The British actor's blog, continued.
I think I may have hit upon my character, a monumentally alluring and magnetic Jung whose hair is not thinning in the least. I am ever so chuffed, I may even answer some fan mail. Oh, how I wish that my fans (and creditors) could appreciate me for who I really am, a monumentally alluring and magnetic man who knows how to keep up his appearance despite a whirlwind life-style and a life partner with two burdensome boys at home.
I really must eat! I’ve had eighteen straight whiskies, approaching Dylan Thomas’s record, and threatening to tie my chi up in knots. My mobile is switched on, should Moody wish to impart any news about casting for that role in the new Pixar movie.
March 20
This crucial week, the week of the most intense rehearsals for that damn play, I have been inundated by letters from American fans and epic tomes from Continental Creditors (which I have passed on to my solicitors, a job Moody should have done himself, but he was preoccupied, his nose buried in latte foam and his pinchers hectoring my P.A., the younger Miss Chuzzlewit); furthermore, I have been hounded by my soul mate to tidy a nest cluttered with impedimenta belonging to her offspring, not mine, whilst I should have been practising the Meisner technique and retooling a perfectly dreadful piece of theatre.
And have I mentioned that my hair plugs fell out just before I began doing the required publicity? Now my head looks like the scorched earth region of the southern Sudan. This, when I am opening in my first production at the Lamplight since 1999!
So, really, I cannot guess why Moody chose this week, of all weeks, to demand more autographed photos. I am much too busy with the play adaptation. I had hoped to finish it before the previews, but I got caught up in playing “Grand Theft Auto” on the Xbox.
By the way, my director has not gotten into the spirit of the thing re: the adaptation. I suggested to him that we mold the Jung character along the lines of Pumba from The Lion King, but he would have none of it. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with the London stage.
Here is Act I, Scene 2, of my adaptation. I should have it completed by opening night.
(Enter Jung’s two comic sidekicks, Anima and Animus. Freud crosses DSR. Jung crosses DSL. Anima crosses USR, and Animus wanders behind the cyclorama, casting an enormous, distracting shadow throughout the following exchange.)
Freud: Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, old chap?
Jung: (raises an eyebrow) Friends, Doctor? I like to think of them as comic sidekicks, archetypes, or primordial images.
Freud: Just as you say.
Jung: (lowers eyebrow, raises other eyebrow) You doubt me, then? I tell you, Doctor Freud, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your psychiatry.
Freud: Your insolence towards Europe’s pre-eminent physician is rash, sir.
Jung: (meaningfully) Bollocks! You gave the Archduke Franz Ferdinand a clean bill of health, when he is, after all, a very sick man.
Freud: The deuce you say! Explain yourself.
Jung: The Archduke suffers from a persecution complex.
Freud: Poppycock! Just last year alone, the Black Hand organized seventeen attempts against his life. They bombed the left wing of his palace, shot at him in church, and baked him into a giant Sacher-Torte. I warned him that if he ever decides to visit Sarajevo, he should disguise himself with a pair of bullet-proof nose-glasses.
Jung: Hmm. (takes small recording device from pocket, switches it on, and speaks into its microphone) Note: Cancel upcoming Bosnian holiday with Franz and Sophie. (switches off device and puts back in pocket) You win this round, Doctor! But I have you beat, hands down, with my startling new principle of entropy!
(Blackout)
There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: Scene 2. I would like to introduce Jung on roller-blades in Scene 3, but Carolyn’s oafish younger boy has nicked my only pair.
I think I may have hit upon my character, a monumentally alluring and magnetic Jung whose hair is not thinning in the least. I am ever so chuffed, I may even answer some fan mail. Oh, how I wish that my fans (and creditors) could appreciate me for who I really am, a monumentally alluring and magnetic man who knows how to keep up his appearance despite a whirlwind life-style and a life partner with two burdensome boys at home.
I really must eat! I’ve had eighteen straight whiskies, approaching Dylan Thomas’s record, and threatening to tie my chi up in knots. My mobile is switched on, should Moody wish to impart any news about casting for that role in the new Pixar movie.
March 20
This crucial week, the week of the most intense rehearsals for that damn play, I have been inundated by letters from American fans and epic tomes from Continental Creditors (which I have passed on to my solicitors, a job Moody should have done himself, but he was preoccupied, his nose buried in latte foam and his pinchers hectoring my P.A., the younger Miss Chuzzlewit); furthermore, I have been hounded by my soul mate to tidy a nest cluttered with impedimenta belonging to her offspring, not mine, whilst I should have been practising the Meisner technique and retooling a perfectly dreadful piece of theatre.
And have I mentioned that my hair plugs fell out just before I began doing the required publicity? Now my head looks like the scorched earth region of the southern Sudan. This, when I am opening in my first production at the Lamplight since 1999!
So, really, I cannot guess why Moody chose this week, of all weeks, to demand more autographed photos. I am much too busy with the play adaptation. I had hoped to finish it before the previews, but I got caught up in playing “Grand Theft Auto” on the Xbox.
By the way, my director has not gotten into the spirit of the thing re: the adaptation. I suggested to him that we mold the Jung character along the lines of Pumba from The Lion King, but he would have none of it. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with the London stage.
Here is Act I, Scene 2, of my adaptation. I should have it completed by opening night.
(Enter Jung’s two comic sidekicks, Anima and Animus. Freud crosses DSR. Jung crosses DSL. Anima crosses USR, and Animus wanders behind the cyclorama, casting an enormous, distracting shadow throughout the following exchange.)
Freud: Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, old chap?
Jung: (raises an eyebrow) Friends, Doctor? I like to think of them as comic sidekicks, archetypes, or primordial images.
Freud: Just as you say.
Jung: (lowers eyebrow, raises other eyebrow) You doubt me, then? I tell you, Doctor Freud, there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your psychiatry.
Freud: Your insolence towards Europe’s pre-eminent physician is rash, sir.
Jung: (meaningfully) Bollocks! You gave the Archduke Franz Ferdinand a clean bill of health, when he is, after all, a very sick man.
Freud: The deuce you say! Explain yourself.
Jung: The Archduke suffers from a persecution complex.
Freud: Poppycock! Just last year alone, the Black Hand organized seventeen attempts against his life. They bombed the left wing of his palace, shot at him in church, and baked him into a giant Sacher-Torte. I warned him that if he ever decides to visit Sarajevo, he should disguise himself with a pair of bullet-proof nose-glasses.
Jung: Hmm. (takes small recording device from pocket, switches it on, and speaks into its microphone) Note: Cancel upcoming Bosnian holiday with Franz and Sophie. (switches off device and puts back in pocket) You win this round, Doctor! But I have you beat, hands down, with my startling new principle of entropy!
(Blackout)
There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: Scene 2. I would like to introduce Jung on roller-blades in Scene 3, but Carolyn’s oafish younger boy has nicked my only pair.