An Acting Life by Michelle Shyman

Posts Tagged ‘sex’

The List, Part Twelve

Friday, July 2nd, 2010


Films Which Have Cats


  • “The Last Picture Show.” Jacy had a cat. She was mean to the cat. Pushed the cat off the bed. Jacy was mean to a lot of boys, too. Men were mean to Jacy. Goes around, comes around. Later Cybill Shepherd had an affair with Peter Bogdanovich and he left his wife Polly Platt for her, which is very dumb because if Cybill has sex like Jacy had sex, it would be very boring indeed.

  • “Star Trek Generations.” The entire point of this story was finding Spot.

  • “Never Talk to Strangers.” Serena the cat was murdered by Rebecca de Mornay. Doesn’t seem like a cat killer should be allowed to have wild sex with Antonio Banderas. Doesn’t seem right.

What?  You think a list should be longer than three items?

Lost, the Final Season Rant #9

Wednesday, May 19th, 2010

Hubby was always making excuses for the evil women on “Lost.”


“Oh, Nikki is not that bad.  She only killed one guy.  What about Cheney?  He is responsible for the murder of hundreds of thousands.”

“Oh, I am getting to understand Juliet now that they are showing her back story.  She had to make some tough choices.  She’s not so bad.”

“Kate really murdered that guy out of the goodness of her heart.”

Now, in my 112-hour marathon review of past “Lost” seasons, I realize why hubby REALLY was watching the show.  It was all the mud-wrestling and soaking wet tee-shirts.

Video Producer

Thursday, March 4th, 2010


Perfect, perfect.

What kind of part-time day job can an actor-screenwriter-indie producer get that not only pays MEGA bucks; but also lets her develop her filmmaking skills?  And even better…even better…doesn’t mind if she gets a little artsty and creative with her work?

Well, video producer, you say…but not for some boring corporation or trite advertising campaign.

But.

Today I applied for a video producer-director position at a woman-run Internet porn company.


Can’t wait!

Hee hee hee….


Her Commune Fired Her

Tuesday, February 16th, 2010


Went to a party last week. A Sweet-Young-Chickie sat next to me and told me that she broke up with her Not-Working-Boyfriend and moved out of her group housing situation. Not-Working-Boyfriend is still living in the group housing with all the roommates and Sweet-Young-Chickie is still financially supporting him, though they have split up. She’s been supporting him for 8 years.


Not-Working-Boyfriend is “dating” (Sweet-Young-Chickie’s word for “screwing”) Chubby-Masseuse, one of the other roomies. Chubby-Masseuse lives in the group house with her own boyfriend, Depressed-Go-Master, who synchronously is desperately seeking other women.


Though this commune claims to be all about polyamory, Sweet-Young-Chickie was never supposed to mention within the confines of the group house that her Not-Working-Boyfriend was “dating” Chubby-Masseuse, because (follow me here) the Depressed-Go-Master (group-house-mate and boyfriend of Chubby-Masseuse) would be upset.


Anyway, the polyamory seems to be not amory at all, but strictly polysexuality, because the “love” part stops the minute you break one of the rules. Like, for example, move out.


Sweet-Young-Chickie: “I’m moving out of the commune.”

Depressed-Go-Master: “No, I’m kicking you out. And don’t dare talk to any of us again. You can slip your final rent check under the door.”


To Comedy Or Not to Comedy

Thursday, August 20th, 2009


Yeah, I guess i should get off my (bare naked nude sex sexy breasts boobs hardcore teenage barely legal) ass and perform my half-written latest comedy routine.

My acting coaches have been trying to train me to stay away from my comfort zone, the easy work,  the familiar-which for me is the ability to make people laugh–and to work in my uncomfortable zones. They say it stretches the instrument; it tunes the instrument; it makes the instrument more sensitive and flexible.

Yes, I’m sure it does.

But, hell (damn shit fuck cock bastard), ticket sales are higher for the beer (fart poop ass butt doody rectum-hell-almost-killed-em) drinking jokes than for the stories where the heroine takes a

dive

out

the

window

at

the

end.


Letters from My Readers

Wednesday, August 12th, 2009

Dear Michelle,

You are kidding, right?

Your reader

Dear Reader,

No.

Michelle

Dear Michelle,

You really think your writing partner

should quit going to auditions

so she can work on your screenplay?

Your Reader

Dear Reader,

Yes.

Michelle

Dear Michelle,

You really think your writing partner

should give up time with her family

to work on the script?

Your Reader

Dear Reader,


If you mean those bratty,

spoiled

pre-teenage

pains-in-the-butt

who could definitely stay on their own after school,

yes I do.


Sincerely,

Michelle

Dear Michelle,

Do you really think improv is stupid?

Your offended Reader

Dear Offal, Rear-End, There Are So Many Jokes I Could Make About Your Signature, Reader,


Most improv is verbal masturbation,

not acting.

If my writing partner were actually interested in art;

that is, ART,

I mean A*R*T*,

and not in having her face in a hot light,

she should be writing.

Michelle

Dear Michelle,

You DO realize why you have no friends, right?

Your Reader

Dear Fan,

Yes.  Sadly.

Michelle

Celebrity, Part One

Saturday, July 4th, 2009

TwitterHaikus LIX through LXXII:

Hubby doesn’t mind//

If I have fantasy sex//

With DiCaprio.

George Clooney, Sean Penn,//

Johnny Depp, Mos Def, Brad Pitt,//

Bernadette Peters.

Scarlett Johanssen, //

Drew Barrymore, Brent Spiner //

Or Carlos Andres Gomez.

Sam Shepard.  Joan Jett.//

Eartha Kitt. Christopher Reeve…//

…well, not any more.

Hubby has a list//

Of those he approves as my//

Fantasy lovers:

Penelope Cruz,//

Queen Latifah, Beyonce,//

Salma Hayek and…//

Scarlett Johanssen,//

Susan Sarandon. Ahem!//

No men on his list!

…Shmekia Copeland.//

That’s way more than a 3-way, but //

They’ll have to take turns.

Smart is sexy.//

Richard Dawkins, Carl Sagan//

I want your babies.

Sylvia by Nicole .//

Javier Bardem.  Lassie//

Flipper.  Curious Georg.

Phoenix the Cat. Hobbes,//

(But forget about Calvin.)//

Man Man Foo. Tuff Girl.

Susan Tedeschi.//

Robert Downey Junior.  And//

Any Far Side dog.

This is a long list.//

I’ll have to be up all night.//

Will Smith.  Tim Robbins.

Nick Gravenites.//

Paul Butterfield.  Heath Ledger.

Too many dead people.

Off Topic

Wednesday, April 1st, 2009

I’m sure many of my readers also subscribe to a producers’ chat list.  Last week, a strange topic was discussed through a dozen posts, back and forth, over three days, on one of the producer lists which I read.  The topic: knife sharpening.

They talked about recommendations for knife sharpeners, instructions for how to do it yourself and where to learn; gizmos to buy to do it at home (complete with loving descriptions on how the gizmo looks in the kitchen), and discussions about how absolutelyNecessary it is to have sharp knives for the gourmet kitchen.

This made me laugh my ass off.

Usually people get chastised for discussing non-producerish topics on the list.  However, for some reason this topic struck a chord on the producers’ list and no one complained.  Their creativity must go into films plus cooking.

But, that’s not why it made me laugh my ass off.  What I was secretly thinking the whole time was, “These people must not be screenwriters.”

Why?

Because.

Screenwriters use knives for an entirely different purpose.

Here’s an exchange I can imagine happening on the screenwriters’ chat list.

Alan: “Anyone know where I can get my knives sharpened, preferably in the zone?”

Barbara: “How many victims can you stab with an ordinary kitchen knife before it becomes dull?  Is the answer different for a zombie movie and for a realistic crime movie?”

Carla: “What is the best knife to kill your elderly uncle to make it look like an accident?”

Don: “Should you use a different knife for a revenge killing than for a sex-murder?”

Elise: “What type of small knife should I use for inserts in a story about a cutter, but it’s not about cutting; it’s about unemployment?”

Frank: “I want a gloomy kind of dullness, not a shiny blade as he stabs the victim over and over and over and over and over and over and once again.”

Gisela: “Knife throwers.  Knife jugglers.  A contest to build houses of cards, but with knives instead.  A chair made entirely of knives.  Knife stuck in eyeball.  Knife slicing open a long, long vein.  Using a knife for a mirror.  A car that shoots knives at other cars’ tires during traffic jams.

Haw: “Do back-woods folks realistically pick their teeth with a knife, or is that a stereotype?”

Michelle (that’s me): “Knives. Killing.  Let’s see.  How many people can I get away with killing?  Hmm.  Start with mother.  Then father.  Then boss.  Then next boss in next job.  Then the credit card person who messed up my statement.  Then the bank president.  Then my neighbor who lets his dog cry for hours. “

Oh, never mind that last bit.  It means nothing.  NOTHING, do you hear me?

Sexuality on Screen: Bad? Nasty? Kinky? Universal?

Wednesday, October 15th, 2008

Exhibit A: That Oedipus Thang

The lovely Anne Lower, actor; clever Anne Lower, marketing specialist; she is also the hardworking and insightful theater producer, Anne; and today we speak of her in her role as the talented screenwriter.

A while ago she wrote,

“I’m working on an adaptation of OEDIPUS REX.”

Then, I can hear the pause before she types,

“…Who hasn’t?”

Exhibit B: That Oedipus Thang

No shit, ha, ha, ha!  Who hasn’t?

I am writing a time-travel story of an amnesiac woman who can’t remember who she was in the past and ends up having mad, passionate, crazy, wild, fabulous, funfunfunfun obsessive sex with her son.

Yeah, I am.

So what?

Same to you!

Exhibit C: I’ll Have The Usual

Susan is writing dialogue for a character in her stage play.

Me to Susan:

“What’s she thinking about?”

Susan:

“Oh, the usual.  You know.  Same thing everyone thinks about all the time. Standard.”

(pause)

Susan, con’t.:

“Snakes crawling out of vaginas.”

Exhibit D: That Oedipus Thang

This screenplay is open on my computer.  Peeps, you shouldn’t leave your unfinished work lying around if you live with a non-writer.  They forget the path that a work takes

from:

◊ in-progress / not-ready / stewing / playing-with-ideas / re-work

to

◊completion.

Non-writers keep getting confused between your reality and your fiction.  They forget the diff between your fantasies and your screenwriting.

…or, maybe your screenwriting IS your fantasies, only you’ve parsed them into scenelets and scenes.

So…my curious husband checks out my notes for the Oedipal screenplay.

He sees on the page:

“A woman gets a headache when she makes love to her son.”

Sez hubby to me in a very serious tone:

“Well she OUGHT to get sicker than that! She should get nausea, at least!  That is some bad behavior.”

My New Film

Thursday, July 24th, 2008

I can’t get this story out of my head … a woman who has a hard time getting along with people. People make her agitated. Decides to have relationships only with versions of herself.

Makes hundreds of self-images; casts them in resin from a mold she made of her body with plaster-impregnated gauze, using Vaseline for a mold release; and then a mold negative from rubber.

At first she talks calmly to her masks; strokes them gently.

Later, strange sex scenes with plastic half-women. She hangs (or mounts, if you will) the plastic selves on the wall and releases her lust onto them.

The plastic half-people start talking, start getting off the wall. Complaining. They become very hard to control. Doing their own thing, not what the woman fantasized they would do.  Out of control. Multiplying. Reproducing themselves.  But the new ones are ugly, not pretty like the first castings.  They are running faster.  They are hard to catch and almost impossible, once caught, to pin back on the wall because they are so slickery, so plasticky, so slidey. They fling plastic fishes at her. Oh, well, maybe not fishes; maybe bits of plaster gauze. The plastic people try to eat the flesh person for dinner. Their teeth are frightening (though flexible). She tries putting them up against the wall, laying them down on the work table, turning them upside down, covering them with scrims, changing the lights, calling “Cut,” nailing them to the work bench, pouring nail polish remover on them. Nothing.  Nothing works.

The only way to control the plastic people is for her to wear them all-as chest pieces-one on top of the other.  All stacked and piled and clicked into spoon-place onto the original woman, on top of her fleshen self.

It works.  They become calm.

She can’t walk very well with all that weight. Her breathing slows down. She can’t move at all.  She tries to lift her hand to tear off her conjoined plastic selves.  She cannot lift her arm.  The plastic shells melt into her flesh; become a part of her.  They cannot be removed.  She is in layers.  The layers merge into one thick layer. The layer fuses with her epidermis.  The shape of her body has morphed. She is now huge, lumpy.

But at peace with herself.


Okay, forget it.

Michelle Shyman