Saul
So much more
Than Harold and Kumar.
Then I played Scott Smith,
Harvey Milkâs lover.
Iâm still surprised
By the response
To that character.
The secret there:
Minimalism.
The film is called Milk,
Not Smith,
And thatâs how I played it:
A supporting lover,
Thus, as a supporting actor
To support Sean
Whom I love so much.
In Howl I played Ginsberg,
And I was all alone.
My scenes were speeches
Given to an unseen interviewer
Like Shirley Clarkâs
Portrait of Jason.
All I did was get down Allenâs
Cadence by listening to him
Read âHowl,â over and over,
All the versions
Over the course of forty years,
So many recordings.
He wrote the poem
And then the poem wrote him.
In 127 Hours I knew
The key would be show donât tell,
Because the character just does.
I knew the audience
Would have an experience
Because I wouldnât be telling
Them how I feel, Iâd be feeling.
And when the character does talk,
He does it to his little video camera;
I look right into the lens,
Ostensibly talking to my family and friends,
But Iâm looking right at the audience,
So itâs like a Shakespearean aside,
Without breaking the fourth wall.
And I talk about my feelings
In the most intimate way.
Itâs like Iâm talking to the people
In the theater, as if theyâre all my friends,
And Iâm telling them
Everything there is to know
About me.
Seventh Grade
A new school with cement all around
With wires that you canât see but feel,
And there are faces that break in at you,
And fill you with such pressure.
And you run away but the faces are always there,
Huge black ones that you never saw before.
On guys that are like grown men
That have dicks so big they could kill you.
But your dad says not to worry
Because if someone picks on you
You can handle anyone at that school, he says,
But he hasnât seen some of these guys
Because he himself wouldnât be able to handle them.
Jamal and Shaka and Ramone and Reuben,
They are different kinds of people than you have ever known.
The halls are full of these people and talk about pussy and guns
And a girl named Yvon that sucked Shakaâs dick.
You try to picture it, and swallow that image whole, because it is new too,
But that world is unwieldy and can hurt you.
Instead, you have a bunch of mice at home
That had started as two, but they fucked,
Then there were twenty little pink mice in the cage.
It smelled, and you sprayed it with Right Guard.
You separated the dad from the mom, so that it wouldnât happen again
But then the momâs belly got big again with more pink things
Because one of the babies fucked her.
Think of that son,
Half her size, with barely any hair,
Riding her from behind,
Not knowing why,
But doing it because he was the strongest of the litter.
James Dean on Havenhurst
After I dropped out of UCLA
I lived on Havenhurst in Sherman Oaks,
A couple years after the earthquake rocked it
And brought the rent down.
I worked at McDonaldâs to pay the rent.
I stayed in a two-bedroom with two Scotts.
I slept on the couch and they had the rooms.
One Scott was from Michigan
And one was from LA.
We were all actors.
We did scenes in class:
Desire under the Elms,
The Dreamer Examines His Pillow,
American Buffalo,
True West.
One Scott went crazy,
The big one, who was an ex-Mr. Universe,
And before he went back to Grand Rapids for good,
He would lock himself in his little room
And watch four movies over and over:
East of Eden, Lust for Life,
Taxi Driver, A Place in the Sun.
A crazy boy, van Gogh,
And two murderers. It was funny
To think about the sensitive guy
That was under that Mr. Universe shell.
And scary.
The other Scott gave up too.
But he was more of a rich kid,
So, I think he did okay.
I lived there alone for at least a year.
I had so much room to stretch out,
But I didnât know what to do with it.
I put a
So much more
Than Harold and Kumar.
Then I played Scott Smith,
Harvey Milkâs lover.
Iâm still surprised
By the response
To that character.
The secret there:
Minimalism.
The film is called Milk,
Not Smith,
And thatâs how I played it:
A supporting lover,
Thus, as a supporting actor
To support Sean
Whom I love so much.
In Howl I played Ginsberg,
And I was all alone.
My scenes were speeches
Given to an unseen interviewer
Like Shirley Clarkâs
Portrait of Jason.
All I did was get down Allenâs
Cadence by listening to him
Read âHowl,â over and over,
All the versions
Over the course of forty years,
So many recordings.
He wrote the poem
And then the poem wrote him.
In 127 Hours I knew
The key would be show donât tell,
Because the character just does.
I knew the audience
Would have an experience
Because I wouldnât be telling
Them how I feel, Iâd be feeling.
And when the character does talk,
He does it to his little video camera;
I look right into the lens,
Ostensibly talking to my family and friends,
But Iâm looking right at the audience,
So itâs like a Shakespearean aside,
Without breaking the fourth wall.
And I talk about my feelings
In the most intimate way.
Itâs like Iâm talking to the people
In the theater, as if theyâre all my friends,
And Iâm telling them
Everything there is to know
About me.
Seventh Grade
A new school with cement all around
With wires that you canât see but feel,
And there are faces that break in at you,
And fill you with such pressure.
And you run away but the faces are always there,
Huge black ones that you never saw before.
On guys that are like grown men
That have dicks so big they could kill you.
But your dad says not to worry
Because if someone picks on you
You can handle anyone at that school, he says,
But he hasnât seen some of these guys
Because he himself wouldnât be able to handle them.
Jamal and Shaka and Ramone and Reuben,
They are different kinds of people than you have ever known.
The halls are full of these people and talk about pussy and guns
And a girl named Yvon that sucked Shakaâs dick.
You try to picture it, and swallow that image whole, because it is new too,
But that world is unwieldy and can hurt you.
Instead, you have a bunch of mice at home
That had started as two, but they fucked,
Then there were twenty little pink mice in the cage.
It smelled, and you sprayed it with Right Guard.
You separated the dad from the mom, so that it wouldnât happen again
But then the momâs belly got big again with more pink things
Because one of the babies fucked her.
Think of that son,
Half her size, with barely any hair,
Riding her from behind,
Not knowing why,
But doing it because he was the strongest of the litter.
James Dean on Havenhurst
After I dropped out of UCLA
I lived on Havenhurst in Sherman Oaks,
A couple years after the earthquake rocked it
And brought the rent down.
I worked at McDonaldâs to pay the rent.
I stayed in a two-bedroom with two Scotts.
I slept on the couch and they had the rooms.
One Scott was from Michigan
And one was from LA.
We were all actors.
We did scenes in class:
Desire under the Elms,
The Dreamer Examines His Pillow,
American Buffalo,
True West.
One Scott went crazy,
The big one, who was an ex-Mr. Universe,
And before he went back to Grand Rapids for good,
He would lock himself in his little room
And watch four movies over and over:
East of Eden, Lust for Life,
Taxi Driver, A Place in the Sun.
A crazy boy, van Gogh,
And two murderers. It was funny
To think about the sensitive guy
That was under that Mr. Universe shell.
And scary.
The other Scott gave up too.
But he was more of a rich kid,
So, I think he did okay.
I lived there alone for at least a year.
I had so much room to stretch out,
But I didnât know what to do with it.
I put a
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