A Performance Diary: Winter
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
A Performance Diary: Winter
By Annie Hamilton
Annie Hamilton is a writer and performer from NYC who writes a seasonal diary for Metrograph, recounting her adventures and encounters across the city.
DECEMBER 28 - AN UNMARRIED WOMAN (1978)
Metrograph, play this god damned movie! Play it every week!
Man, this flick was hard to find. My agent recommended it to me and I felt too silly telling her that I no longer have a DVD player. I don’t know how to “torrent” things—is that what that’s called?—so it took me far too long to figure out how to watch it. I ended up going over to a friend’s and letting her do the illegal downloading for me.
This movie made me feel like my twenties were—which they are—a real thing of the past. It’s a romcom made for women over the age of 30. I really wouldn’t bother seeing it if you’re younger than me—ya just don’t need the same kind of hope.
I’m recommending this movie, I’m recommending it to the highest degree, so obviously I only have good things to say about it. It’s about the end of a woman’s 16-year marriage, played by Jill Clayburgh. It’s the perfect combo of realistic and escapist. I love its sincerity, I love Alan Bates, and I love old New York. The filmmaker Justine Triet talked about it in her Criterion Closet, so if I’m not your tastemaker, listen to her.
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
JANUARY 19 - MERRILY WE ROLL ALONG (PLUS THE DOC)
As I’ve written in previous diaries for Metrograph, I’ve become a later-in-life musical theater geek. I went to see Merrily We Roll Along thinking that I was about to see Our Town. (The tickets were free—a friend had to give them up last minute).
This production was totally wonderful. Just perfect. There was only one weak link from an incredible company of actors, but I’m not going to name names. (I’m not in the mood to take anybody down. I just want to prove that I can be evaluative, too.)
Jonathan Groff carries an everlasting range of emotions on his face from start to finish. It was kind of film-y, seeing him stare out at the audience without saying anything, holding onto his regret and letting it be shown. Daniel Radcliffe performed the choreography with a uniquely specific disdain. Lindsay Mendez is a smart actor, her jokes were truthfully off-putting, and her sarcasm was bright.
I saw it with my oldest friend, Rebecca Celli. We’ve been friends for over 20 years—since we were six years old. It was really special getting to see it with her. The play is about friendship and success and the pitfalls of working with people you’ve grown up with. While Rebecca and I don’t work together, we’ve had our fair share of pitfalls. Before I admitted to it, she understood that I related to Jonathan Groff’s character, who abandons his friendships in sacrifice to his Hollywood career. He leaves everyone in the dust. And, surprise surprise, the trade off does not end up leaving him happy.
He winds up miserable: artistically compromised and spiritually alone. It was a bit stressful watching Merrily for that reason. I’m so work-obsessed these days. I haven’t been a good friend. I don’t know how to do both yet. I don’t even know if I want to do both right now. Friendship is way less important to me now than it was in my twenties. If Merrily has any sort of “lesson,” it’s that choosing commercial success over friendship is the worst mistake an artist can make. That makes sense.
And yet…
In the cab ride home, Rebecca and I discussed long-time friendships. My oldest friends are the only forgiving people I have in my life. They have context for my tantrums, they understand that eventually I’ll hold myself responsible for my bad behavior. They don’t punish me for disappearing. My high-school girlfriends are my family. I’m relieved that none of them are my official writing partners.
The night after seeing the show, I decided to peacefully protest the Superbowl by watching the documentary about the original cast of Merrily. It’s called Best Worst Thing That Ever Could Have Happened (2016). It’s decently depressing; whereas, I found this Broadway reprisal to be wildly hopeful. I suppose the doc was simply realistic. It’s worth a watch.
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
FEBRUARY 9 - THE JOURNALS OF SPALDING GRAY
I’ve been obsessively reading everything Spalding Gray, but especially his journals. Mr. Gray, if you don’t know, was one of America’s first, and still its most famous professional monologers: he performed autobiographical work in the late 1970s up until his death, in 2004.
Spalding is the artist who I most relate to both as a performer and as a writer. For years, I’ve looked for actors or artists or writers who could set a template for the kind of career I want to have. My search led me to Spalding, and frankly, nobody comes closer. Spalding started as an actor, but in his twenties, he discovered that acting out other people’s stories wasn’t going to fulfill him. I’ve been reading his journals as both inspiration and comfort: here was an artist (long before the era of Twitter) who felt it necessary to publicize his most private thoughts and feelings. His style of curated exhibitionism wasn’t always met with understanding. Much of Spalding’s diaries document his uncertainty and shame surrounding his dedication to such an untraditional line of work.
Spalding was known for his lax and honest performance style: he’d sit at a desk just talking, a glass of water and a notepad set down before him. There are many essays and memoiristic collections (by Spalding) and many things to watch (interviews, performances) available online (Jonathan Demme turned one of Spalding’s monologues, Swimming to Cambodia, into a film in 1987; Steven Soderbergh came out with a documentary about Spalding in 2010). And yet I’m constantly surprised by how few people seem to know about him. He paved a road for personal performance unlike anyone else. He was a singular thinker: seemingly unafraid of exhibitionism, of confessional truth, of humor that was rooted in trauma and self-doubt. And it’s the journals that I keep coming back to are these journals, which feel almost like notes of my own.
What is the price we pay for publicly telling the truth? It’s hard to ignore Spalding’s suicide when reading about him. This entry in his journals I think sums it up nicely:
I’m coming apart and losing my center. At least I think I remember how to get back to it and will do it (can I trust myself to do it?) when I need to … I do not like all the ACTING I do and that goes on around me. It feels like so much hype and I long to get back to a more simple state. I also feel a strong need to get back to writing and find no time at all for that now. I feel too much in the public eye. I love it but it eats me up and when I am left alone, I feel like a shell that always needs to be filled up by audience.
I often feel tacky and one-note, constantly recording my life. Like Spalding, I sometimes feel my life is meaningless unless it is broadcasted, unless it can be reworked and retold. I often wonder what kind of shrink I should get: most of my problems are marked by the effect my work has on my friends, family—on people I love. I worry about my narcissism. I worry about my inability to assess the world without factoring myself into the equation.
I don’t know what exactly is to be learned from Spalding’s life. All I know is that his thoughts make me feel far less alone. I hate phoniness. I hate airs. I don’t despise anything more than I do lies masquerading as truth. In an era where we all live so out in the open—so publicly—I think Spalding’s journals are a beautiful example of the effect performance can have on one’s private life.
To me, my lies (performative and interpersonal) have changed the trajectory of my life. I’d like to think that Spalding felt the same.
Photo courtesy of Annie Hamilton.
