I once heard this spoken by one of the members of the Women's Project labs (forgive me, I can't remember who). I was just out of college at that time, and happened to be lucky enough to briefly be in the same room with these people, these talented women on the rise within the profession, sharing some incredible ideas about theater. And when whoever it was that said, "I'm really into curation lately," I thought, Like a museum? What on earth does that have to do with theater? I don't get it. Hilariouly, five years later (I guess I have a slow learning curve), I am finding myself more and more compelled to say the exact same thing.
Not to belabor a play that I saw, at this point, almost a month ago, but I realized there's something else I wanted to say about The Shaggs. Something happened during the intermission which caught my attention: one of the women in the group seated in the row in front of me looked up The Shaggs on her iPhone, and managed to find a YouTube video which see then passed around to her friends. They all took turns listening to the band through her headphones saying, "Oh yes, they're pretty awful."
I actually tweeted about this when I saw it (YES, I tweeted at intermission, another phenomenon that's somewhat relevant within the context of this conversation); it struck me as interesting for a number of reasons.
The first is this: I was acutely aware of the lack of historical context provided by the theater about the band. No dramaturgical note, no time-line, nothing whatsoever printed about the family, the actual facts of their story, or any information about what happened before or after the events we saw on stage. There was such a dearth of contextual support, I HAD to assume it was a deliberate choice.
But was it a wise one? Or, more importantly, a feasible one? Look at me, for example: the only reason I was SEEING the show at all was because I had heard about the "true story" and my interest was piqued. And program note or no program note, nothing could stop me from returning home and Googling "The Shaggs" until my curiosity was sated. But, I'll grant you, there is a big difference between finding out the true story after you leave the theater and having the information while you watch. Happily for the creative team of The Shaggs (if this was indeed their desire), I don't own a smartphone. Unhappily for them, I'm in a dwindling minority. Now look at the group in front of me that night: you couldn't have stopped them from accessing that information, and what's more, these people were on the departing side of middle-age, not a particulary hip or cutting-edge demographic. Which is to say, you can't stop MOST of your audience from accessing information about your show, right in the middle of it. This is especially true for historical fiction and "based on a true-story"-style tales, but continues to be relevant for any kind of story. You audience can now be looking up information about the play, the playwright, the theater, previous productions, reviews, you name it, at any given moment. And if we can't stop our audience from accessing this information, shouldn't we embrace it? What if we tried to curate their experience and incorporate it into the larger experience of seeing the play?
That notion becomes Interesting Idea Number Two, and that's what really excites me. How fun would it be to sift through your program as you restlessly wait for the play to begin and instead of useless reviews of nearby restaurants, there were QR Codes or links to articles, pictures, videos or even music that relates to the show you're about to see?
And what if we could use this new technology to link the production to other related art? Paintings, songs, poems, short films, photographs, all somehow inspired by or related to the show itself, transforming it into a multidisciplinary experience.
I had a similar idea a few years back, although without the technological bent. I wanted to do a production of The Little Foxes and - well, I never quite worked out why and for whom I wanted to do the show, which is why it was never fully realized so I'll withhold the details, as they don't quite make sense. But, sufficed to say, I wanted to do The Little Foxes in a site-specific location, by and for members of a specific community. I wanted to involve the community in the show itself as actors, designers and collaborators, but I also wanted to extend beyond the play itself, encouraging the community to respond to the play through writing, pictures and other various multimedia which would be available for the audience to experience on-site both during the show, and on its own later.
And even though I couldn't figure out how to make it work for The Little Foxes, I'm still keen on this sort of curated community experience. Now I'm thinking of it in relationship to another, well, let's not call it an idea, but an inkling of an idea I'm excited to explore with another director I met in the LCT Lab this month. I'm very drawn to the possibility of using that kind of curated experience to bring a community together, and, through various disciplines, bring texture and dimension to an issue or idea that affects that community in a measurable way.
So that's what I'm thinking about right now. Is all of that cryptic enough for you? Unfortunately, I can't really elaborate, as beyond that the details are hazy even for myself. Anyway, after seeing The Shaggs, it makes me wonder if this idea that I've already been tossing around in my head could move to a whole new level with the inclusion of smartphone technology.
Or the technology it could totally detract from it, I don't know. What do you think?
About Me
- Leigh Hile
- I'm an NYC-based director, and this is an outlet for my various musings about theater and about the city of New York. Sometimes the subjects run together, sometimes they are entirely separate, but between the two they comprise the most fitful, most intense, most trying love affair of my few years. They fill my head, my heart, my mouth every hour of every day; they could fill a book.
Showing posts with label new work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new work. Show all posts
Friday, July 22, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Some More Really Good Theater
The Directors' Lab has begun, and after just two days, I am already exhausted, terrified, excited and inspired. But more on that later.
Before I my head goes completely below water, though, I need to mention a few things that have happened.
First, Captain Moonbeam closed on Sunday. I've already gushed way too much about this show, and I think at a point enough is just enough. So I'll keep it brief. I loved working on this show. I am really going to miss it. The people I collaborated with on Captain Moonbeam are some of the most talented, most fun people I've worked with since moving to New York, and the sense of community I felt working on this production is something that I've been missing terribly. I'm really looking forward to having the chance to work with James, Ben, or any of the other folks from Nosedive, or the cast and crew of Savior again in the future.
I'm pretty pleased with the way the show turned out. I ended up using a lot more multimedia, like sound and slides, than I ever have in the past, due in large part to what James called for in the script. And I think the end result looked quite nice.
All of the actors gave wonderful performances, too, which was really rewarding to watch as a director. They put a lot of effort into this project and were fantastic for their parts. This was one of those projects where I found out I was directing it and then found it had to be cast within the next 48 hours. I feel really happy and grateful that I know such talented and hard-working people that I can call on for projects like this. Last-minute casting can be a total disaster, but all four of these actors, including Mr. Playwright himself, who graciously stepped in as an actor, just killed it in their parts.
Of course, it goes without saying that James Comtois wrote an amazing script. And Ben! Lord, do not get me started on the amazing talents of Mr. Ben Vandenboom. He made simultaneously producing, stage managing, designing props, costumes, and sound, and running the show from the booth look EASY.
Okay, I'm starting to gush now, and it's getting gross. I'm moving on. Oh, but one more thing - James also had some really nice words to say about the Captain Moonbeam experience in his blog, so check that out too, if you get a chance.
Now I'm done.
I've also seen some really good theater recently. I saw The Shaggs: Philosophy of the World at Playwrights' Horizons and it was every bit as good as everyone's been saying it is. I won't write a full review, partially because I don't have time, and partially because there's not much I can say that's already been said: the performances are amazing, the story is so compelling and so sad, and the score finds a strange, lovely balance between the music they wanted to make and the music they actually made. It was wonderful; poppy, catchy and somehow profound. It captured all the hope that this sound represented to the girls, their father, and to American culture. And yet it still managed to echo the melancholy of the truth - the reality of their music and their situation. The score strikes the same sad chord somewhere between hope and failure that, I think, their original does. Or does, at least, for me.
In an interview that was distributed after the show, Joy Gregory, one of the creators, also said something about pop music that really resounded with me. It probably goes a little way toward explaining why the score of The Shaggs was so sensitive and so meaningful, but more importantly, it communicates perfectly what I think we were trying to do with the pop music in 8 Women for so long, so I thought I wanted to share it:
Yes, Joy Gregory!!! EXACTLY!
In any case, it was a really good show.
You know what another really good show was? Nosedive Productions' Blood Brothers present... Freaks from the Morgue. And I'm not just saying that because, you know, I worked with Nosedive on Captain Moonbeam. It. was. freaking. awesome. So creepy, so much fun. I'm always saying I like "shows that know what they are." And - if you don't know what that means, I'm sorry, but I can't explain it today. I've got a Directors' Lab to get to in twenty minutes, you know. Maybe that's a post for another day. But anyway, Blood Brothers knew exactly what it was, and was it with unrestrained, incredibly disturbing glee. I expected to enjoy the show, but I definitely did not expect to leave going, "HELL YEAH! THAT WAS AWESOME!" And I totally did.
Blood Brothers has TWO MORE performances, so go! You really won't regret it.
That's it for me. See you all on the other side.
Before I my head goes completely below water, though, I need to mention a few things that have happened.
First, Captain Moonbeam closed on Sunday. I've already gushed way too much about this show, and I think at a point enough is just enough. So I'll keep it brief. I loved working on this show. I am really going to miss it. The people I collaborated with on Captain Moonbeam are some of the most talented, most fun people I've worked with since moving to New York, and the sense of community I felt working on this production is something that I've been missing terribly. I'm really looking forward to having the chance to work with James, Ben, or any of the other folks from Nosedive, or the cast and crew of Savior again in the future.
I'm pretty pleased with the way the show turned out. I ended up using a lot more multimedia, like sound and slides, than I ever have in the past, due in large part to what James called for in the script. And I think the end result looked quite nice.
All of the actors gave wonderful performances, too, which was really rewarding to watch as a director. They put a lot of effort into this project and were fantastic for their parts. This was one of those projects where I found out I was directing it and then found it had to be cast within the next 48 hours. I feel really happy and grateful that I know such talented and hard-working people that I can call on for projects like this. Last-minute casting can be a total disaster, but all four of these actors, including Mr. Playwright himself, who graciously stepped in as an actor, just killed it in their parts.
Of course, it goes without saying that James Comtois wrote an amazing script. And Ben! Lord, do not get me started on the amazing talents of Mr. Ben Vandenboom. He made simultaneously producing, stage managing, designing props, costumes, and sound, and running the show from the booth look EASY.
Okay, I'm starting to gush now, and it's getting gross. I'm moving on. Oh, but one more thing - James also had some really nice words to say about the Captain Moonbeam experience in his blog, so check that out too, if you get a chance.
Now I'm done.
I've also seen some really good theater recently. I saw The Shaggs: Philosophy of the World at Playwrights' Horizons and it was every bit as good as everyone's been saying it is. I won't write a full review, partially because I don't have time, and partially because there's not much I can say that's already been said: the performances are amazing, the story is so compelling and so sad, and the score finds a strange, lovely balance between the music they wanted to make and the music they actually made. It was wonderful; poppy, catchy and somehow profound. It captured all the hope that this sound represented to the girls, their father, and to American culture. And yet it still managed to echo the melancholy of the truth - the reality of their music and their situation. The score strikes the same sad chord somewhere between hope and failure that, I think, their original does. Or does, at least, for me.
In an interview that was distributed after the show, Joy Gregory, one of the creators, also said something about pop music that really resounded with me. It probably goes a little way toward explaining why the score of The Shaggs was so sensitive and so meaningful, but more importantly, it communicates perfectly what I think we were trying to do with the pop music in 8 Women for so long, so I thought I wanted to share it:
I'm super passionate about what a lot of people would call crappy music. I will cry to ABBA. And it's not my generation's default-irony mode. I uncritically love it for its immediate emotional availability. It connects me to a deep place of memory and feeling.
Yes, Joy Gregory!!! EXACTLY!
In any case, it was a really good show.
You know what another really good show was? Nosedive Productions' Blood Brothers present... Freaks from the Morgue. And I'm not just saying that because, you know, I worked with Nosedive on Captain Moonbeam. It. was. freaking. awesome. So creepy, so much fun. I'm always saying I like "shows that know what they are." And - if you don't know what that means, I'm sorry, but I can't explain it today. I've got a Directors' Lab to get to in twenty minutes, you know. Maybe that's a post for another day. But anyway, Blood Brothers knew exactly what it was, and was it with unrestrained, incredibly disturbing glee. I expected to enjoy the show, but I definitely did not expect to leave going, "HELL YEAH! THAT WAS AWESOME!" And I totally did.
Blood Brothers has TWO MORE performances, so go! You really won't regret it.
That's it for me. See you all on the other side.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Ajax In Iraq
Flux Theater Ensemble's Ajax in Iraq closes on June 25th, so you still have time to catch this earnest, provocative and visually stunning play.
Ajax in Iraq tells the parallel stories of the eponymous Greek hero of Sophocles' tragedy Ajax and a young female soldier in Iraq named AJ. Ajax, gripped by jealousy and anger and driven mad by the goddess Athena, slaughters a herd of livestock in a violent rage. Meanwhile, in contemporary Iraq, AJ experiences horrors that begin to wage another internal war against her own mind. The two stories weave in an out of one another as both Ajax and AJ lose their grip on their sanity and then their struggle to come to terms with what that loss means.
Themes of our inherent, animal desire for cruelty and brutality as well as the frailty of the line that divides attacker, victim and passive bystander pervade the play. Athena, played with force and charisma by Raushanah Simmons, narrates the play and is the driving force behind it. A force, we discover rather quickly, not to be messed with. Equal parts vicious cunning and disturbing volatility, she is gleeful of her colossal power and ready to turn (against you) on a dime. Here, Athena represents the mind in all its immense power and terrifying vulnerability - its capacity for trickery, treachery, and devious second-guessing. The only thing that stands between us and the disturbing portraits of inexplicable violence we're watching, Athena warns us, is her. That is - the luck and happenstance that has thus far allowed us to keep our frail minds intact.
The play is directed with expertise by August Schulenburg, who maintains an evocative and striking aesthetic from start to finish. Story aside, the play is thrilling to watch for its gorgeous visual tableaus and dynamic uses of sound, rhythm, movement and space. But moreover, Schulenburg builds a lively and compelling momentum that persists even through apparently tangential scenes. One of the most haunting moments of the play is as an unnamed soldier recounts an incident of incredible brutality. The scene is beautifully staged; his confusion and disorientation by the rush of adrenaline and fear, the cover of night, and the distortion of the night-vision goggles are viscerally felt. Because of the strength of this moment, in the fury of the unnamed soldier we understand better the turmoil of both Ajax and AJ.
For the most part, the ancient Greek narrative and its contemporary counterpart work well together. With testimonials from modern-day soldiers in Iraq and the use of direct address, McLaughlin crafts a structure that echoes and evokes the Greek chorus of the original story.
The device of the parallel stories, however, begins to lag as the story progresses. The audience can see from the very beginning that AJ's story will mimic the Greek hero's, so the fun (if you can call such a grisly story "fun") becomes watching the particulars of why and how AJ's undoing will unfold in the context of the modern world.
Problematically, though, the play is too heavy with, well, just a lot of other stuff. There is the concurrent Greek tragedy to contend with, as well as certain unnecessarily political non-sequitors (a prime example: after Ajax/AJ's penultimate moment, the action cuts jarringly to a PSA for a shelter for homeless veterans). The result is that we only meet AJ and come to understand her struggle superficially, perfunctorily. Because the audience spends so little time with her, the horrors she endures feel more like devices, means to a forgone end, than a real journey. AJ is the heart of the play, and she is to often brushed aside.
The play meets further trouble in the way the two stories ultimately play out. In the end, AJ's story is just too similar to Ajax's. It left me wondering, as the two collided at the play's climax, why I needed to see the same story presented to me twice. The play would be stronger if the stories ran apart from one another a bit more - enough to appreciate their differences as well as their similarities. Or, if the conceit of the dual story were dropped altogether and the play instead focused on simply a modern retelling of Ajax. (Although I would be very sorry to see Ajax's side of the story go - Athena is by far the most exciting character in the play, and the dialogue in Ajax's scenes some of the most beautiful, leaving me with a very profound appreciation for playwright Ellen McLaughlin's poetic command of language.)
Still, despite the room for improvement, Ajax in Iraq is a passionate, genuine, and innovative examination of the atrocities of war - a story that needs to be told. Furthermore, the story is brought to justice with an immensely talented cast. In addition to Simmons, there were notable performances by Tiffany Clementi as a distraught wife of a solider suffering from PTSD, and Christina Shipp, in a sensitive and vulnerable portrayal of AJ.
With haunting eloquence, Ajax in Iraq somehow links past and present, tormentor and tormented, and pulls us from our comfortable chairs a little closer to the sting of the desert and the terror of battle. You'll leave rattled a little and questioning a lot.
Ajax in Iraq tells the parallel stories of the eponymous Greek hero of Sophocles' tragedy Ajax and a young female soldier in Iraq named AJ. Ajax, gripped by jealousy and anger and driven mad by the goddess Athena, slaughters a herd of livestock in a violent rage. Meanwhile, in contemporary Iraq, AJ experiences horrors that begin to wage another internal war against her own mind. The two stories weave in an out of one another as both Ajax and AJ lose their grip on their sanity and then their struggle to come to terms with what that loss means.
Themes of our inherent, animal desire for cruelty and brutality as well as the frailty of the line that divides attacker, victim and passive bystander pervade the play. Athena, played with force and charisma by Raushanah Simmons, narrates the play and is the driving force behind it. A force, we discover rather quickly, not to be messed with. Equal parts vicious cunning and disturbing volatility, she is gleeful of her colossal power and ready to turn (against you) on a dime. Here, Athena represents the mind in all its immense power and terrifying vulnerability - its capacity for trickery, treachery, and devious second-guessing. The only thing that stands between us and the disturbing portraits of inexplicable violence we're watching, Athena warns us, is her. That is - the luck and happenstance that has thus far allowed us to keep our frail minds intact.
The play is directed with expertise by August Schulenburg, who maintains an evocative and striking aesthetic from start to finish. Story aside, the play is thrilling to watch for its gorgeous visual tableaus and dynamic uses of sound, rhythm, movement and space. But moreover, Schulenburg builds a lively and compelling momentum that persists even through apparently tangential scenes. One of the most haunting moments of the play is as an unnamed soldier recounts an incident of incredible brutality. The scene is beautifully staged; his confusion and disorientation by the rush of adrenaline and fear, the cover of night, and the distortion of the night-vision goggles are viscerally felt. Because of the strength of this moment, in the fury of the unnamed soldier we understand better the turmoil of both Ajax and AJ.
For the most part, the ancient Greek narrative and its contemporary counterpart work well together. With testimonials from modern-day soldiers in Iraq and the use of direct address, McLaughlin crafts a structure that echoes and evokes the Greek chorus of the original story.
The device of the parallel stories, however, begins to lag as the story progresses. The audience can see from the very beginning that AJ's story will mimic the Greek hero's, so the fun (if you can call such a grisly story "fun") becomes watching the particulars of why and how AJ's undoing will unfold in the context of the modern world.
Problematically, though, the play is too heavy with, well, just a lot of other stuff. There is the concurrent Greek tragedy to contend with, as well as certain unnecessarily political non-sequitors (a prime example: after Ajax/AJ's penultimate moment, the action cuts jarringly to a PSA for a shelter for homeless veterans). The result is that we only meet AJ and come to understand her struggle superficially, perfunctorily. Because the audience spends so little time with her, the horrors she endures feel more like devices, means to a forgone end, than a real journey. AJ is the heart of the play, and she is to often brushed aside.
The play meets further trouble in the way the two stories ultimately play out. In the end, AJ's story is just too similar to Ajax's. It left me wondering, as the two collided at the play's climax, why I needed to see the same story presented to me twice. The play would be stronger if the stories ran apart from one another a bit more - enough to appreciate their differences as well as their similarities. Or, if the conceit of the dual story were dropped altogether and the play instead focused on simply a modern retelling of Ajax. (Although I would be very sorry to see Ajax's side of the story go - Athena is by far the most exciting character in the play, and the dialogue in Ajax's scenes some of the most beautiful, leaving me with a very profound appreciation for playwright Ellen McLaughlin's poetic command of language.)
Still, despite the room for improvement, Ajax in Iraq is a passionate, genuine, and innovative examination of the atrocities of war - a story that needs to be told. Furthermore, the story is brought to justice with an immensely talented cast. In addition to Simmons, there were notable performances by Tiffany Clementi as a distraught wife of a solider suffering from PTSD, and Christina Shipp, in a sensitive and vulnerable portrayal of AJ.
With haunting eloquence, Ajax in Iraq somehow links past and present, tormentor and tormented, and pulls us from our comfortable chairs a little closer to the sting of the desert and the terror of battle. You'll leave rattled a little and questioning a lot.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Nothing But Filler
In Boston this weekend, while visiting with old friends, one of them asked me jokingly about my blog, "Do you ever begin posts with the line, 'Sorry I haven't posted in a while...'?"
"I have to curb that urge all the time," I told him. "It's like, who am I apologizing to? Who is out there with bated breath, expectantly awaiting regular updates from Leigh's theater blog? Who is so shocked and disappointed to discover that I've missed a week?" It's so silly, really. But the urge is totally there.
So, sorry I haven't pos..... nooooadsfk,xdiueahriesdfoxijkkghresreszd
No. I'll resist.
Though, really, this entire post is a big long "sorry, I haven't posted," because instead of actually writing, I'm just going to talk about all the awesome things I'm GOING to write about.
I haven't written a review in a while because, frankly, reviews are HARD. I don't know if this is true for others (does Ben Brantley have this trouble?) but reviews are by far the longest and most laborious posts I write. I pore over the details; I want to make sure I've communicated the spirit of the show and my interpretation of it absolutely precisely. And since I've been so involved with Captain Moonbeam (which you're going to come see, right?), I've let quite a few shows slip by without comment.
But that's all going to change! I have a TON of shows that I'll be seeing in the next couple of weeks. And then I'm going to write about them. Because it's been too long. And seriously, guys, I'm sorry I haven't posted in -
Just kidding. Among the shows I'm seriously excited about catching soon are:
Nosedive's Blood Brothers Present... Freaks from the Morgue (obviously)
Flux's Ajax in Iraq
Blue Coyote Theater Group's Standards of Decency 3: 300 Vaginas Before Breakfast - because with a name like that, why would I *not* go?
The Shaggs Philosophy of the World at Playwright's Horizons. The premise to this show is utterly fascinating and every review I've read of it so far has been positive. I'm into it.
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Because it's my birthday week and I wanna see Harry Potter sing and dance.
I'm sure there's more, but those are the ones I skimmed off the top of my head. Thoughts? Suggestions? Any others I should see during this theater whirlwind?
"I have to curb that urge all the time," I told him. "It's like, who am I apologizing to? Who is out there with bated breath, expectantly awaiting regular updates from Leigh's theater blog? Who is so shocked and disappointed to discover that I've missed a week?" It's so silly, really. But the urge is totally there.
So, sorry I haven't pos..... nooooadsfk,xdiueahriesdfoxijkkghresreszd
No. I'll resist.
Though, really, this entire post is a big long "sorry, I haven't posted," because instead of actually writing, I'm just going to talk about all the awesome things I'm GOING to write about.
I haven't written a review in a while because, frankly, reviews are HARD. I don't know if this is true for others (does Ben Brantley have this trouble?) but reviews are by far the longest and most laborious posts I write. I pore over the details; I want to make sure I've communicated the spirit of the show and my interpretation of it absolutely precisely. And since I've been so involved with Captain Moonbeam (which you're going to come see, right?), I've let quite a few shows slip by without comment.
But that's all going to change! I have a TON of shows that I'll be seeing in the next couple of weeks. And then I'm going to write about them. Because it's been too long. And seriously, guys, I'm sorry I haven't posted in -
Just kidding. Among the shows I'm seriously excited about catching soon are:
Nosedive's Blood Brothers Present... Freaks from the Morgue (obviously)
Flux's Ajax in Iraq
Blue Coyote Theater Group's Standards of Decency 3: 300 Vaginas Before Breakfast - because with a name like that, why would I *not* go?
The Shaggs Philosophy of the World at Playwright's Horizons. The premise to this show is utterly fascinating and every review I've read of it so far has been positive. I'm into it.
How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Because it's my birthday week and I wanna see Harry Potter sing and dance.
I'm sure there's more, but those are the ones I skimmed off the top of my head. Thoughts? Suggestions? Any others I should see during this theater whirlwind?
Friday, May 20, 2011
Thoughts Before the First Rehearsal
My posts have become less frequently lately, as I've become distracted by the business of preparing for my two upcoming projects, James Comtois' Captain Moonbeam and Lynchpin followed immediately by the Lincoln Center Directors' Lab. And I mean immediately; Captain Moonbeam closes on June 26th, the Lab starts on the 27th.
Anyway, instead of ignoring the blog while I focus on my projects, why not use the blog to think about them? After all, this space is, if nothing else, a place where I can give voice and structure to thoughts that would otherwise float nebulously through the haze of my mind, their whispers quickly extinguished by a mild cough or clearing of the throat. It feels strange to talk about this stuff while it's still so very much in gestation in my head but there's no rule about it, is there? Who says everything has to be polished product?
…There's not a rule about it, is there? I feel particularly strange blogging about Lincoln Center, like maybe I'm not supposed to. This probably stems from the fact that I still sort of imagining it as this Super-Cool Secret Club while I've been trying to poke my nose through their curtains, hoping the Cool Kids will let me join. But that's just silly, right? It's just a workshop; it's not a Super Secret Clubhouse. I can talk about it if I want to, right?
Basically, briefly, there's this. They emailed us a play about a month or so ago with the instructions to read it, think about it, just marinate with it a bit (I believe the specific instructions were to "noodle around with it" but I marinated instead). A few days ago, we were each email with specific segments of the play that we're to prepare to spend a day (6 hours) directing with a room full of actors, directors, a stage manager or a designer.
That's all I'm going to say on that for now; with Captain Moonbeam at the forefront of my priorities I haven't managed to do much more yet than read my segment, but I have a feeling my thoughts on the process will be a post unto themselves. Actually, that's not a bad idea - blogging about it might be exactly what I need to organize and prepare.
So that leaves Captain Moonbeam. We have our first table reading on Tuesday of next week, and I'm trying to organize my thoughts for that. What I want to do - what I always want to do at the first reading - is spend some time talking about what the story is - why it deserves to be told, what about it makes it worth hearing.
For Captain Moonbeam I think it's ultimately a story about redemption; it's a journey toward faith, finding an understanding of some sort of goodness in the world worth hanging onto, fighting for even. Unfortunately, in this story at least, all that comes at a price that makes it bittersweet, or even just plain tragic. I think this play very much addresses the question of the "better story," as Yann Martel calls it in Life of Pi:
The first thing we've got to do is have a conversation about the archetypal significance of comic books, and comic book adventures. These ideas about goodness, order, selflessness and nobility - they're all symbolized by comic books in this play, and the type of world the comic books portray within them. So how do those comics resonate for us, and what do they represent for us as a culture?
In stark contrast to that comic book world, there is another version of reality in Captain Moonbeam and Lynchpin, a world where people are miserable, petty and self-serving; a world where people can fall ill for no reason, your best friend, or even your own father can just abandon you one day and leave you all alone. Is that the world we're believe in? Or is it the comic book world, where heroism thrives and goodness and nobility prevails? If we don't believe in it to some degree, why do we have these stories at all?
And where does that leave us with Alex, our protagonist? In the end he just wants the better story. And can we blame him for that? No, really - can we? It's not a rhetorical question. How are we suppose to feel about what becomes of Alex by the end of the play? Which is sadder, that he believes in such a noble world, or that we don't?
I hope I'm not getting to heady for what's ultimately a pretty and weird short play. Still, it's important to get that toe-hold on what makes the story worth telling, and I think this is it.
Anyway, instead of ignoring the blog while I focus on my projects, why not use the blog to think about them? After all, this space is, if nothing else, a place where I can give voice and structure to thoughts that would otherwise float nebulously through the haze of my mind, their whispers quickly extinguished by a mild cough or clearing of the throat. It feels strange to talk about this stuff while it's still so very much in gestation in my head but there's no rule about it, is there? Who says everything has to be polished product?
…There's not a rule about it, is there? I feel particularly strange blogging about Lincoln Center, like maybe I'm not supposed to. This probably stems from the fact that I still sort of imagining it as this Super-Cool Secret Club while I've been trying to poke my nose through their curtains, hoping the Cool Kids will let me join. But that's just silly, right? It's just a workshop; it's not a Super Secret Clubhouse. I can talk about it if I want to, right?
Basically, briefly, there's this. They emailed us a play about a month or so ago with the instructions to read it, think about it, just marinate with it a bit (I believe the specific instructions were to "noodle around with it" but I marinated instead). A few days ago, we were each email with specific segments of the play that we're to prepare to spend a day (6 hours) directing with a room full of actors, directors, a stage manager or a designer.
That's all I'm going to say on that for now; with Captain Moonbeam at the forefront of my priorities I haven't managed to do much more yet than read my segment, but I have a feeling my thoughts on the process will be a post unto themselves. Actually, that's not a bad idea - blogging about it might be exactly what I need to organize and prepare.
So that leaves Captain Moonbeam. We have our first table reading on Tuesday of next week, and I'm trying to organize my thoughts for that. What I want to do - what I always want to do at the first reading - is spend some time talking about what the story is - why it deserves to be told, what about it makes it worth hearing.
For Captain Moonbeam I think it's ultimately a story about redemption; it's a journey toward faith, finding an understanding of some sort of goodness in the world worth hanging onto, fighting for even. Unfortunately, in this story at least, all that comes at a price that makes it bittersweet, or even just plain tragic. I think this play very much addresses the question of the "better story," as Yann Martel calls it in Life of Pi:
I can well imagine an atheist's last words: "White, white! L-L-Love! My God!" - and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeastless factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying, "Possibly a f-f-failing oxygenation of the b-b-brain," and, to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.
The first thing we've got to do is have a conversation about the archetypal significance of comic books, and comic book adventures. These ideas about goodness, order, selflessness and nobility - they're all symbolized by comic books in this play, and the type of world the comic books portray within them. So how do those comics resonate for us, and what do they represent for us as a culture?
In stark contrast to that comic book world, there is another version of reality in Captain Moonbeam and Lynchpin, a world where people are miserable, petty and self-serving; a world where people can fall ill for no reason, your best friend, or even your own father can just abandon you one day and leave you all alone. Is that the world we're believe in? Or is it the comic book world, where heroism thrives and goodness and nobility prevails? If we don't believe in it to some degree, why do we have these stories at all?
And where does that leave us with Alex, our protagonist? In the end he just wants the better story. And can we blame him for that? No, really - can we? It's not a rhetorical question. How are we suppose to feel about what becomes of Alex by the end of the play? Which is sadder, that he believes in such a noble world, or that we don't?
I hope I'm not getting to heady for what's ultimately a pretty and weird short play. Still, it's important to get that toe-hold on what makes the story worth telling, and I think this is it.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Captain Moonbeam & Lynchpin
I've mentioned this on Twitter already, but I figured I might as well make it blog-official.
I have another project for the summer, and it's a good one. I'll be directing Nosedive Productions' Captain Moonbeam and Lynchpin, written by James Comtois for the Comic Book Theatre Festival at the Brick.
At the risk of giving too much away, Captain Moonbeam & Lynchpin is a fantastic and original new superhero origin story. Or, a sad account of a struggle with mental illness. Depending on how you look at it. Either way, it's a great play and I'm proud to be involved. I've had a great time getting to know James and his theater company, and I'm proud to be a part of this show.
What I'm saying is, it's going to be a great show, y'all. Mark your calendars NOW.
Tuesday, June 21 @7pm
Friday, June 24 @7pm
Saturday, June 25 @5pm
Sunday, June 26 @2pm
Tickets are already on sale.
See you there!
I have another project for the summer, and it's a good one. I'll be directing Nosedive Productions' Captain Moonbeam and Lynchpin, written by James Comtois for the Comic Book Theatre Festival at the Brick.
At the risk of giving too much away, Captain Moonbeam & Lynchpin is a fantastic and original new superhero origin story. Or, a sad account of a struggle with mental illness. Depending on how you look at it. Either way, it's a great play and I'm proud to be involved. I've had a great time getting to know James and his theater company, and I'm proud to be a part of this show.
What I'm saying is, it's going to be a great show, y'all. Mark your calendars NOW.
Friday, June 24 @7pm
Saturday, June 25 @5pm
Sunday, June 26 @2pm
Tickets are already on sale.
See you there!
Monday, April 25, 2011
It's Been a While
Good lord, it's been a long time since I posted. It's been a long and trying month of job searching and scheduling insanity, ultimately leading to my current gainful employment: a new job waiting tables. Which, sufficed to say, only means the lunacy and scheduling nightmare has only just begun. Hello shift-switching, restaurant politics and despotic managers*, how I've NOT missed you.
As all this madness was going on, one of my close friends said to me, "Why don't you blog about everything that's going on with your job search? That's a part of working in the theater and living in New York City - why don't you share that?"
"Yes," I said, "But there's nothing INTERESTING about that story. What would I say? I looked for another temp job for a while, but none of the temp agencies I signed up with had any work for me, and then I applied for nearly 50 entry-level administrative jobs, only one of which gave me an interview and I didn't get it so I finally had to face the music and look for another restaurant job and then I got really depressed because the only thing I'm apparently qualified to do is wait tables? That's not a good read."
But if you're curious as to what I've been doing these past few weeks, there it is in a nutshell.
And when I haven't been losing my mind over that small matter of paying rent, here's a few other things I've been up to.
*It should be noted that all my managers seem perfectly nice so far. But I've been burned before. All I'm sayin'.
As all this madness was going on, one of my close friends said to me, "Why don't you blog about everything that's going on with your job search? That's a part of working in the theater and living in New York City - why don't you share that?"
"Yes," I said, "But there's nothing INTERESTING about that story. What would I say? I looked for another temp job for a while, but none of the temp agencies I signed up with had any work for me, and then I applied for nearly 50 entry-level administrative jobs, only one of which gave me an interview and I didn't get it so I finally had to face the music and look for another restaurant job and then I got really depressed because the only thing I'm apparently qualified to do is wait tables? That's not a good read."
But if you're curious as to what I've been doing these past few weeks, there it is in a nutshell.
And when I haven't been losing my mind over that small matter of paying rent, here's a few other things I've been up to.
- Signed on to direct Captain Moonbeam and Lynchpin a short play by James Comtois for the Brick Theater's Comic Book Theater Festival. I'm really excited about this. It's a great play and I can't wait to take a crack at it. This is also my first time working with James' theater company, Nosedive Productions, and I've heard nothing but good things about them.
Tickets are already on sale for the show through Ovationtix - get them here. - Played around with the awesome people from Flux Theatre Ensemble. I've been able to attend a couple Flux Sundays and even had the pleasure of directing a scene for the most recent installment of their Have Another reading series. And oh. my. gosh. What a joy it's been to get to know this group of artists. These are some of the most talented, enthusiastic and nicest theater people I've met in New York City.
- Hosted my old BFF from high school, visiting from Chicago and we had the kind of amazing, exhausting experience that you can only have with someone who's seeing the city for the first time. We wandered around Central Park and the East Village, we ate from food trucks, we got bagels from the best bagel place I know of in the city (that would be Absolute Bagels on 108th and Broadway, thankyouverymuch). We had late-night drinks at the newest neighborhood joint. We took a walking tour of Williamsburg and Greenpoint, stopping for pierogis for lunch, followed by a walking tour of Chinatown, stopping for dim sum for dinner - that day was our cultural dumpling food tour. We went to a concert (PJ Harvey), we went dancing at a gay club. Yes, dancing. At a gay club. Till 3 in the morning. At one point I found myself suddenly and inexplicably hoisted into the air by a half-naked man. It was a great and grueling few days.
- Partook in a Spring holiday marathon. I went to a Passover Seder on Saturday night, only to literally wake up the next day and immediately have an Easter brunch. What time I didn't spend this weekend savoring brisket and matzo ball soup and watching the Prince of Egypt was taken up by desperately cleaning, grocery shopping and preparing pierogis from scratch. The recipe is my grandma's, brought with her parents from Hungary and taught to me when I was 14 years old. And Easter tradition in my family for the simple and accidental reason that my grandma was visiting over Easter when she taught me the recipe. It's a strange tradition, but one that makes me feel specially connected to her, my family, and my heritage - something that, besides this recipe, seems to have all but dissolved like gossamer threads in its eventual journey across the continental U.S.
The spring holiday marathon was an intense 24 hours of celebrations, but it was beautiful and it was spring and oh. I live for weekends like that. - Saw some pretty sweet things by some Sarah Lawrence alumni. First, a reading of Sharon Is My Name, a new adaptation of The Merchant of Venice by the always-on Daniel Kelly; next, a performance of a lovely play entitled Harlowe by Jennifer Lane (her thesis project for her MFA in playwriting from Columbia, by the way). And most recently, Brick by Brick, a new musical by Ross Wade (book and lyrics) and Nehemiah Luckett (music) based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe - a really strong work; I'm excited to see how it develops from here. It's inspiring to see so many Sarah Lawrence people involved in such great projects.
*It should be noted that all my managers seem perfectly nice so far. But I've been burned before. All I'm sayin'.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Feeder: A Love Story
I got slightly distracted this week with that small matter of having a job, but before I completely lost touch, I had the chance to see Feeder: A Love Story by James Carter at the HERE Arts Center. Feeder, the latest from terraNOVA Collective which closed on Sunday the 26th, is a provocative tale about a shocking, strange, and thoroughly human relationship.
Jesse and Noel are married. They're madly in love, care fiercely for one another, and would do almost anything for each other. They're a typical happy couple - except for one small thing: Jesse is 703 pounds and Noel is her "feeder." The two are engaged in feederism - a relationship in which both parties derive pleasure from one person feeding the other in order to cause weight gain. As the play opens, Jesse and Noel have decided to pursue the ultimate and elite feeder goal: 1000 pounds.
Except Noel comes home one day to find nothing but a hole in the wall and a note from his wife. Jesse has left - taken away to a weight loss clinic by a talk show host for whom she used to work. While Jesse is at the clinic contemplating when and how her new life will take shape, Noel is left at home to deal with the aftermath of a life unraveled and a wife whose goals and aspirations have suddenly and inexplicably veered away from his own.
Feeder: A Love Story really succeeds in the sensitivity and sympathy with which its characters are painted. As bizarre and even grotesque as their lifestyle might seem to the audience, to outsiders, the core from which their strange choices come, their basic needs, fears, desires are familiar and universal. They want what we all want: love, sex, to care and be cared for. It's easy to become invested the dynamic of their relationship and its possible breaking apart.
And yet, as human and as genuine as Jesse and Noel are, the play never advocates for them, it never preaches. It presents a complex relationship with no easy answers - just like any relationship - and lets the audience be its own judge. I felt for Noel, for example, I really did. But at the same time, I'm not sure I liked him - or at least, his choices. As much as I understood his desires, I can't seem to reckon with how a person could do what he did to someone he loved. How could you want someone you genuinely care about to fall prey to all the attending health risks of morbid obesity? Getting off on the feeder lifestyle seems to me, in some ways, tantamount to getting off on slowly killing your partner.
And after Jesse "goes immobile," as they pursue their 1000-pound goal, Noel talks a great deal about about how rewarding it is to take care of Jesse, to be there for her every need. Feeling needed by the people you love is an intoxicating sensation, but how can you relish in the giving when you're also a part of the taking away? Later, Jesse expresses second-thoughts about what they're doing and Noel responds with reticence. "This is my life," he tells her, and I couldn't help but think, "No... it's hers."
I felt similarly vexed by Jesse's choices, although less so - perhaps because I'm a woman and identified more strongly with her, perhaps because she ultimately makes the choice to leave the lifestyle, although she doesn't regret her time with Noel. "I'm proud of what we did," she says, and takes great pains to make that point clear. The truth is they were happy together, they were in love.
The play takes place largely in vlog form: Noel records videos for his and Jesse's online following, Jesse keeps a video log for the talk show which her benefactor and former boss hosts, on which she'll eventually be a guest. The vlogging integrated well into the online/social media aspect of the show: both Jesse and Noel have websites and Twitter accounts that you can follow online. This digital component worked well for the story being told. Noel often repeats the refrain, "Everyone needs a corner of the internet, and this is ours." Without the internet, Jesse, Noel, and their unseen internet following would be isolated, silenced, left alone to wrestle with their strange and inexplicable desires. But online, they become part of a community, their identities validated and affirmed. Without the internet, this story would never have taken place, so it makes perfect sense that we should be able to follow it on the internet as well as in the theater.
Still - and perhaps it's just a question of personal taste (I've voiced this feeling before) - the strongest moments of the play came when Jesse and Noel unhook from their computers and occupy the same space together. The scenes where they speak their monologues into their respective digital devices were good, but the moments when the speak to one another were exponentially more powerful. I would have liked to have seen more of that.
Still, Feeder: A Love Story is a sweet play, a sad play, a thought-provoking play. It leaves room for speculation and contemplation. Should they be proud of what they did, as Jesse says? Would their relationship have endured, in different circumstances, beyond their feeder lifestyle? There are no easy answers.
What made me love Feeder even more, though, was the conversation with the playwright I had after the show. He spoke eagerly and passionately about "the community" of feeders, of how they had responded to the show and Jesse and Noel's blog leading up to the show. He offered interesting facts about the research into the community he had done and fascinating stories about people he had met. I loved this conversation for the same reason I loved Feeder: A Love Story. It gave a voice to an unrepresented or misunderstood facet of the human experience. It brought depth and dimension that I would have otherwise never known.
Jesse and Noel are married. They're madly in love, care fiercely for one another, and would do almost anything for each other. They're a typical happy couple - except for one small thing: Jesse is 703 pounds and Noel is her "feeder." The two are engaged in feederism - a relationship in which both parties derive pleasure from one person feeding the other in order to cause weight gain. As the play opens, Jesse and Noel have decided to pursue the ultimate and elite feeder goal: 1000 pounds.
Except Noel comes home one day to find nothing but a hole in the wall and a note from his wife. Jesse has left - taken away to a weight loss clinic by a talk show host for whom she used to work. While Jesse is at the clinic contemplating when and how her new life will take shape, Noel is left at home to deal with the aftermath of a life unraveled and a wife whose goals and aspirations have suddenly and inexplicably veered away from his own.
Feeder: A Love Story really succeeds in the sensitivity and sympathy with which its characters are painted. As bizarre and even grotesque as their lifestyle might seem to the audience, to outsiders, the core from which their strange choices come, their basic needs, fears, desires are familiar and universal. They want what we all want: love, sex, to care and be cared for. It's easy to become invested the dynamic of their relationship and its possible breaking apart.
And yet, as human and as genuine as Jesse and Noel are, the play never advocates for them, it never preaches. It presents a complex relationship with no easy answers - just like any relationship - and lets the audience be its own judge. I felt for Noel, for example, I really did. But at the same time, I'm not sure I liked him - or at least, his choices. As much as I understood his desires, I can't seem to reckon with how a person could do what he did to someone he loved. How could you want someone you genuinely care about to fall prey to all the attending health risks of morbid obesity? Getting off on the feeder lifestyle seems to me, in some ways, tantamount to getting off on slowly killing your partner.
And after Jesse "goes immobile," as they pursue their 1000-pound goal, Noel talks a great deal about about how rewarding it is to take care of Jesse, to be there for her every need. Feeling needed by the people you love is an intoxicating sensation, but how can you relish in the giving when you're also a part of the taking away? Later, Jesse expresses second-thoughts about what they're doing and Noel responds with reticence. "This is my life," he tells her, and I couldn't help but think, "No... it's hers."
I felt similarly vexed by Jesse's choices, although less so - perhaps because I'm a woman and identified more strongly with her, perhaps because she ultimately makes the choice to leave the lifestyle, although she doesn't regret her time with Noel. "I'm proud of what we did," she says, and takes great pains to make that point clear. The truth is they were happy together, they were in love.
The play takes place largely in vlog form: Noel records videos for his and Jesse's online following, Jesse keeps a video log for the talk show which her benefactor and former boss hosts, on which she'll eventually be a guest. The vlogging integrated well into the online/social media aspect of the show: both Jesse and Noel have websites and Twitter accounts that you can follow online. This digital component worked well for the story being told. Noel often repeats the refrain, "Everyone needs a corner of the internet, and this is ours." Without the internet, Jesse, Noel, and their unseen internet following would be isolated, silenced, left alone to wrestle with their strange and inexplicable desires. But online, they become part of a community, their identities validated and affirmed. Without the internet, this story would never have taken place, so it makes perfect sense that we should be able to follow it on the internet as well as in the theater.
Still - and perhaps it's just a question of personal taste (I've voiced this feeling before) - the strongest moments of the play came when Jesse and Noel unhook from their computers and occupy the same space together. The scenes where they speak their monologues into their respective digital devices were good, but the moments when the speak to one another were exponentially more powerful. I would have liked to have seen more of that.
Still, Feeder: A Love Story is a sweet play, a sad play, a thought-provoking play. It leaves room for speculation and contemplation. Should they be proud of what they did, as Jesse says? Would their relationship have endured, in different circumstances, beyond their feeder lifestyle? There are no easy answers.
What made me love Feeder even more, though, was the conversation with the playwright I had after the show. He spoke eagerly and passionately about "the community" of feeders, of how they had responded to the show and Jesse and Noel's blog leading up to the show. He offered interesting facts about the research into the community he had done and fascinating stories about people he had met. I loved this conversation for the same reason I loved Feeder: A Love Story. It gave a voice to an unrepresented or misunderstood facet of the human experience. It brought depth and dimension that I would have otherwise never known.
Friday, March 18, 2011
2amt Post - My Last Play.
I'm extremely proud to have written a post for the 2amt blog this week about My Last Play. I absolutely love this blog. It has some of the most interesting, intelligent and topical theater talk I've found, by artists in the field doing really exciting things. I read it religiously. So I'm so pleased to have been able to contribute a piece of writing to the site. Please check it out!
I wrote a review of "My Last Play," the mysterious performance by Ed Schmidt which he's currently performing in his living room. It was a fascinating evening, completely contrary to what I had expected. After chewing on they play for an entire week, I still can't say if I enjoyed it. But I do have to respect it.
Here's a little excerpt of what I said for 2amt:
Read the rest here. Go check out my post and (if you haven't yet) 2amt!
I wrote a review of "My Last Play," the mysterious performance by Ed Schmidt which he's currently performing in his living room. It was a fascinating evening, completely contrary to what I had expected. After chewing on they play for an entire week, I still can't say if I enjoyed it. But I do have to respect it.
Here's a little excerpt of what I said for 2amt:
At one point Schmidt quotes Albee, saying “Fiction is fact distilled into truth,” to which his father replies, “That’s bullshit.” This exchange, I think, could almost serve as Schmidt’s thesis. As artists I think we must believe in the inherent truthfulness of stories, that they impart to us a deeper kind of understanding, one too complex to be encompassed in simple facts and plain truth. Well, maybe. But couldn’t it also be argued that the storyteller’s duty – by the very DEFINITION of fiction – is to lie to you? To manipulate, falsify, to make you believe things that are patently untrue? Maybe Albee’s quote is bullshit, maybe the truth is the truth and fiction is simply a lie.
And all of us – yes, artists, but any of us who have taken part in the hearing and telling of stories – we all labor under the unspoken and sometimes even subconscious understanding that stories uncover deeper truths. They bring a sense of order and understanding to an otherwise chaotic and confusing existence. That is the very point of storytelling – to give meaning and structure to the act of living. But it’s possible that there is no order, no meaning. There are no deeper truths to be learned. Life is just a big, messy, pointless accident and stories are simply lies we tell ourselves to make us feel like it’s not so.
Read the rest here. Go check out my post and (if you haven't yet) 2amt!
Friday, March 4, 2011
Dog Act
Two weeks ago, I had the pleasure of being introduced to the Flux Theater Ensemble, a group whose work I had never seen before. I caught the last performance of Dog Act, and I'm glad I did. I was impressed with the integrity of both the work that I saw and the work in general that Flux endeavors to do.
Dog Act is a daring show - not your typical theater fare. Abstract, absurd, and almost densely poetic, it packs a lot of strange into a fairly straighforward two-act structure. Strange world, strange people, strange words. Strange choices, even. A man who voluntarily elects to live life as a dog? It reminded me at first of the men I once saw on Maury (I was in high school, okay? Don't judge me too harshly on questions of taste) who choose to live and behave like infants. And while Adams' Dog, in an understated and sweet performance by Chris Wight, is not nearly so horrifying in that train-wreck side-show kind of a way, they do both raise the same questions: what must be going on inside a person to make him relinquish is right as a human being to autonomy, to self-sufficience, to choice? When (and why) does free will stop being a gift and become a heavy burden?
Adams' use of language to explore these questions was, without a doubt, my personal favorite part of the play. Liz Duffy Adams has a truly impressive ear for language. Simply reading the playwright's note in the program gave me an idea of the Dylanesque lyricism I was in for. But while Adams' language is very pleasingly sonorous, what really makes it noteworthy is how she uses that language to draw distinctions between characters and explore ideas about identity and belonging. Dog, for example, sometimes slips and uses words a dog has no business knowing, words that betray his former life. And JoJo, Vera Similitude's savage little sidekick (played with ferocious charm by Becky Byers), travels with the Vaudevilleans, but her own language closely resembles the explosive, caustic speech of the scavengers; whether or not she belongs with the Vaudevilleans is an item of much contention. All the members of the traveling vaudeville act seem in search of belonging of some kind or another and all, for all the actions they choose (or choose not) to take, fall somewhat short of the mark. In some, like Vera (an able Liz Douglas), a survivalist at all costs, this only strengthens their resolve to take more decisive action. In others, like Dog, it causes them to forswear active choice altogether. Adams adeptly uses language to weave together these themes of identity, belonging, and choice.
I have to admit, I didn't fall in love with Dog Act. There was much about the play I didn't understand, and more still I simply didn't like. Dog's story of redemption, for example - how he ultimately reclaims his power of choice - I found somewhat predictable, for all its linguistic splendor. Still, Dog Act was a brave and provacative play, just the kind of work I want to see and see done. It was in stark contrast to Good People, which I saw on the same day, and found tame, routine, and painfully on the nose - but more on that later.
In the meantime, I'll finish by saying that not only is this the kind of theater that should be done, but it was done well. Kelly O'Donnell managed Adams' dense prose with a deft hand and the production values, though minimalist, were splendid. The cart with which our fair hero Zetta travels, the majority of the set, was truly marvelous. After this performance, I'm looking forward to what's next from Flux Theatre Ensemble. With Dog Act, they mounted a work that was both bold and well-crafted, and did so with considerable elegance. I must admit, I'm also a little taken with the way Flux structures their seasons - all explorations of a central theme or question. All this points to a smart and skillful group of artists. I'm looking forward to what's next.
Dog Act is a daring show - not your typical theater fare. Abstract, absurd, and almost densely poetic, it packs a lot of strange into a fairly straighforward two-act structure. Strange world, strange people, strange words. Strange choices, even. A man who voluntarily elects to live life as a dog? It reminded me at first of the men I once saw on Maury (I was in high school, okay? Don't judge me too harshly on questions of taste) who choose to live and behave like infants. And while Adams' Dog, in an understated and sweet performance by Chris Wight, is not nearly so horrifying in that train-wreck side-show kind of a way, they do both raise the same questions: what must be going on inside a person to make him relinquish is right as a human being to autonomy, to self-sufficience, to choice? When (and why) does free will stop being a gift and become a heavy burden?
Adams' use of language to explore these questions was, without a doubt, my personal favorite part of the play. Liz Duffy Adams has a truly impressive ear for language. Simply reading the playwright's note in the program gave me an idea of the Dylanesque lyricism I was in for. But while Adams' language is very pleasingly sonorous, what really makes it noteworthy is how she uses that language to draw distinctions between characters and explore ideas about identity and belonging. Dog, for example, sometimes slips and uses words a dog has no business knowing, words that betray his former life. And JoJo, Vera Similitude's savage little sidekick (played with ferocious charm by Becky Byers), travels with the Vaudevilleans, but her own language closely resembles the explosive, caustic speech of the scavengers; whether or not she belongs with the Vaudevilleans is an item of much contention. All the members of the traveling vaudeville act seem in search of belonging of some kind or another and all, for all the actions they choose (or choose not) to take, fall somewhat short of the mark. In some, like Vera (an able Liz Douglas), a survivalist at all costs, this only strengthens their resolve to take more decisive action. In others, like Dog, it causes them to forswear active choice altogether. Adams adeptly uses language to weave together these themes of identity, belonging, and choice.
I have to admit, I didn't fall in love with Dog Act. There was much about the play I didn't understand, and more still I simply didn't like. Dog's story of redemption, for example - how he ultimately reclaims his power of choice - I found somewhat predictable, for all its linguistic splendor. Still, Dog Act was a brave and provacative play, just the kind of work I want to see and see done. It was in stark contrast to Good People, which I saw on the same day, and found tame, routine, and painfully on the nose - but more on that later.
In the meantime, I'll finish by saying that not only is this the kind of theater that should be done, but it was done well. Kelly O'Donnell managed Adams' dense prose with a deft hand and the production values, though minimalist, were splendid. The cart with which our fair hero Zetta travels, the majority of the set, was truly marvelous. After this performance, I'm looking forward to what's next from Flux Theatre Ensemble. With Dog Act, they mounted a work that was both bold and well-crafted, and did so with considerable elegance. I must admit, I'm also a little taken with the way Flux structures their seasons - all explorations of a central theme or question. All this points to a smart and skillful group of artists. I'm looking forward to what's next.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Inventive or Gimmicky?
I don't know if this is a legitimately interesting way to stage a piece, or just a big old gimmick, but I really wish I had found out about The Rubber Room before today. The idea (in case you don't feel like following the link) is that the same play is given to 5 different directors, each with an entirely different 5-person cast, and no communication between casts. Each night, one person from each cast goes on, never having performed with the other four before. The idea (presumably) is that each night is a fresh and totally unique depiction of five characters who really are meeting for the first time.
I would have liked to know whether it added new dimension to the text - and I think it could have - or if the concept was just that: concept-y and distracting. I'm also sort of fascinated by New York's rubber rooms and the multiplicity of two-sided stories that arise from them. The rubber room idea itself is a two-sided story. You can't just - for example - fire a teacher who's been accused of sexual misconduct without a fair inquiry, especially given how easily and carelessly a particularly manipulative child could throw around those accusations. But you can't very well keep them in the classroom around children either. So... what? What are the options there? And the concept works for the subject matter; five people with stories that can be seen from a host of perspectives merit a host of perspectives in the the interpretation of the play. Right? But did it actually work?
I'll never know. Regardless of whether it turned out to be a gripping piece of theater or a hokey gimmick, I would have loved to have seen it, would have loved to have been involved with it. Damn, damn, damn.
I would have liked to know whether it added new dimension to the text - and I think it could have - or if the concept was just that: concept-y and distracting. I'm also sort of fascinated by New York's rubber rooms and the multiplicity of two-sided stories that arise from them. The rubber room idea itself is a two-sided story. You can't just - for example - fire a teacher who's been accused of sexual misconduct without a fair inquiry, especially given how easily and carelessly a particularly manipulative child could throw around those accusations. But you can't very well keep them in the classroom around children either. So... what? What are the options there? And the concept works for the subject matter; five people with stories that can be seen from a host of perspectives merit a host of perspectives in the the interpretation of the play. Right? But did it actually work?
I'll never know. Regardless of whether it turned out to be a gripping piece of theater or a hokey gimmick, I would have loved to have seen it, would have loved to have been involved with it. Damn, damn, damn.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Director Development
I've been thinking a little more about the concerns Trisha Mead raised in her conversation with Rocco Landesman via the 2amt blog:
And the resulting brief twitter conversation I had with her (found here).
I had another thought, a thought just a trifle too long to post on Twitter, so I'll put it up here instead.
I originally put forth the idea of creating director development programs, much like some of the new play development programs in existence across the country. But now I'm suddenly wondering: why not pair the director development with the play development?
Every time I see or hear about a new new play development program, I think Oh. I would love to be a part of that. What I wouldn't give to be learning from and collaborating with all of these exciting up-and-coming playwrights. But, try as I might to deduce from its website and/or any other available information, I cannot seem to figure out how to get involved as a director. I know play-readings and workshops attached to the programs - at the Lark, for example, or New Dramatists - often have directors, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out where they are coming from. Do the playwrights bring them in? Are they resident directors with the company or the program?
The Lark does the best I've seen at setting out some general guidelines for how to become involved as a director, but even those are somewhat vague and indefinite, nothing compared to the concrete, accessible submission proccess accessible to playwrights.
Or, take the workshop-in-rehearsal process currently developing Amy Freed's Right to the Top, one of the many #newplay development initiatives provided by Arena Stage. (Strangely, the Arena Stage has producing fellows who are paired with the playwrights in residence, but no comparable program for directors - why is that?) This looks like an amazing experience, and I would kill to be a part of it. And why not? Not only would it be a learning experience just as helpful to a director as a playwright, but it would lay the groudwork for a deeper collaborative relationship between playwright and director, one rooted in creation and development rather than simply beginning in rehearsal.
That would be real benefit in this kind of approach: the collaborative energy and possible partnerships it would facilitate. Playwrights need directors and directors - oh, let me tell ya - NEED playwrights. The difference between having a collaborator with whom you work well and whose work inspires you can be the difference between creative life and death.
Just a thought.
...There is no clear path for a director to develop his or her career without founding their own theater company. Young directors found institutions in order to build reputations... Perhaps by inadvertently requiring them to prove themselves as producers before allowing them to work within our institutions as directors and artistic directors we are creating a system which rewards theater companies that are made in haste, repented at leisure?
And the resulting brief twitter conversation I had with her (found here).
I had another thought, a thought just a trifle too long to post on Twitter, so I'll put it up here instead.
I originally put forth the idea of creating director development programs, much like some of the new play development programs in existence across the country. But now I'm suddenly wondering: why not pair the director development with the play development?
Every time I see or hear about a new new play development program, I think Oh. I would love to be a part of that. What I wouldn't give to be learning from and collaborating with all of these exciting up-and-coming playwrights. But, try as I might to deduce from its website and/or any other available information, I cannot seem to figure out how to get involved as a director. I know play-readings and workshops attached to the programs - at the Lark, for example, or New Dramatists - often have directors, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out where they are coming from. Do the playwrights bring them in? Are they resident directors with the company or the program?
The Lark does the best I've seen at setting out some general guidelines for how to become involved as a director, but even those are somewhat vague and indefinite, nothing compared to the concrete, accessible submission proccess accessible to playwrights.
Or, take the workshop-in-rehearsal process currently developing Amy Freed's Right to the Top, one of the many #newplay development initiatives provided by Arena Stage. (Strangely, the Arena Stage has producing fellows who are paired with the playwrights in residence, but no comparable program for directors - why is that?) This looks like an amazing experience, and I would kill to be a part of it. And why not? Not only would it be a learning experience just as helpful to a director as a playwright, but it would lay the groudwork for a deeper collaborative relationship between playwright and director, one rooted in creation and development rather than simply beginning in rehearsal.
That would be real benefit in this kind of approach: the collaborative energy and possible partnerships it would facilitate. Playwrights need directors and directors - oh, let me tell ya - NEED playwrights. The difference between having a collaborator with whom you work well and whose work inspires you can be the difference between creative life and death.
Just a thought.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Connectivity and Possibilities
I saw Better Left Unsaid this past weekend, right from the comfort of my own couch, and it got me thinking about a lot of things.
The live-streamed play was, to put it simply, just really cool. It was a totally unique way of seeing a performance, and it was executed extremely well. The streaming was smooth and high quality, and the use of the three cameras that shot the production was engaging and dynamic, but unobtrusive enough that I never lost the feeling that that I was watching a play as opposed to another filmed medium.
The interactive features were great touches; the Twitter comments worked well, and I loved getting a tour of backstage, and watching the chats with the actors and tech people.
And, I have to admit, it was really, really nice to be able to support my colleagues from the comfort of my own home.
Watching the production ignited some flames of ideas that had been kindling since taking part in the #newplay discussions: one of the things that excited me most about the discussions about collaboration and connectivity that came out of the convening was the possibility of using new connective technology to collaborate across geographical boundaries. I touched on this briefly in another #newplay post, but Better Left Unsaid has got me considering the actual, specific ways to use this technology to our advantage as artists.
Because as exciting as internet connectivity is to me, it leaves me with a sort of conundrum. What I love about theater, what sets it apart from every other art form, is the liveness of it. There is nothing quite like actually being in a room with the art as it's being created. There's an immediacy to it, and a sense of community that is inherently lost when you put someone miles away and behind a computer screen.
It's definitely an amazing thing to join in a nationwide, or even worldwide conversation about art. But what about actual making and experiencing of the art? The question of how to reconcile the possibility of connective technology with theater's need for immediacy intrigues me, so I started jotting down some ideas.
This is all really rough - nothing cohesive or fully formed about any of it yet. But I thought I'd start thinking and sharing nonetheless.
A couple of shows I remember hearing about that have connective possibilities:
The Lysistrata Project. Does anyone remember when the Iraq war first started and, in protest, schools all over the country participated in performing Lysistrata at the same time? I remember because both my old high school and my college participated.
The recent performance of Antigone that I read about, but didn't see where they used Facebook, Twitter and/or YouTube as the chorus.
Some other ideas.
Oh man. I didn't expect it, but I'm actually really excited about a lot of these ideas. There is definitely a project in here somewhere.
If anybody has any stories of a collaboration over distance that worked out well, or other ideas to keep building on, I would absolutely love to hear them. Or, if anybody is interested in thinking more about/putting into motion any of the above ideas, I definitely want to talk to you.
The live-streamed play was, to put it simply, just really cool. It was a totally unique way of seeing a performance, and it was executed extremely well. The streaming was smooth and high quality, and the use of the three cameras that shot the production was engaging and dynamic, but unobtrusive enough that I never lost the feeling that that I was watching a play as opposed to another filmed medium.
The interactive features were great touches; the Twitter comments worked well, and I loved getting a tour of backstage, and watching the chats with the actors and tech people.
And, I have to admit, it was really, really nice to be able to support my colleagues from the comfort of my own home.
Watching the production ignited some flames of ideas that had been kindling since taking part in the #newplay discussions: one of the things that excited me most about the discussions about collaboration and connectivity that came out of the convening was the possibility of using new connective technology to collaborate across geographical boundaries. I touched on this briefly in another #newplay post, but Better Left Unsaid has got me considering the actual, specific ways to use this technology to our advantage as artists.
Because as exciting as internet connectivity is to me, it leaves me with a sort of conundrum. What I love about theater, what sets it apart from every other art form, is the liveness of it. There is nothing quite like actually being in a room with the art as it's being created. There's an immediacy to it, and a sense of community that is inherently lost when you put someone miles away and behind a computer screen.
It's definitely an amazing thing to join in a nationwide, or even worldwide conversation about art. But what about actual making and experiencing of the art? The question of how to reconcile the possibility of connective technology with theater's need for immediacy intrigues me, so I started jotting down some ideas.
This is all really rough - nothing cohesive or fully formed about any of it yet. But I thought I'd start thinking and sharing nonetheless.
A couple of shows I remember hearing about that have connective possibilities:
The Lysistrata Project. Does anyone remember when the Iraq war first started and, in protest, schools all over the country participated in performing Lysistrata at the same time? I remember because both my old high school and my college participated.
- What if you live-streamed all of the productions at the same time? Or had a website where you could access all of the productions at any time?
- You could coordinate with other productions in other areas to realize same artistic vision in multiple places.
- Or the opposite: connect w/ other creative teams in other places to make each production distinctly different. Or some combination of the two, e.g., certain ideas or design elements are agreed upon by all creative teams, but within the structure, a certain degree of creative autonomy? Or - each team charged assigned a different approach to design or given a different theme to explore within the same work.
- Really like the idea in general of presenting the same show in tandem across the country for the purpose of making a particular point or reaching a goal.
- Like! What if - if we were talking about Lysystrata, say - you could tweet to the White House or your representatives while you were watching it, or there were links shown (on the website, or even live too) about how to get involved. Or a hashtag, to create a dialogue, with a running account of the conversation?
The recent performance of Antigone that I read about, but didn't see where they used Facebook, Twitter and/or YouTube as the chorus.
- Imagine it was all scripted and taped, but is there anyway to use that as a connecting point? A greek chorus, say, streamed in from 12 different parts of the world?
- Relatedly, what about the possibility of exploring characters or story elements that that can be told/seen/experienced remotely?
- Or! The same story, told from two different points of view, in two different places - in both places you see one angle live, and other live-streamed, and vice versa... does that make sense?
Some other ideas.
- Two shows in repertory in two different places: the first one is live, the second, live-streamed.
- The same show, but some scenes or acts shown live, some streamed from different places.
- You could do it exquisite corpse style, where each creative team gets the script (or maybe just a portion of the script) w/ no communication and see what happens.
- Or the opposite: extreme collaboration - skyping in to one another's rehearsals - online production meetings - maybe even live actors communicating with streamed actors on stage.
- That last one - live actors communicating with streamed actors on stage - could also be applied to the idea of telling the same story from two points of view in two different places.
- Live-streamed play readings or workshop forums via Twitter.
Oh man. I didn't expect it, but I'm actually really excited about a lot of these ideas. There is definitely a project in here somewhere.
If anybody has any stories of a collaboration over distance that worked out well, or other ideas to keep building on, I would absolutely love to hear them. Or, if anybody is interested in thinking more about/putting into motion any of the above ideas, I definitely want to talk to you.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Rocco Landesman at the #Newplay Convening (A Response to the Responses)
Okay, confession time: I didn't know the #newplay convening was happening until it was actually happening. I like to think I follow the theater scene pretty closely - I read papers and the blogs, I visit the websites, I do the Twitter - but somehow this completely escaped me. These were my thoughts last Thursday, as I idly kept my Twitter page open while answering phones at my job: Hey, that's an interesting idea from Rocco Landesman that TCG just tweeted. Hey, that's another! Oh my god, so many exciting points, where are they coming from!? OH MY GOD, now EVERYBODY'S making exciting points! What's going on?!? Why is everybody having this amazing conversation all at once!? What is this #newplay hashtag!? My brain is exploding.
I pretty much peed my pants.
I was also really, really excited because Rocco Landesman, the head of the freaking NEA was all the sudden saying what I've been saying for a really long time.
Truth be told, don't know if I articulated what I was thinking as well as I could have in that post - in fact, I felt really bad after I posted it because I never meant to imply that the only places with flourishing art scenes were NYC and other similar big cities. I tried to clarify my ideas in a comment, by saying, "I think the thing is, there's a tipping point - a point where the sheer volume of work being created stops being a boon and starts being a liability - everything, even really good things, just get lost in the din. I'm putting forth the hypothesis that New York has reached that tipping point." Which says it as well as anything else I've written. Yes, it's great that there exists such an expansive and diverse theater community - up to a point. And we've reached that point: the supply has exceeded the demand.
But I add the following caveat: the supply has exceeded the demand in New York City. And possibly other large urban cities. And I know I'm not the only person who has said that the solution is not to decrease the supply, but to spread it around. Scott Walters, on TheaterIdeas, says, "There are many medium-sized cities, suburbs, and other such places that are also being ignored by the lemming-like flow of artists to NYC in search of fame. There is a large swath of entire states in the midwest that have no TCG theatres at all." Trisha Mead, in a comment on her own report for the New Play Blog, says, "Less than 10% of urban communities (and an even smaller percentage of rural communities) regularly experience live performance," and to believe that that number is in response to a fixed demand that can't be changed is "crazytalk."
But I am so, so psyched to hear other people saying it too.
This is not really a response to Landesman's speech; I wasn't there, I didn't hear it first-hand. But I have read an awful lot of reports on it and responses to it. And people are saying some awesome, awesome stuff. So, consider this a response to the responses.
It seems like reactions largely fall into three categories:
1) WTF does he mean "demand can't be changed"?
2) Why are we talking about supply and demand anyway? Isn't that commercial theater's domain?
3) Does Rocco Landesman have it out for the little guys?
First and foremost, did he really say that demand can't be changed? I have the following quote atrributed to him from two sources: "Look. You can either increase demand or decrease supply. Demand is not going to increase, so it is time to think about decreasing supply." Did he really say that? If so I a) disagree and b) he took that back right-quick. Because his post on the NEA blog in response to all this discussion essentially outlines ways in which we can increase the demand for the arts.
But in any case, he definitely does want to talk about decreasing the supply, and I can see how those remarks would sound like a big stomping-on to the smaller fish of the theater world. But it's interesting that this was the response at large when I, the smallest of the small fish, heard this proposal and rejoiced.
Because here's the thing. The extreme imbalance between supply and demand is a problem. It's a problem that, living in the really, really big pond that I do, I personally encounter a lot. And, while I don't think "thinking about decreasing supply," is a useful or practical option, I applaud Landesman for making the audacious statement that there's simply too much theater. Because as someone who loves theater more than pretty much anything else, I think he's right. And if we want to find a solution to the problem, we have to address it rather than pretend it doesn't exist.
But the solution is not to decrease the demand, and it's not a question of whether I'm insulted, or whether I consider this a threat to myself or my fellow artists. It's the fact that, as Adam Thurman put it so nicely in his blog, Mission Paradox, "The arts are a passion business and all the economic arguments in the world aren't going to stop people who feel like they must (for reasons both noble and foolish) create art through an organization." Supply and demand aren't linked in the arts the way that they are in a traditional business model. The supply just isn't going to go away.
So what is the solution? There have been a lot of good ones, but you know my favorite. So many parts of the country are completely underserved by the theater, and if you say that's because there's no demand for it, that brings us back to points 1) and 2) above.
Who says we can't create a demand? Again, to quote Adam Thurman, "10 years ago I wasn't looking at my old standard definition TV and looking for a better picture image. I didn't even know that was a possibility until it happened." Marketing whizzes create demand for products where there was none all the time. And here are markets where there is the opportunity to do so, markets that are not completely saturated, where there is space for a demand to grow.
And, furthermore, what does demand have to do with it anyway? Isn't that the point of non-profits, or at least the grants that fund them - to provide the means to do something for which there isn't enough public demand for it to survive on it's own, but is really, really important anyway? Trisha Mead makes this point well in her open letter to Rocco. She extends the metaphor put forth during the convening that non-profits function as the "the 'R&D arm' of our society, testing what it means to be human and reflecting back the concerns of the moment." And, as with scientific research, it's not just the big experiments with the guaranteed success that need to be funded. It's the little ones too, the crazy ideas and the colossal failures that lead to important discoveries.
I believe that, I honestly do, but I will say this as well: supply and demand are linked in the arts world, although in a less direct way than in the commercial world. Yes, we have to nurture the little experiments and the failures in order to find the theatrical equivalent of the "big discovery." But we should never forget that we are in pursuit of that big discovery, that eye-opening breakthrough that feeds the masses. It's not enough to be holed up in our labs clapping our hands at our own little explosions.
I think, as artists, our greatest collective aspiration is to answer a need, to a universal human yearning for something beyond our daily bread. In this sense, art does answer to a demand. I'm not sure if this is the same demand that Landesman was talking about, but all the same, it should not be disregarded. If we're not creating something that at least touches the possibility of satisfying that need, or leading to something that will then we should not be doing it at all. Hey - maybe I do believe in decreasing the supply.
The lovely and exciting part of it all for me is that that need is there in every part of the country, even if the commercial demand is not. In his response post, Landesman says that "Americans are hungry for and will seek out an expressive life." Yes. All people everywhere are hungry for an expressive life and art, in all its forms answers that hunger.
One thing in particular spoke to me about Landesman's address (from Mead's report for the New Play Blog):
Yes. Yes yes yes. This is hits the nerve of supply/demand imbalance at two points. Imports from Broadway are not as relevant to a community as work being generated for and by it. So audiences lose interest, they seek to meet their need for an "expressive life" elsewhere. And then on the other side of it, the artists lose interest because we want to be a part of a community that's creating new and vibrant work, not reproductions of work that was relevant 5 years and 1500 miles ago. We want to be answering to the need. The one feeds the other, artists cluster closer and closer around more active creative hubs that become quickly oversaturated and the rest of the country is left with a dearth of art where it is truly needed.
We can fix this. We can create a demand. And, even more excitingly, were coming up on a point in history where the advent of technology and social networking devices make it possible for artists to convene and create active and vibrant communities across geographical boundaries. Look at the amazing work that 2AMt is doing, or the Arena Stage's New Play Map or - oh! And now I'm getting into the connectivity part of the convening and I promised myself I would stick to the opening remarks.
I pretty much peed my pants.
I was also really, really excited because Rocco Landesman, the head of the freaking NEA was all the sudden saying what I've been saying for a really long time.
Truth be told, don't know if I articulated what I was thinking as well as I could have in that post - in fact, I felt really bad after I posted it because I never meant to imply that the only places with flourishing art scenes were NYC and other similar big cities. I tried to clarify my ideas in a comment, by saying, "I think the thing is, there's a tipping point - a point where the sheer volume of work being created stops being a boon and starts being a liability - everything, even really good things, just get lost in the din. I'm putting forth the hypothesis that New York has reached that tipping point." Which says it as well as anything else I've written. Yes, it's great that there exists such an expansive and diverse theater community - up to a point. And we've reached that point: the supply has exceeded the demand.
But I add the following caveat: the supply has exceeded the demand in New York City. And possibly other large urban cities. And I know I'm not the only person who has said that the solution is not to decrease the supply, but to spread it around. Scott Walters, on TheaterIdeas, says, "There are many medium-sized cities, suburbs, and other such places that are also being ignored by the lemming-like flow of artists to NYC in search of fame. There is a large swath of entire states in the midwest that have no TCG theatres at all." Trisha Mead, in a comment on her own report for the New Play Blog, says, "Less than 10% of urban communities (and an even smaller percentage of rural communities) regularly experience live performance," and to believe that that number is in response to a fixed demand that can't be changed is "crazytalk."
But I am so, so psyched to hear other people saying it too.
This is not really a response to Landesman's speech; I wasn't there, I didn't hear it first-hand. But I have read an awful lot of reports on it and responses to it. And people are saying some awesome, awesome stuff. So, consider this a response to the responses.
It seems like reactions largely fall into three categories:
1) WTF does he mean "demand can't be changed"?
2) Why are we talking about supply and demand anyway? Isn't that commercial theater's domain?
3) Does Rocco Landesman have it out for the little guys?
First and foremost, did he really say that demand can't be changed? I have the following quote atrributed to him from two sources: "Look. You can either increase demand or decrease supply. Demand is not going to increase, so it is time to think about decreasing supply." Did he really say that? If so I a) disagree and b) he took that back right-quick. Because his post on the NEA blog in response to all this discussion essentially outlines ways in which we can increase the demand for the arts.
But in any case, he definitely does want to talk about decreasing the supply, and I can see how those remarks would sound like a big stomping-on to the smaller fish of the theater world. But it's interesting that this was the response at large when I, the smallest of the small fish, heard this proposal and rejoiced.
Because here's the thing. The extreme imbalance between supply and demand is a problem. It's a problem that, living in the really, really big pond that I do, I personally encounter a lot. And, while I don't think "thinking about decreasing supply," is a useful or practical option, I applaud Landesman for making the audacious statement that there's simply too much theater. Because as someone who loves theater more than pretty much anything else, I think he's right. And if we want to find a solution to the problem, we have to address it rather than pretend it doesn't exist.
But the solution is not to decrease the demand, and it's not a question of whether I'm insulted, or whether I consider this a threat to myself or my fellow artists. It's the fact that, as Adam Thurman put it so nicely in his blog, Mission Paradox, "The arts are a passion business and all the economic arguments in the world aren't going to stop people who feel like they must (for reasons both noble and foolish) create art through an organization." Supply and demand aren't linked in the arts the way that they are in a traditional business model. The supply just isn't going to go away.
So what is the solution? There have been a lot of good ones, but you know my favorite. So many parts of the country are completely underserved by the theater, and if you say that's because there's no demand for it, that brings us back to points 1) and 2) above.
Who says we can't create a demand? Again, to quote Adam Thurman, "10 years ago I wasn't looking at my old standard definition TV and looking for a better picture image. I didn't even know that was a possibility until it happened." Marketing whizzes create demand for products where there was none all the time. And here are markets where there is the opportunity to do so, markets that are not completely saturated, where there is space for a demand to grow.
And, furthermore, what does demand have to do with it anyway? Isn't that the point of non-profits, or at least the grants that fund them - to provide the means to do something for which there isn't enough public demand for it to survive on it's own, but is really, really important anyway? Trisha Mead makes this point well in her open letter to Rocco. She extends the metaphor put forth during the convening that non-profits function as the "the 'R&D arm' of our society, testing what it means to be human and reflecting back the concerns of the moment." And, as with scientific research, it's not just the big experiments with the guaranteed success that need to be funded. It's the little ones too, the crazy ideas and the colossal failures that lead to important discoveries.
I believe that, I honestly do, but I will say this as well: supply and demand are linked in the arts world, although in a less direct way than in the commercial world. Yes, we have to nurture the little experiments and the failures in order to find the theatrical equivalent of the "big discovery." But we should never forget that we are in pursuit of that big discovery, that eye-opening breakthrough that feeds the masses. It's not enough to be holed up in our labs clapping our hands at our own little explosions.
I think, as artists, our greatest collective aspiration is to answer a need, to a universal human yearning for something beyond our daily bread. In this sense, art does answer to a demand. I'm not sure if this is the same demand that Landesman was talking about, but all the same, it should not be disregarded. If we're not creating something that at least touches the possibility of satisfying that need, or leading to something that will then we should not be doing it at all. Hey - maybe I do believe in decreasing the supply.
The lovely and exciting part of it all for me is that that need is there in every part of the country, even if the commercial demand is not. In his response post, Landesman says that "Americans are hungry for and will seek out an expressive life." Yes. All people everywhere are hungry for an expressive life and art, in all its forms answers that hunger.
One thing in particular spoke to me about Landesman's address (from Mead's report for the New Play Blog):
And finally, he is very interested in seeing regional theaters invest in more work that is designed specifically for their own community, rather than passing around the latest Broadway hit. He wants to see regional companies generating work that speaks directly to their own communities... work that shares and reflects the unique values of its particular audience. He is concerned that it has become too tempting for regional artistic directors to program work with a potential Broadway transfer in mind.
Yes. Yes yes yes. This is hits the nerve of supply/demand imbalance at two points. Imports from Broadway are not as relevant to a community as work being generated for and by it. So audiences lose interest, they seek to meet their need for an "expressive life" elsewhere. And then on the other side of it, the artists lose interest because we want to be a part of a community that's creating new and vibrant work, not reproductions of work that was relevant 5 years and 1500 miles ago. We want to be answering to the need. The one feeds the other, artists cluster closer and closer around more active creative hubs that become quickly oversaturated and the rest of the country is left with a dearth of art where it is truly needed.
We can fix this. We can create a demand. And, even more excitingly, were coming up on a point in history where the advent of technology and social networking devices make it possible for artists to convene and create active and vibrant communities across geographical boundaries. Look at the amazing work that 2AMt is doing, or the Arena Stage's New Play Map or - oh! And now I'm getting into the connectivity part of the convening and I promised myself I would stick to the opening remarks.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Honey Brown Eyes
Honey Brown Eyes, presented by the Working Theatre and now playing at the Clurman at Theatre Row, is a thoughtful, cogent, human work by a deft hand; Stefanie Zadravec's play is tight and well-structured as it examines war in microcosm, lending a specific and surprisingly familiar face to its extreme cirumstances.
The play takes place in Bosnia, circa 1992, and at its core are a brother and sister living in the thick of the violent conflict that gripped their nation during that decade. Set in two different kitchens, the first act centers upon Alma - the titular Honey Brown Eyes - in her home in Visegrad and the second upon her brother Denis in Sarajevo.
The story begins just as the devastating ethnic cleansing of Bosnia's Muslim population has started, and the play's opening finds Alma looking down the barrel of an assault rifle. As it turns out, though, she knows the soldier wielding it. Although war has sharply divided them into opposing sides, the soldier, Dragan, once played in a band with Alma's brother Denis. Denis himself is absent, estranged from his sister. He has left to join the resistance, disowned by Alma as a result. Alma and Dragan are left to grapple with their relationship to each other and to Denis then and now, in the light of the terrible fate she is now facing and the role he is to play in it.
In Act II we meet the man whose memory hovers like a shadow over the kitchen of his sister in Visegrad. The second-act kitchen belongs to an older woman named Jovanka in Sarajevo - alone since her daughter and grandson left, attempting flee Bosnia as refugees - living out the rest of her days as comfortably as the violence surrounding her will allow. Into her kitchen stumbles Denis, himself a refugee, fleeing unnamed deadly forces outside Jovanka's door.
Honey Brown Eyes isn't so much about war as it is its effect on relationships, an examination of how they strengthen or strain under the bloody duress of the atrocities happening outside the front door. Jovanka tells Denis, "War teaches you the value of an onion"; the same could be said for what it teaches about the value of a relationship. The sight, smell, and taste of the onion is heightened by the weight of the war. So is the significance of every relationship, every human interaction heightened. Its texture, its meaning, is drawn into sharp focus, its importance elevated by the immediacy of war's terrors.
Still, despite the humanity that Zadravec bestows upon her characters, the play hits a note of unbelievability. The story could take place in any war, anywhere, and the play strains mightily to make that clear. It does so, though, at the expense of specificity that would have provided clarity and depth. Exactly what Alma faces outside her door, if she is "taken away" as she is meant to be, is unclear. Of course, we sadly know enough to imagine: death camps, perhaps? Execution? Torture and rape? Possibly, probably, some combination of the above. But we never find out for sure. All we hear from Alma of the terror she has witnessed is a quick, teary mention of tragedy; later Dragan tells another character ominously, "You don't know what they would have done to her," but this is all we learn from him. The vagueness of what might become of her does not undermine the story in the sense that it's not about horrors that await her, it's about her relationship to Dragan and her absent brother (and husband and child) in the face of them. Still, without specificity, the danger and the fear that drives the play becomes less immediate, less real. (This issue, it should be noted, is considerably relieved in the second act, as Denis and Jovanka confess their stories to one another in heartbreaking detail).
Compounding the problem is the miscasting of Edoardo Ballerini as Dragan. Despite his age and military position, as Dragan Ballerini emanates an aura of childishness and innocence. And understandable choice; he is, ultimately a sympathetic character and the sweet naivete he radiates makes his shocking final interaction with Alma all the more disturbing. However, the pendulum swings too far in the other direction: I never fully believe that he is capable of using the big gun he carries. For the relationship, and the act as a whole, to work, the audience must be kept on edge, always a little in fear of Dragan, despite the instinct to trust him, unsure of his real intentions.
Under Erica Schmidt's direction, the play moves easily and fluidly for the most part, although a few beats - mostly transitions and set changes - felt sloppy; greater precision would have added power to the production as a whole.
Despite these small concerns the play, the play shined. I have to admit, I had been looking forward to seeing Honey Brown Eyes ever since I heard an excerpt of another work by Zadravec (Electric Baby) read at an event at the Women's Project. The excerpt intrigued me, and I couldn't wait to see something more substantial. Honey Brown Eyes did not disappoint. It's a rare treat to see a play structured so well, that moves so adroitly through the narrative, bringing its many and varied characters together as easily and obviously as if they were interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
The play takes place in Bosnia, circa 1992, and at its core are a brother and sister living in the thick of the violent conflict that gripped their nation during that decade. Set in two different kitchens, the first act centers upon Alma - the titular Honey Brown Eyes - in her home in Visegrad and the second upon her brother Denis in Sarajevo.
The story begins just as the devastating ethnic cleansing of Bosnia's Muslim population has started, and the play's opening finds Alma looking down the barrel of an assault rifle. As it turns out, though, she knows the soldier wielding it. Although war has sharply divided them into opposing sides, the soldier, Dragan, once played in a band with Alma's brother Denis. Denis himself is absent, estranged from his sister. He has left to join the resistance, disowned by Alma as a result. Alma and Dragan are left to grapple with their relationship to each other and to Denis then and now, in the light of the terrible fate she is now facing and the role he is to play in it.
In Act II we meet the man whose memory hovers like a shadow over the kitchen of his sister in Visegrad. The second-act kitchen belongs to an older woman named Jovanka in Sarajevo - alone since her daughter and grandson left, attempting flee Bosnia as refugees - living out the rest of her days as comfortably as the violence surrounding her will allow. Into her kitchen stumbles Denis, himself a refugee, fleeing unnamed deadly forces outside Jovanka's door.
Honey Brown Eyes isn't so much about war as it is its effect on relationships, an examination of how they strengthen or strain under the bloody duress of the atrocities happening outside the front door. Jovanka tells Denis, "War teaches you the value of an onion"; the same could be said for what it teaches about the value of a relationship. The sight, smell, and taste of the onion is heightened by the weight of the war. So is the significance of every relationship, every human interaction heightened. Its texture, its meaning, is drawn into sharp focus, its importance elevated by the immediacy of war's terrors.
Still, despite the humanity that Zadravec bestows upon her characters, the play hits a note of unbelievability. The story could take place in any war, anywhere, and the play strains mightily to make that clear. It does so, though, at the expense of specificity that would have provided clarity and depth. Exactly what Alma faces outside her door, if she is "taken away" as she is meant to be, is unclear. Of course, we sadly know enough to imagine: death camps, perhaps? Execution? Torture and rape? Possibly, probably, some combination of the above. But we never find out for sure. All we hear from Alma of the terror she has witnessed is a quick, teary mention of tragedy; later Dragan tells another character ominously, "You don't know what they would have done to her," but this is all we learn from him. The vagueness of what might become of her does not undermine the story in the sense that it's not about horrors that await her, it's about her relationship to Dragan and her absent brother (and husband and child) in the face of them. Still, without specificity, the danger and the fear that drives the play becomes less immediate, less real. (This issue, it should be noted, is considerably relieved in the second act, as Denis and Jovanka confess their stories to one another in heartbreaking detail).
Compounding the problem is the miscasting of Edoardo Ballerini as Dragan. Despite his age and military position, as Dragan Ballerini emanates an aura of childishness and innocence. And understandable choice; he is, ultimately a sympathetic character and the sweet naivete he radiates makes his shocking final interaction with Alma all the more disturbing. However, the pendulum swings too far in the other direction: I never fully believe that he is capable of using the big gun he carries. For the relationship, and the act as a whole, to work, the audience must be kept on edge, always a little in fear of Dragan, despite the instinct to trust him, unsure of his real intentions.
Under Erica Schmidt's direction, the play moves easily and fluidly for the most part, although a few beats - mostly transitions and set changes - felt sloppy; greater precision would have added power to the production as a whole.
Despite these small concerns the play, the play shined. I have to admit, I had been looking forward to seeing Honey Brown Eyes ever since I heard an excerpt of another work by Zadravec (Electric Baby) read at an event at the Women's Project. The excerpt intrigued me, and I couldn't wait to see something more substantial. Honey Brown Eyes did not disappoint. It's a rare treat to see a play structured so well, that moves so adroitly through the narrative, bringing its many and varied characters together as easily and obviously as if they were interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Monday, December 13, 2010
My Last Play
So there's this new play, "My Last Play," that been getting a fair amount of publicity due to an intriguing article in the NY Times.
I'm completely sold on this piece; I cannot wait to see it.
As one who has spent, well, a lot of time recently pondering my place in the theater world and theater's place in mine, taking part this rumination on how a person could come to their last play is more than interesting to me - it seems necessary.
Of course, there's also the speculation that this might not actually be his last play, rather a gimmick or a complicated form of subversion. The NY Times article says that,
Which says-without-saying that this miiiiiiight not be as truthful as it's purported by its author to be.
And then, later, his brother comes right out and says it:
There have also been some grumblings, some general cynycism about the veracity of the piece across my twitter-feed. Someone likened it to a Joaquin Phoenix mockumentary type hoax.
Me? I really don't care.
I don't think it matters whether or not he ever writes a play again. The point is, he was there. Somewhere, at some point, for some reason, he sat down and looked at himself in the mirror and said, I don't have it in me to do this anymore.
And at the risk of sounding a bit melodramatic, that rocks you. It changes who you thought you were and what you thought you were capable of. Everything you ever believed about humanity, love, faith, life, is twisted up somehow in that passion for the art and when it leaves you, well, that means all the other stuff leaves as well. And what do you do when you come to that point? What do you believe in, who are you at all when nothing you understood about the world seems relevant?
In the end it doesn't matter whether you come back from that edge, just standing over it leaves you a kind of bereft that doesn't heal over too quickly. I know, because I've been there. And, what's more, I'm pretty sure almost everyone else in theater who's been around long enough has too.
It reminds me a pair of short stories in Tim O'Brien's astounding meditation on Vietnam, The Things They Carried. In the first, he recalls a memory of a soldier he killed, of the guilt and fear and horror he felt staring into the young enemy's dead face - no more than a boy, really.
Later, he confesses that the story was made up. He never actually killed a man while serving in Vietnam. But he might have. He would have. And he is left with "faceless responsibility and faceless grief." To imagine the man, to evoke the story wherein he pulls the trigger, is only to give substance to a truth he already feels.
"'Daddy, tell the truth,' Kathleen can say. 'Did you ever kill anybody?' And I can say, honestly, 'Of course not,'" says O'Brien. "But I can also say, honestly, 'Yes.'"
I would imagine if anybody were to ask Ed Schmidt if he's really done his last play, he might very well be able to honestly answer, "No, of course not." But he can also honestly answer, "Yes." And so can I.
I'm completely sold on this piece; I cannot wait to see it.
As one who has spent, well, a lot of time recently pondering my place in the theater world and theater's place in mine, taking part this rumination on how a person could come to their last play is more than interesting to me - it seems necessary.
Of course, there's also the speculation that this might not actually be his last play, rather a gimmick or a complicated form of subversion. The NY Times article says that,
If this all sounds overly self-referential (and it should) and maybe a little self-pitying and overwrought — Mr. Schmidt confesses in the play that his sister-in-law, a therapist, is fearful that he’s suicidal — well, hold on. A sly boots of a playwright and a gifted dissembler, Mr. Schmidt has been known to subvert traditional theater forms.
Which says-without-saying that this miiiiiiight not be as truthful as it's purported by its author to be.
And then, later, his brother comes right out and says it:
“I don’t necessarily buy that this is his last play,” Steve Schmidt said. “I see it as of a piece with the direction his career has gone. He’s playing very creatively with what is fiction and what isn’t and with ways of manipulating the audience.”
There have also been some grumblings, some general cynycism about the veracity of the piece across my twitter-feed. Someone likened it to a Joaquin Phoenix mockumentary type hoax.
Me? I really don't care.
I don't think it matters whether or not he ever writes a play again. The point is, he was there. Somewhere, at some point, for some reason, he sat down and looked at himself in the mirror and said, I don't have it in me to do this anymore.
And at the risk of sounding a bit melodramatic, that rocks you. It changes who you thought you were and what you thought you were capable of. Everything you ever believed about humanity, love, faith, life, is twisted up somehow in that passion for the art and when it leaves you, well, that means all the other stuff leaves as well. And what do you do when you come to that point? What do you believe in, who are you at all when nothing you understood about the world seems relevant?
In the end it doesn't matter whether you come back from that edge, just standing over it leaves you a kind of bereft that doesn't heal over too quickly. I know, because I've been there. And, what's more, I'm pretty sure almost everyone else in theater who's been around long enough has too.
It reminds me a pair of short stories in Tim O'Brien's astounding meditation on Vietnam, The Things They Carried. In the first, he recalls a memory of a soldier he killed, of the guilt and fear and horror he felt staring into the young enemy's dead face - no more than a boy, really.
Later, he confesses that the story was made up. He never actually killed a man while serving in Vietnam. But he might have. He would have. And he is left with "faceless responsibility and faceless grief." To imagine the man, to evoke the story wherein he pulls the trigger, is only to give substance to a truth he already feels.
"'Daddy, tell the truth,' Kathleen can say. 'Did you ever kill anybody?' And I can say, honestly, 'Of course not,'" says O'Brien. "But I can also say, honestly, 'Yes.'"
I would imagine if anybody were to ask Ed Schmidt if he's really done his last play, he might very well be able to honestly answer, "No, of course not." But he can also honestly answer, "Yes." And so can I.
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