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GP: Are you worried about whether or not you're too closely imitating them -- or stealing their bits?
BI: You know, my dear friend and colleague David Shiner's had to go to court because people did his routine to the letter, and he said he was just amazed, couldn't believe that they would do that. The story is that they thought he'd be flattered, but no, he wasn't flattered, so he took them to court. The judge shook his head and said, "That's a direct steal." The great break dancers -- that's a form I'm so drawn to always -- and the tap dancers generations before that, there was a real proprietary interest in there -- there's a real accusatory thing about stealing and hiding what you do so it doesn't get stolen. Break dancers say: "You bit me -- you bit my moves." And sometimes it's sort of a joke, but sometimes it's not a joke. Is there an anxiety about stealing? The thing is, when you're drawn to exactly imitate something, that will be a steal, and it won't be interesting to people. Somebody tried to define originality. When people are original, they steal things, but you can't recognize them because they come out in a different way.
GP: Why have you directed yourself more often than not?
BI: For me as a writer and performer, I start to get a notion of things. I'm seeing something in my head -- how can I get it on the stage? I start to see, rightly or wrongly, how eventually I want it to look. I think I know the givens, so I might as well direct it, and you can get three paychecks instead of two. It's not always a great idea to direct yourself, but if you are the writer and you see yourself eventually as the performer, it's sort of a natural bridge, step, to direct it also, even if it involves other people. It's a very difficult thing to ask a director to come in between those two steps. That happens all the time in this physical comedy form and in other forms. A creator type is forever coming up with something and a producer will say, "Marvelous, marvelous. I want to connect you with a really good director." Now this is not a bad impulse by definition, and it often leads to incredibly good, fruitful work, but sometimes, very often, it leads to an impossible sandwich for all the parties. The person who wrote something and sees himself or herself performing it can't really tolerate the person directing, and the person directing is caught in an impossible situation. You know, the more conventional, the more tried and true progression is: somebody writes something; the director interprets that and guides the performers into executing, if that's the word, or finally performing. But it's a three-part process. When there are only two parties, the writer/performer and director, I see it as a sandwich and somebody trying to be on both sides of this, and this person gets caught in the middle.
GP: But how can you physically direct yourself? How are you able to step back and see what you're doing?
BI: There are lots of tools -- a mirror, there's videotape, both of which are highly imperfect as tools -- but the important tool is to always remember this one essential [thing], which is so obvious and basic but easy to lose track of: the audience person will be coming for the first time to see this [show]. The audience person will have no context other than, "Let's go see this show." I'm not always that good at remembering this, but that is essential. The audience brings their own point of view, and in order to direct yourself, you have to try to put yourself in the audience's shoes.
GP: What were some of the most important things you learned while performing with the Pickle Family Circus?
BI: I learned, I gotta say, a lot from Larry Pisoni and from Peggy Snyder, the Pickles' founding members. They lived together at that time and were the driving force. They sort of made it happen out of their tiny living room. I learned a lot via the agony of envy, which is a lot of the way you learn as a performer. They had a terrific juggling act, comedy juggling act. And it made me sick with envy because I had desires, I had notions, but I didn't have finished material. And it pushed me. Envy does push you. It can push you in the right or wrong position, but it does push you. Envy, jealousy, the desire to be able to do what another person does -- that drives you a lot in this profession. It can drive you to be a better or a less good performer. The Pickle Family was kind of like street performing, although it was a step toward a more solid environment. For me, the Pickle years were young performance years. I was hungry to learn more, get better, be better, do things, have performers' power. And I learned -- I'd like to think I learned an immense amount. You know, performing is a lot like flying an airplane. Flying high enough that you're really flying, but low enough that you can crash it a couple times and get out and walk away from it.
GP: How did you get the idea for "The Swinger"?
BI: I was driving in my car out to western San Francisco, where I was taking gymnastics classes with two old Russian guys. And I heard Peaches and Herb on the radio, and listened through to the end to find out what this was. And so I had to pull over and write down, "Shake Your Groove Thing" by Peaches and Herb. And I knew the piece of music that would shape my future. I began to dance with it and it suggested itself, this notion of a guy who cannot stop himself from dancing. He especially can't keep his head from going to the beat. Many a chiropractor has told me not to keep doing "The Swinger," and I finally agreed with them.
Interview for GREAT PERFORMANCES conducted in May 2004.
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