go there. I love being able to go there. I love the dirt and the pain and the screaming and the connection and the love that I get to experience up on stage. I know I have written before that I want to live fully - I get to live fully on stage, even if it is in class - and I love it. I will take every moment of it that I can get.
So here I am, at a point in my development where I have nothing left to lose, where I feel as if I have hit the bottom and continued to sink, so I get up there on stage and give it everything that I have because I don't have any other choice. I am selfish and I love doing this. So I am going to do it. Even if nobody will put me in a show, I will keep taking classes so I can keep doing this. I enjoy it. I want to do something I enjoy. That is selfish behavior. But you know what? I'm okay with that.
23 October 2010
19 October 2010
Good Night
I had a really good night in class last night. Really good.
My partner and I were up on our feet, working in our environment for the first time and we struggled for lines from time to time, but that happens. But there was honest connection and honest emotion and so much pain and rage and vulnerability. It was great. And, it wasn't perfect. The teacher called me out on my "thing" - I have a "thing!" I have wanted to know for some time if I had a "thing" and she saw it last night and called me out on it and it's so true. I was hiding my face in my hands a lot. And it will make me that much more open and raw if I can still have those feelings without hiding my face. I'm looking forward to trying that next week.
There were a couple of odd bits for me, though. One was that so much of the scene is SO emotional for me, but when the teacher would stop us to make a comment, I came right smack out of it. Maybe that is because she tended to stop us when the scene was going south anyway, but it felt weird. But I guess it is good. I know I have ragged on actors before for not being able to leave it on stage once they come off, but it felt odd to go from 100 to 3 in a half a second, you know? And I think I did a decent job of getting back up to about 85 or 90 to start the scene again when it was time to go. It would be nice to learn to jump back in at 100 - that will come with practice. I think I wonder if it made it appear false to my classmates, though, that I came out of it so quickly. I'm up there screaming and crying in pain, and then I'm looking the teacher in the eye taking notes and agreeing that I need to not hide my face and being very calm and technical. Does the fact that I did that make the intensity of the scene just five seconds beforehand seem false?
It didn't feel false.
Which brings me to my second oddity.
When I was learning lindy from my favorite lindy instructor who lives in Europe (I believe he's still there), I remember that he broke it down to such a fundamental level that to the observer, it might look like not a lot is going on. But for the dancers, it is this intense, connected, completely in-tune conversation of movement. He told me once that he couldn't feel my fingertips. So I fixed that and he could control either my head, my hips, or my feet just through my fingertips. For me, acting is very much the same. When you get to that level of connection, where you are taking in what your partner gives you and reacting honestly and truthfully to it, you can make your partner weep with the slightest tilt of your head.
But I think I got into a sort of dangerous place in both dance and acting because of this. The place where I was looking for connection so tiny that the end result looked tiny to anyone watching. Yes, I was feeling everything and yes, I was reacting to everything, but it was all small and perhaps internal. I would get mad, but not furious. I would be happy, but not sickeningly in love. That kind of thing. And that's not always called for in the theater. First of all, nobody writes a scene about someone who gets mad. They write about hideous burning rage. Nobody writes about couple who are content. They write about couples who are hopelessly in love, fueled by passion, desire, and lust. And as theatergoers, that's what we want to see on stage. Not to mention the fact that if you're playing a big house, nobody can see it in the back row if you wink. So I think I was in a place with my acting where I knew large reactions were called for, but they felt false. They felt exaggerated and sometimes forced. But last night, I think I realized that it is not about making the movements bigger. It is about raising the stakes. If you find out your husband is cheating on you, you will be hurt and angry. If you find out your husband, who you gave up the life you always wanted for yourself so you could be with him, who you have become completely emotionally dependent on, who is the father of your only child who is your great joy in life even though he's a little off, who you care for and depend on, who you honestly think you would shrivel up and die without, is cheating on you with a goat, your guts will spill out of your mouth, you'll double over and writhe on the floor in pain, screaming until you can't scream anymore. And it will be honest. And it will be truthful. Because it is that important to you.
It's funny. I have technically been studying theater for about fifteen years and all of the things the acting books have told me are just starting to sink in. Trust yourself. Raise the stakes. The only way to fail is to not try. They used to be just words to me, but in the past couple of weeks, they have started to creep in under my skin and become part of me as a performer. I love it. That moment when everything starts to click. And I can't wait to see where I go from here.
My partner and I were up on our feet, working in our environment for the first time and we struggled for lines from time to time, but that happens. But there was honest connection and honest emotion and so much pain and rage and vulnerability. It was great. And, it wasn't perfect. The teacher called me out on my "thing" - I have a "thing!" I have wanted to know for some time if I had a "thing" and she saw it last night and called me out on it and it's so true. I was hiding my face in my hands a lot. And it will make me that much more open and raw if I can still have those feelings without hiding my face. I'm looking forward to trying that next week.
There were a couple of odd bits for me, though. One was that so much of the scene is SO emotional for me, but when the teacher would stop us to make a comment, I came right smack out of it. Maybe that is because she tended to stop us when the scene was going south anyway, but it felt weird. But I guess it is good. I know I have ragged on actors before for not being able to leave it on stage once they come off, but it felt odd to go from 100 to 3 in a half a second, you know? And I think I did a decent job of getting back up to about 85 or 90 to start the scene again when it was time to go. It would be nice to learn to jump back in at 100 - that will come with practice. I think I wonder if it made it appear false to my classmates, though, that I came out of it so quickly. I'm up there screaming and crying in pain, and then I'm looking the teacher in the eye taking notes and agreeing that I need to not hide my face and being very calm and technical. Does the fact that I did that make the intensity of the scene just five seconds beforehand seem false?
It didn't feel false.
Which brings me to my second oddity.
When I was learning lindy from my favorite lindy instructor who lives in Europe (I believe he's still there), I remember that he broke it down to such a fundamental level that to the observer, it might look like not a lot is going on. But for the dancers, it is this intense, connected, completely in-tune conversation of movement. He told me once that he couldn't feel my fingertips. So I fixed that and he could control either my head, my hips, or my feet just through my fingertips. For me, acting is very much the same. When you get to that level of connection, where you are taking in what your partner gives you and reacting honestly and truthfully to it, you can make your partner weep with the slightest tilt of your head.
But I think I got into a sort of dangerous place in both dance and acting because of this. The place where I was looking for connection so tiny that the end result looked tiny to anyone watching. Yes, I was feeling everything and yes, I was reacting to everything, but it was all small and perhaps internal. I would get mad, but not furious. I would be happy, but not sickeningly in love. That kind of thing. And that's not always called for in the theater. First of all, nobody writes a scene about someone who gets mad. They write about hideous burning rage. Nobody writes about couple who are content. They write about couples who are hopelessly in love, fueled by passion, desire, and lust. And as theatergoers, that's what we want to see on stage. Not to mention the fact that if you're playing a big house, nobody can see it in the back row if you wink. So I think I was in a place with my acting where I knew large reactions were called for, but they felt false. They felt exaggerated and sometimes forced. But last night, I think I realized that it is not about making the movements bigger. It is about raising the stakes. If you find out your husband is cheating on you, you will be hurt and angry. If you find out your husband, who you gave up the life you always wanted for yourself so you could be with him, who you have become completely emotionally dependent on, who is the father of your only child who is your great joy in life even though he's a little off, who you care for and depend on, who you honestly think you would shrivel up and die without, is cheating on you with a goat, your guts will spill out of your mouth, you'll double over and writhe on the floor in pain, screaming until you can't scream anymore. And it will be honest. And it will be truthful. Because it is that important to you.
It's funny. I have technically been studying theater for about fifteen years and all of the things the acting books have told me are just starting to sink in. Trust yourself. Raise the stakes. The only way to fail is to not try. They used to be just words to me, but in the past couple of weeks, they have started to creep in under my skin and become part of me as a performer. I love it. That moment when everything starts to click. And I can't wait to see where I go from here.
12 October 2010
Trust
I had a good class last night. In all honesty, though, I wish I had the opportunity to work more. This is the one problem with scene study classes - if you have six groups who all need to do their scenes in a three hour class, each group should get a half an hour, but if one group goes over, everyone else gets less time. Such is life. And I know it all evens out because different groups go first every week, but still. I wish I had gotten to work more last night.
But the teacher said I did some very good work. I still have some homework to do in terms of building my character's world, and my partner has some work of his own to do which I think will give me more to work off of which will allow me to give him more to work off of and so on and so on and so on. But for a table read, it wasn't bad. The scream that happened at the end of my scene wasn't the noise I had wanted to make just then, but I guess you can't go into this sort of thing hoping to make a certain noise at a certain time. It has to just happen organically. Truthfully. And truthfully, that was the sound that came out of me in response to what was going on.
But what struck me between my audition over the weekend for the show in which I did not get cast and my class last night was, I feel like I'm moving towards the place where I trust myself as a performer. I know I can get up there and give it my all. I'm losing the fear of failure because I think I'm learning that the only way to really fail at this is to not try. I may try the wrong thing and the director might ask me to do something else, but as long as I make strong choices and commit to them fully, I will look like an actor who is fearless and full of life and engaging to watch.
Another thing that came up again last night was intimidation. I was "intimidating as hell," I think someone said. I think this scene calls for it, but I think I also got some of the vulnerability of the character in there, too. Which may also be intimidating because supposedly my husband is still in love with me and for me to be able to be vulnerable with him when he just shattered my entire world has to kill him, too. Or something. But I don't want to be generally intimidating. That's not what I'm after. I want to be the sort of performer who inspires other people, not scares them. I hope, I really truly hope, that my friends and peers feel comfortable talking to me about things. Even performance things. I have one friend who I get together with and we talk theater and I love it. I love talking to her about the problems we are each having with our creative journeys because we usually get to some place where we get an idea for something to try next time. It's great. And if she was intimidated by me, I don't think that would work. I hope she's not. Just like if I ever start teaching this stuff, I want to be an approachable, encouraging teacher. I would want people to see my work and think, "Wow, I want to be able to do that. Maybe she'll let me pick her brain," instead of, "She's so much better than me." I don't know how much control I have over that. I just hope I come off as open and approachable, not as untouchable.
It's funny that it has taken me fifteen years of studying this stuff to get to this point. To start to get to this point. But I'm glad I'm moving in this direction. If I'm going to be a David Tennant kind of actor, I have to be fearless and give it my all. And it's nice to know I can.
But the teacher said I did some very good work. I still have some homework to do in terms of building my character's world, and my partner has some work of his own to do which I think will give me more to work off of which will allow me to give him more to work off of and so on and so on and so on. But for a table read, it wasn't bad. The scream that happened at the end of my scene wasn't the noise I had wanted to make just then, but I guess you can't go into this sort of thing hoping to make a certain noise at a certain time. It has to just happen organically. Truthfully. And truthfully, that was the sound that came out of me in response to what was going on.
But what struck me between my audition over the weekend for the show in which I did not get cast and my class last night was, I feel like I'm moving towards the place where I trust myself as a performer. I know I can get up there and give it my all. I'm losing the fear of failure because I think I'm learning that the only way to really fail at this is to not try. I may try the wrong thing and the director might ask me to do something else, but as long as I make strong choices and commit to them fully, I will look like an actor who is fearless and full of life and engaging to watch.
Another thing that came up again last night was intimidation. I was "intimidating as hell," I think someone said. I think this scene calls for it, but I think I also got some of the vulnerability of the character in there, too. Which may also be intimidating because supposedly my husband is still in love with me and for me to be able to be vulnerable with him when he just shattered my entire world has to kill him, too. Or something. But I don't want to be generally intimidating. That's not what I'm after. I want to be the sort of performer who inspires other people, not scares them. I hope, I really truly hope, that my friends and peers feel comfortable talking to me about things. Even performance things. I have one friend who I get together with and we talk theater and I love it. I love talking to her about the problems we are each having with our creative journeys because we usually get to some place where we get an idea for something to try next time. It's great. And if she was intimidated by me, I don't think that would work. I hope she's not. Just like if I ever start teaching this stuff, I want to be an approachable, encouraging teacher. I would want people to see my work and think, "Wow, I want to be able to do that. Maybe she'll let me pick her brain," instead of, "She's so much better than me." I don't know how much control I have over that. I just hope I come off as open and approachable, not as untouchable.
It's funny that it has taken me fifteen years of studying this stuff to get to this point. To start to get to this point. But I'm glad I'm moving in this direction. If I'm going to be a David Tennant kind of actor, I have to be fearless and give it my all. And it's nice to know I can.
11 October 2010
Rollin' rollin' rollin'
So seeing as my grand plan kind of went kablooie this year, and I have to wait until next year to give it another shot, I am trying to find ways to fill my time. I have always loved stage combat kinds of things, so I thought I should try to find a place in Chicago where I could study (as opposed to those three-week intensive courses taught in July in Seattle. Not that those don't sound like fun, but they would require waiting until July and somehow being able to finagle three weeks off of work). And I found one.
There is a group that trains about five blocks from my apartment, twice a week. For twenty bucks a pop, I can go train with them. So I did. On Saturday. I was nervous as hell walking in there, but they were very nice and very supportive. And they had me jump right in doing forward rolls and backward rolls and jumping over someone who was rolling at me and rolling under someone who was jumping over me and rolling over mats and practicing a simple fight sequence and learning how to do (essentially) a belly flop and a backward fall and some punches and kicks and spins. And some of it, I sucked at. Horribly. I need to work on my flexibility so I can get a decent crescent kick. But some of it, I was pretty decent at. I've never considered myself a gymnast, but I was able to do fairly well on the jumping and rolling stuff. For a first-timer, anyway. And the rest of the group was very encouraging, which helped a lot. Though they do say that if you are uncomfortable trying something, don't do it.
There was something really fun, though, about jumping in and trying everything. I'm not the sort who flips. Ever. I look at people who can do flips and am astounded. But there I was, taking a running start to dive and roll over someone who was coming at me, and I did it. Not perfectly, but I did it. I flew through the air, tucked my head, and rolled through on my back to a (sloppy) landing. How often do adults get to do that kind of thing?
I'd like to get good at this. There is a woman in the group who is absolutely fearless and I hope to someday be like her. I know it will take practice, if for no other reason because I will need to get familiar with my own body and it's limitations and I need to get comfortable working on a bouncy floor that isn't going to hurt when I fall on it. Right now, I still have the "Oh my god the floor is rushing at me really fast and I'm going to hurt myself!" reflex. Which is not what happens here. You learn how to throw yourself at the ground in such a way that you won't get hurt, and you practice on a soft floor so even if you screw up, you're okay until you're comfortable enough to know you're not going to screw up and then you can go do the same thing on concrete.
I think this could be good for me. Something physically active that challenges me to do things I didn't think I could do. That's bound to build up some confidence, right?
Though I will say, I took one landing a little hard on my left ankle. I don't think there was any serious damage, but it's a little tender. And I don't know if it was the stunt training or the strength training I did earlier that morning, but just about every muscle in my body is screaming at me. My favorite soreness is in my butt - if my butt hurts like that, it means it got a good workout, right?
There is a group that trains about five blocks from my apartment, twice a week. For twenty bucks a pop, I can go train with them. So I did. On Saturday. I was nervous as hell walking in there, but they were very nice and very supportive. And they had me jump right in doing forward rolls and backward rolls and jumping over someone who was rolling at me and rolling under someone who was jumping over me and rolling over mats and practicing a simple fight sequence and learning how to do (essentially) a belly flop and a backward fall and some punches and kicks and spins. And some of it, I sucked at. Horribly. I need to work on my flexibility so I can get a decent crescent kick. But some of it, I was pretty decent at. I've never considered myself a gymnast, but I was able to do fairly well on the jumping and rolling stuff. For a first-timer, anyway. And the rest of the group was very encouraging, which helped a lot. Though they do say that if you are uncomfortable trying something, don't do it.
There was something really fun, though, about jumping in and trying everything. I'm not the sort who flips. Ever. I look at people who can do flips and am astounded. But there I was, taking a running start to dive and roll over someone who was coming at me, and I did it. Not perfectly, but I did it. I flew through the air, tucked my head, and rolled through on my back to a (sloppy) landing. How often do adults get to do that kind of thing?
I'd like to get good at this. There is a woman in the group who is absolutely fearless and I hope to someday be like her. I know it will take practice, if for no other reason because I will need to get familiar with my own body and it's limitations and I need to get comfortable working on a bouncy floor that isn't going to hurt when I fall on it. Right now, I still have the "Oh my god the floor is rushing at me really fast and I'm going to hurt myself!" reflex. Which is not what happens here. You learn how to throw yourself at the ground in such a way that you won't get hurt, and you practice on a soft floor so even if you screw up, you're okay until you're comfortable enough to know you're not going to screw up and then you can go do the same thing on concrete.
I think this could be good for me. Something physically active that challenges me to do things I didn't think I could do. That's bound to build up some confidence, right?
Though I will say, I took one landing a little hard on my left ankle. I don't think there was any serious damage, but it's a little tender. And I don't know if it was the stunt training or the strength training I did earlier that morning, but just about every muscle in my body is screaming at me. My favorite soreness is in my butt - if my butt hurts like that, it means it got a good workout, right?
Good News, Bad News
I had an audition on Saturday for an original piece and I nailed it. I went in there and gave it everything I could. I read for two different characters and I think I managed to make them each their own person, but I also think I brought some of myself to each character. And I really enjoyed the audition, too. There are some auditions that have a relaxed, encouraging atmosphere and this was one of them.
So I was not cast.
Which is disappointing, yes. I think I could have brought something interesting to either of the roles I read for and I felt really good about my performance, so it would have been nice to get to explore the character more in rehearsal and then bring her to life in performance.
But the director did take a minute to send me a personal email saying how much he enjoyed my audition, how he was fascinated by the layers I brought to the characters, and how he was really disappointed that he couldn't use me in this production. I thought that was extraordinarily nice of him. Directors don't usually take the time to let the people who weren't cast know that they weren't cast at all, much less to tell them that they gave a really good audition and offer up words of encouragement. So thank you to this director for taking the time to send me that note. That meant a lot to me.
Though I will admit that it was a little hard to take. I don't know exactly why I was not cast, but it looks like it was one of those things that was completely out of my control. I don't look right with the lead guy or some role was already promised to someone else or something like that. Something about which I can do absolutely nothing. Which is hard for me. I like to be able to learn from my experiences and I'm not sure what I can learn from this. Other than I am good at this. I can go in there and give a great audition if I just trust myself. And that if I keep trying, something will eventually have to stick.
So I was not cast.
Which is disappointing, yes. I think I could have brought something interesting to either of the roles I read for and I felt really good about my performance, so it would have been nice to get to explore the character more in rehearsal and then bring her to life in performance.
But the director did take a minute to send me a personal email saying how much he enjoyed my audition, how he was fascinated by the layers I brought to the characters, and how he was really disappointed that he couldn't use me in this production. I thought that was extraordinarily nice of him. Directors don't usually take the time to let the people who weren't cast know that they weren't cast at all, much less to tell them that they gave a really good audition and offer up words of encouragement. So thank you to this director for taking the time to send me that note. That meant a lot to me.
Though I will admit that it was a little hard to take. I don't know exactly why I was not cast, but it looks like it was one of those things that was completely out of my control. I don't look right with the lead guy or some role was already promised to someone else or something like that. Something about which I can do absolutely nothing. Which is hard for me. I like to be able to learn from my experiences and I'm not sure what I can learn from this. Other than I am good at this. I can go in there and give a great audition if I just trust myself. And that if I keep trying, something will eventually have to stick.
05 October 2010
Thoughts
So I've been assigned a scene from a play about a couple who are having some marital problems, largely because she finds out in the course of the play that he is in love and sleeping with a goat. The play is The Goat, or Who is Silvia? by Edward Albee, appropriately enough. Because if there were multiple plays about men sleeping with goats, we might have to stop and take a look at things. And I love this play. It is raw and gritty and real and torturous and so far out there bizarre. I think it is really going to push me as a performer to play this woman who has been so horrifically betrayed, but who still loves her husband so deeply. And it's going to be hard to not just be snide through the whole thing, but that's another issue.
My question is this: As we were discussing the play as a class, it was decided that the man playing the husband (any man cast as this husband) has to love that goat. He has to cast that goat and imagine making love to her and imagine liking it. He has to imagine staring into the goat's eyes and being completely swept away. Which, as you imagine, might be hard for some actors to do. My question is this: in the context of the play, the husband doesn't think what he is doing is wrong. He truly believes that he is in love with his wife and with the goat and that his love for the goat came from somewhere innocent and pure and beautiful, not some sordid thing that happened in his past that turned him into a deviant. He talks about going to therapy and realizing that he has nothing in common with the other people there because his love for the goat is true, whereas they sleep with geese and dogs and pigs out of some psychological trauma. So I have to ask any actor who is cast as this man, in order to prepare for this role, do you have to be in love with a goat, or do you just need to be in love with someone (something) that isn't your wife?
The character knows he is hurting his wife and he knows that infidelity is wrong. He doesn't think loving this goat is wrong, and he defends his love of this goat to the end of the play. So does the actor playing him need to imagine making love to a goat? Or does he need to imagine making love to someone other than his spouse who makes him ridiculously happy? Does the husband's guilt come from the infidelity or from the fact that it is a goat or both?
Honestly, I don't know. I think the answer would be different for every actor who plays the husband. But I would think that if, for the actor, the thought of making love to a goat is repulsive, that kind of goes against how the character feels about his relationship with the goat and may give him a self-hatred that I'm not sure he has. Whereas if he does his preparation around his wife, and then does some preparation around meeting the fantasy partner of his dreams (who is not his wife), I think that might get closer. I don't know. I could be full of crap myself. It's just a thought.
My question is this: As we were discussing the play as a class, it was decided that the man playing the husband (any man cast as this husband) has to love that goat. He has to cast that goat and imagine making love to her and imagine liking it. He has to imagine staring into the goat's eyes and being completely swept away. Which, as you imagine, might be hard for some actors to do. My question is this: in the context of the play, the husband doesn't think what he is doing is wrong. He truly believes that he is in love with his wife and with the goat and that his love for the goat came from somewhere innocent and pure and beautiful, not some sordid thing that happened in his past that turned him into a deviant. He talks about going to therapy and realizing that he has nothing in common with the other people there because his love for the goat is true, whereas they sleep with geese and dogs and pigs out of some psychological trauma. So I have to ask any actor who is cast as this man, in order to prepare for this role, do you have to be in love with a goat, or do you just need to be in love with someone (something) that isn't your wife?
The character knows he is hurting his wife and he knows that infidelity is wrong. He doesn't think loving this goat is wrong, and he defends his love of this goat to the end of the play. So does the actor playing him need to imagine making love to a goat? Or does he need to imagine making love to someone other than his spouse who makes him ridiculously happy? Does the husband's guilt come from the infidelity or from the fact that it is a goat or both?
Honestly, I don't know. I think the answer would be different for every actor who plays the husband. But I would think that if, for the actor, the thought of making love to a goat is repulsive, that kind of goes against how the character feels about his relationship with the goat and may give him a self-hatred that I'm not sure he has. Whereas if he does his preparation around his wife, and then does some preparation around meeting the fantasy partner of his dreams (who is not his wife), I think that might get closer. I don't know. I could be full of crap myself. It's just a thought.
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