Conventional wisdom is difficult to alter, but here goes: contrary to what has been widely written, Jesus Christ Superstar was not the first concept recording of a musical to spawn a wildly successful hit show. Sorry Andrew, sorry Tim.

It may well be that JCS was the first concept album to be the basis for a hit Broadway show, but the songs that formed the core of a hugely popular international success were first heard on vinyl in 1966 and landed on stage in New York in March 1967, for a run that would last for 1,597 performances, more than four years before the biblically-based musical. That show – and feel free to start singing the title tune now – was You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

Composer Clark Gesner, who had previously written songs for television’s Captain Kangaroo children’s program, wrote the songs for YAGMCB with permission from Peanuts creator Charles M. Schulz. According to Schulz and Peanuts by David Michaelis, Gesner’s first songs, the title track and “Suppertime,” kicked off conversations about a televised animated musical revue. Those plans were superseded by what became A Charlie Brown Christmas in 1965, the first animated Peanuts special, with memorable musical soundtrack by Vince Guaraldi, but not a musical under any conventional definition.

Consequently, Gesner’s songs first reached the ears of listeners, predominantly young listeners and their parents, in the autumn of 1966 when the 10-track, 25-minute concept recording of You’re A Good Man Charlie Brown was released on King Leo, the children’s division of MGM Records, a major label at the time Records (later issues were on Metro Records). It was billed as “an original MGM album musical” on the cover. The cast was Gesner as Linus, Barbara Minkus as Lucy, Bill Hinnant as Snoopy, and as Charlie Brown, actor-comedian-raconteur Orson Bean. Bean was had already appeared in eight Broadway shows, his most recent credit at the time being The Roar of the Greasepaint, The Smell of the Crowd.

Part of the reason the King Leo release has likely been lost to time was how quickly it was supplanted by the original cast recording – there was less than six months between the two – and as they were both released by MGM, no doubt marketing focused on the latter as soon as it was on record store shelves. Yet the 1966 concept recording is a fascinating document for fans of the musical, because it reveals how fully formed much of the score was before a stage incarnation was actually in the works. As a note for those who own the CD reissue cast recording on Decca Broadway dating to 2000 with tracks featuring Gesner and Minkus, those are from the demo entitled Peanuts in Song, which were the recordings Gesner sent to Schulz to secure his permission.

All ten of the songs on the King Leo album, including “Happiness,” “Snoopy” and “Little Known Facts” were in the show, some renamed, with the most prominent additions being “The Book Report” and “The Red Baron.” What’s most unexpected about the 1966 recording is its more varied orchestration: horns, strings and a most insistent clarinet are in evidence, no doubt replaced by the simpler piano and percussion mix of the show for financial reasons. Not unlike The Fantasticks, which kept TAGMCB from ever breaking records despite its notably long run, the show’s success was in part due to its small and economical scale.

To be fair to Rice and Lloyd Webber, their JCS concept album was for all practical purposes the complete score and libretto of their show. The YAGMCB album did not have an accompanying book and it was not through-sung, although some of the material which toggled between speech and singing were in place, as were some the introductory dialogue to the songs. The musical itself was largely written during the show’s four-week rehearsal, or, more accurately, assembled using the songs and Schulz’s strips to date, which at that point, with daily and Sunday counted, would have numbered roughly 5,875 through the end of 1966.

When Charlie Brown opened at Off-Broadway’s Theatre 80 St. Marks on March 7, 1967, only Hinnant remained from the concept recording, joined by his brother Skip as Schreoder, Bob Balaban as Linus, Karen Johnson as Patty, Reva Rose as Lucy and Gary Burghoff as Charlie Brown. The director was Joseph Hardy and the choreographer was Patricia Birch. The shift from Bean to Burghoff may have been simply a case of a successful Broadway and TV actor not wanting to commit to a small Off-Broadway show, but it also made sense because Burghoff was 15 years younger than the 37-year-old Bean; the role launched Burghoff into a  career defining role as Radar O’Reilly in the film and TV versions of M*A*S*H. Minkus could have easily played Lucy on stage, but it appears she was otherwise committed when the show opened, as one of the standbys for the role of Fanny Brice in the Broadway production of Funny Girl.

Were there other concept albums that preceded YAGMCB? Perhaps. This post isn’t meant to be the final word on the subject. But it should lay to rest the idea that Lloyd Webber and Rice were somehow the first to bring a show to the stage in this way, and certainly not the first to have enormous success as a result. After all, per David Michaelis’s book, the original production yielded 13 touring companies in the US (though more likely some of those were sit-down productions) and 15 international companies. It has been a staple of the musical theatre repertoire ever since, notably revived on Broadway, with new musical contributions by Andrew Lippa, in 1999.

So step aside, Jesus Christ (Superstar). Just as he was anointed in the Schulz drawing that introduced the 1966 album, the musical theatre concept album crown belongs to Charlie Brown.

The complete 1966 recording can be heard here:

For those unfamiliar with my lifelong affection for the Peanuts comics, you can read about it in my post, A Man Named Charlie Brown, from 2013.

Perhaps because I am hyperverbal – in person, in my writing, in my consumption of information, in my choice of entertainment – it perhaps should not be surprising that I take great pleasure in the visual and silent pursuit of photography. I do not have, I have long known, a visual imagination, but my purchase of a camera in 2013 has enabled me to capture some of what I see in the world and the way in which I see it. So I when I leave my apartment, I am most often accompanied by a bulky DSLR, the better to see you with, although I do snag the occasional great image with nothing but my phone.

In this second pandemic restricted year, I haven’t traveled far beyond Manhattan – and I’ve not been out of New York more than a half-dozen times since March of last year. But even when my more expected pleasures, namely movies and theatre, aren’t available, I hope these images give a sense of how much there still is to see in just a few miles radius, and all for free. Beyond that, I’ll let these speak for themselves.

Take careful note of the quotation marks, because the headline above doesn’t nod to theatre tickets or the wholesale embrace of casual fornication. The reference, sorry to disappoint you, relates instead to the titles of two stage works created in 1926, which as of January 1, 2022 should be entering the public domain.

As a result of changes in copyright law over the years, very little entered the public domain for an extended period which ended in 2019, once again starting the annual roll of works ceasing to be under the control of the estates of those who created them. Last year’s big entry into the field was The Great Gatsby. This year, when it comes to theatre, George Abbott and Philip Dunning’s Broadway and Mae West’s Sex are leading the pack of influential works now free to those who wish to produce, alter or adapt these pieces. 

Obviously what was popular and even topical 95 years ago may not hold up now, but for those whose art may emerge from transforming vintage work, public domain material certainly beats negotiating with attorneys and studios. To be clear, this applies to all copyrighted work, including novels, films and recordings, so the tranche coming available every year is quite vast.

For those who like the saga of Edna Ferber’s Show Boat but find the musical (in its many iterations) a slog for some reason, the novel enters the public domain in 2022 while the musical has at least two years to go. The same is true for Anita Loos’ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, which appeared as both a novel and, co-authored with John Emerson, a play in 1926, so the adventures of Lorelei Lee are now fair game for new iterations. But keep clear of the musical Blondes, because anything newly created by Loos and her collaborators Joseph Fields, Jule Styne and Leo Robin are protected for over two more decades.

While the play Chicago, by Maurine Dallas Watkins, basis for the Kander and Ebb musical, also launched on Broadway in 1926, its first performance was on December 20, so it’s highly likely that its copyright wasn’t registered until 1927, meaning you can’t take the story for all your own jazz for another year. It’s a good example of why every literary work herein should be triple checked before you have at them: while copyright likely began the same year they premiered, you don’t want to get caught up by an exception, so as with all adapted works, a good legal check is in order.

On stage, Broadway brought plays by writers who were better known for other works, before or after their 1926 contributions. They include The Great God Brown by Eugene O’Neill, The Play’s The Thing by Ferenc Molnar in a version by P.G. Wodehouse (later adapted by Tom Stoppard as Rough Crossing), The Silver Cord by Sidney Howard (who won the Pulitzer for 1925’s They Knew What They Wanted), Saturday’s Children by Maxwell Anderson, The Constant Wife by W. Somerset Maugham, The Road to Rome by Robert E. Sherwood, Daisy Mayme by George Kelly, What Every Woman Knows by J.M. Barrie, and In Abraham’s Bosom by Paul Green.

While the writers getting produced in 1926 were predominantly male and white, it’s worth noting that West, Loos and Watkins led the field of women writers, which also included less remembered authors such as Glady B. Unger, whose Two Girls Wanted ran 324 performances and Margaret Vernon, whose Yellow lasted for 124, in an era when a twelve-week run could be considered a hit. There is markedly little diversity, sad to say, however the Spanish natives Gregorio and Maria Martinez Sierra had a hit with The Cradle Song.

Looking to novels which are now up for grabs, the list includes Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Franz Kafka’s The Castle, and P.C. Wren’s Beau Geste. Perhaps buried in this recounting, but no doubt in need of particularly careful parsing, especially as UK and US copyright terms vary and there are Disney encumbrances to dodge as well, is A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, who emerged in the Hundred Acre Wood in 1926.

Why promote these old works coming out of copyright and into the public domain at a time when stages (and TV, film radio, podcast and so on) are increasingly making space for new and diverse voices? It’s not to try to elevate these works above what’s new or make any claims for their value today. However, there’s often something to be learned from the past, whether by being faithful or through radical transformation.In recent weeks, since the passing of Stephen Sondheim, we have been reminded of how Oscar Hammerstein II assigned the young artist the task of writing four original musicals as training, including a good play, a bad play and a non-play. Aspiring writers might well look to public domaterial as sources for such work because should they happen to be particularly inspired and successful in their efforts, they could, with little to no fuss, actually get the show(s) produced.

Today, my book is published. This is the realization of a dream that I had given up on long ago. But my most overwhelming emotion today, and every time I look at the finished book, is sadness.

It would be wrong to say that I wrote Another Day’s Begun for any one person. Presumably like any other author, I wrote it for many people to read. But the person who I most wanted to read it, who I most wanted to have place it on her bookshelf, cannot. 

Catherine “Kaki” Marshall was a mentor to me in my days as a student at the University of Pennsylvania, and I am hardly her only protegee. Many kids at Penn, from the late 70s to the early 90s, would find their way to Kaki’s office, on the mezzanine level of the Annenberg Center, when she was the Associate Managing Director there, for knowledge, for caring. There was, quite literally, always an open door, unless you wanted to talk privately; I can’t recall her ever shutting anyone out for her own needs.

Having gone to Penn already in love with theatre, but convinced by many that it was no way to make a living or a life, I took stabs at other fields of interest, but none really resonated. I was most engaged with my time in the Annenberg Center, in my work study job in the box office, 20 hours each week, during my freshman and sophomore years. I joined the Penn Players, the school’s longest established drama troupe, and in two semesters, I directed two shows, staged managed one, and appeared in one. Kaki was the faculty adviser

Having met Kaki and grown friendly with her – mind you, she was a contemporary of my parents, with children of her own around my age – I was able to be assigned to her office for my work-study gig in my junior and senior years. To this day, I don’t remember doing any work beyond answering the phone. What I remember is sitting in Kaki’s office talking about theatre and constantly borrowing books from her wide, multi-tiered shelves – every book about theatre and nothing else. Because Penn had no theatre program, Kaki was my undergraduate theatre curriculum. 

I also recall one particular totem on those bygone shelves: a small, square fading color photo of Kaki and Hal Prince, in swim clothes, lounging on chaises at what Kaki told me was Hal’s vacation place in Spain. Hal was one my first theatre idols and, thanks to Kaki, I met him for the first time when I was a junior – and we sat together in Kaki’s office and talked. Kaki had done theatre at Penn with Hal when they were both students, and he remained her friend until he passed away.

In those last two years of college, when I was ostensibly working for her, we grew quite close, bonded by my overwhelming stress about school and career as well as by a personal tragedy in her family. We discussed these subjects openly, and she was for me – and again, I know for others – my theatre mom. She understood my concerns and worries and interests and desires and she supported them with knowledge and perspective. Her office was less my job and more my refuge. Kaki understood my love of theatre in a way my parents, always supportive but not personally invested in theatregoing or theatremaking, could not.

On the last day I saw Kaki on campus before graduating, I vividly remember telling her that I would always keep in touch. “Oh, Howard,” she said, “so many students say that. But with time and distance, it doesn’t often happen, and you need to know that I understand and it’s OK.”

Having introduced this essay talking about my sadness, this is where you might think I’ll now tell you about drifting away from Kaki and regretting the loss of our bond. But that wasn’t the case – I did realize what I had found in her, every minute, and was determined not to lose it.

I was faithful and would call every couple of months to share my news and hear hers. I would look for any pretext to visit Philadelphia, and always include a visit with Kaki, and with her husband Joe too, who I knew to have had a similarly influential effect on his students at Temple Law School.

Most every summer, I would spend a long weekend with Kaki and Joe at their beach home on the southern Jersey shore. We never ran out of things to talk about and, aside from politics and current events, which we discussed with vigor (from the same perspective), our main topic was theatre. Since Joe passed away several years ago, I tried to call Kaki every few weeks.

Our ongoing friendship was such that she always received a call from me on her birthday, year in and year out. She never asked for it, but I know she enjoyed it, proven by a call perhaps 10 years ago. I was in England in late September, as I usually am at that time, when my phone rang as it rarely did when people knew I was traveling. Kaki’s name showed on the screen.

Given to bouts of pessimism, I feared something was wrong. I answered by saying, “Kaki, hi, is everything OK?” With a laugh she replied, “Everything’s fine. But I wanted to know if everything is OK with you?” “I’m fine,” I responded. “I’m in England, remember? Why are you concerned?” “Because it’s my birthday,” she said, “and all of my kids have called now but I haven’t heard from you and I got worried.”

She also spoke to me every year on my birthday, though she didn’t know it. I always made a point of calling on that day because I certainly never expected her to keep track of the date, not with six children and more than a dozen grandchildren, plus siblings and nieces and nephews and cousins. Every year on these calls, I never pointed out my birthday, but we would mark that it was the birthday of Hal Prince. That date is two days from now.

We continued to go to the theatre together when possible, as we had when I was a student. I can’t recall which was when, but I believe our final two shows seated side by side were Tectonic Theatre Project’s two-part The Laramie Project and The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later, which we saw on a single marathon day, and Bill Irwin’s The Happiness Lecture.

For 36 years, I would call, I would send her things I wrote and we’d discuss them, and when face to face, we would laugh together and have the kind of earnest talks about theatre that I always craved. Because of this, because of the bookshelves in her Annenberg office where I learned so much, my greatest desire has been to know that Kaki had read my book and had it on her much-reduced home bookshelf, the bulk of her theatre books having been given away years earlier.

Kaki died in August of 2020, not from the virus, but simply in the course that a life runs, and she was not ill very long. She was one month shy of her 95^th birthday. It was only weeks from the time she went to the hospital until she died. We had spoken perhaps two weeks before things had started heading in the direction I had feared for some time. I feared it because my parents had both passed years earlier, leaving Kaki as my only true surrogate parent. 

Earlier this past summer, I had thought that perhaps I should let Kaki read the manuscript of Another Day’s Begun, not because there seemed to be any imminent concern, but just in case anything happened. She was 94, after all. I decided against it, putting faith in the fact that all of the women in her family were long-lived, quite remarkably so. I wanted her to see a complete finished book, not simply as something on its way to being a book. It was a miscalculation I will always regret.

Countless people have influenced my life, more than I could ever thank in the book or face to face. But I most wanted Kaki to read Another Day’s Begun because she was the one person I could truly credit for fanning the flame of my theatre love and knowledge at the earliest stage. Also, while she had seen shows at theatres where I worked, this book is something that is truly mine, a testament to her support, her help, her faith in me, her love – and her understanding of me.

I cannot share this with Kaki in recognition of all she gave to me. But in her honor, her memory, and with the deep love I felt and feel for Kaki, I share it today with all of you, because she would have been very happy for us all to have a new theatre book for our shelves. And if a student spots a copy on your shelf and expresses interest, please loan it to them, because in that moment, you will do for that student what Kaki did for me, and that act honors our friendship.

Neel Sethi on set for The Jungle Book

For those who work in the theatre, the idea of defending the term “live action” would seem an unnecessary task. But as movie marketers, abetted uncritically by the entertainment press, seem determined to diminish the concept, it appears that a brief primer is warranted.

Christopher Reeve as Superman

Live-action has, for many years, been a term reserved for that which actually occurs in real life, that is to say the activities of humans (and other animals). Whether performed on stage or captured on a camera, real people have been the central tenet of live action. In the theatre, while everything that surrounds people on a stage is by necessity a simulacrum of reality (and sometimes not even that), the presence of the actor grounds theatre in its “liveness.” The same has held true for most movies, even ones in which human action is assisted by tricks and tools (Superman flying; Jeff Goldblum transmogrifying into Brundlefly). Animated films were those which were understood to be drawn; in early years this was often quite rudimentary, and now it has become quite sophisticated, to the point that it’s becoming increasingly difficult to know where reality ends and digital imagery begins.

The Jungle Book (2016)

Why the compulsion to spell this out? Because of a series of films being released and planned by Disney, in particular. Following on their newest version of The Jungle Book, in which the only human actor – excluding voice actors – was the child playing Mowgli and as the newest version of the musical Beauty and the Beast approaches, Disney has announced what was widely described as a live-action version of The Lion King. With Donald Glover and James Earl Jones touted as starring, the latter “reprising” his role, the description of the film as live-action permeated the press, including CNN, Variety, Entertainment Weekly, BuzzFeed, Los Angeles Times and Time magazine, to name but a few. Even theatre-centric outlets like Theatremania and Playbill parroted this language.

The Lion King on stage

While I am not privy to the conceptual work in connection with new The Lion King, I am prepared to guess that we will not see James Earl Jones in a lion suit ruling over an African savannah. What we will most likely get is a reasonably photorealistic lion with Jones’s magnificent voice. Perhaps motion capture will be used to allow Jones’s and Glover’s facial expressions to be mirrored in their semi-anthropomorphized state, though at age 86, I doubt Jones will be providing the sort of full-body motion capture that we know from the work of Andy Serkis. There has been a live-action Lion King for 20 years, by the way, staged by Julie Taymor.

Disney’s Alice in the Wooly West (1926)

Live action and animation have been blended virtually since the start of film. Walt Disney’s earliest success came with a series of short “Alice” films in which a real girl undertook adventures in animated worlds, though no one would have confused what was real and what was drawn. Over the years we’ve seen animated characters in largely live action films (from Gene Kelly dancing with Jerry the Mouse, Don Knotts submerged as Mr. Limpet, and certainly Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the apotheosis of this technique). Most of the Marvel superhero films since X-Men have made extensive use of animated settings, with actors shot on greenscreen and surroundings added later – and when we see Spider-Man swinging through Manhattan, we’re not watching Tobey Maguire or Andrew Garfield in advanced rigging, but rather an animated figure in both filmed and simulated settings.

One need only look at the Motion Picture Academy’s science and technical awards to understand how important this sophisticated animation is to the field. There were certificates described as follows: “The Viper camera enabled frame-based logarithmic encoding, which provided uncompressed camera output suitable for importing into existing digital intermediate workflows” and “Meander’s innovative curve-rendering method faithfully captures the artist’s intent, resulting in a significant improvement in creative communication throughout the production pipeline.” There were three separate honors for facial capture systems.

None of this is meant to diminish the films that employ these techniques or devalue them as entertainment. But as we reach a point where nothing onscreen ever existed anywhere but within computers as a massive series of 0s and 1s, it’s time to fight for the preservation of “live-action” as being something that retains the human, the biological, the corporeal. This is akin to the Champagne region of France wanting to insure that only sparkling wines made there can be called champagne.

Kong: Skull Island

The Jungle Book may have looked fairly real (perhaps even a hyper-realism), but unless The Lion King will be employing a wide range of well-trained, stunningly collegial bunch of wild animals whose mouths are animated (a la Babe, the sheep pig), then it’s time the entertainment media stop playing into this live action narrative. After all, no one ever pretended that King Kong or Bruce the Shark in Jaws were real, but they were grounded in the physical world (often by the limitations of technology), whereas now Kong is a highly sophisticated piece of digital animation in the new Kong: Skull Island, and crappily rendered sharks fall from the sky every summer on SyFy.

It’s especially important for theatre that this distinction be made, because if people come to accept and even believe that what they’re seeing on screen is reality, how can theatre compete without giving itself over to holograms? Mark my words. It’s coming. But for now, let’s hold on to the idea that live action still shows us beings that draw breath, not just in body or in voice, but in complete form. The movies need to come up with their own term. Let’s fight for live action as a brand. Because that’s what theatre is all about.

Ivanka Trump performs in The Nutcracker (Photo: Ivanka Trump/Twitter)

Let’s start with the positive, though I’m afraid that won’t last long.

In her New York Times article, “Might Ivanka Trump Speak Up If Her Father Guts The Arts?,” Robin Pogrebin makes a series of suppositions rooted in an aspect of arts education that is rarely discussed. That element is the reality that the vast majority of students – elementary, secondary, university – who study or participate in the arts won’t probably go on to careers in the arts. However, their exposure might yield a lifelong affinity. This isn’t something that’s unique among the many subjects students are exposed to in education – many people study biology without becoming scientists or doctors. Yet whereas one who retains an interest in biology can’t necessarily spend a free evening in an operating theatre, someone who was exposed to or participated in the arts in their youth may well choose to attend the opera, the ballet, the symphony and so on for the remainder of their lives.

Under that theory, coupled with reports that Ms. Trump and her husband Jared Kushner may have intervened with her father on behalf of LGBTQ rights, Ms. Pogrebin theorizes that as a childhood student of ballet and present-day collector of fine art, Ms. Trump might emerge as an arts advocate on behalf of the National Endowment for the Arts. It’s a lovely theory, and if it came to pass, it would no doubt be welcomed, but it is spun from the slightest of threads.

In fact, Ms. Pogrebin’s review of Ms. Trump’s personal arts history is formed from very little evidence. It rises only to the level of article, as opposed to editorial or op-ed, because it is padded out with a lengthy quotation from Ms. Trump’s 2009 book The Trump Card: Playing to Win in Work and Life about her dance lessons and – in an experience shared by virtually no one else on the planet – her youthful fear that attendance by her neighbor Michael Jackson at a Nutcracker performance in which she had a role would distract from the event itself. In all, in an article of 1,045 words (as calculated by Microsoft Word), Ms. Pogrebin offers us 504 words directly from Ms. Trump’s book, 48% of the total piece.

Certainly no one can call the extended quotation from The Trump Card fake news, because it is a) legitimately a quote from the book, and b) like any work of autobiography, the entirely subjective point of view of the author (and perhaps their ghostwriters, should that apply). But the thesis of Ms. Pogrebin’s piece is essentially invented. “Might” asks the headline; “could” Ms. Trump “emerge,” wonders Ms. Pogrebin. In fact, when Pogrebin requested an interview on the matter, all she got back was a prepared 67-word ballet-centric statement in support of the arts, which makes up another 6% of the article. Given the opportunity, Ms. Trump did not offer any solace to the NEA and its supporters. “Might” her failure to win a role in Les Misérables be working against the interests of the NEA?

The National Endowment for the Arts and the arts in America are certainly in need of support. At this time, the NEA may well need a savior. Could that savior be Ivanka Trump? Sure. But there’s no evidence on the table that she will be. This Times article is all supposition, not even managing to produce anonymous sources.

In covering the newest threat to the NEA, Pogrebin’s 1,000+ words would have had more value to the national conversation had they involved seeking out the arts backgrounds, writings and statements by members of the US Senate, particularly the Republicans, because the arts aren’t a strictly partisan issue. Senators may not be able to whisper in Daddy’s ear to potentially rescue pet projects, but it would only take a few Senators standing fast in support of the NEA, blocking the budget, to have an effect that doesn’t require the manipulation of family ties in order to determine the trajectory of one small program with a great impact on American life. If the public, if advocates, knew more about the stances of Senators, then the American people might know with whom they could best make their case, or how little chance there may still be.

One last note: we don’t know whether Ms. Trump spent much time taking humanities-related electives while getting her economics degree at the Wharton School, or whether she liked Sherlock, Downton or tales from Lake Wobegon. Does this mean the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting are utterly out of luck? Sad.

Two weeks ago, the musical Ragtime came under fire at a high school in Cherry Hill, New Jersey for its deployment of racial slurs in telling a anti-racism story that is intended to evoke the evolving nature of what it means to be American, blending the stories of white, black, and Jewish characters according to the template set by E.L. Doctorow’s best-selling novel from 1975. Following efforts to censor its language, which would have resulted in the rights to the show being withdrawn due to unauthorized edits, Ragtime will go in Cherry Hill, serving not only as entertainment but education about the prejudices of the past which, sadly, remain with us today.

With a book by Terrence McNally, music by Stephen Flaherty and lyrics by Lynn Ahrens, Ragtime was hardly the first musical to address American history, politics or identity – that had been the basis for shows ranging from The Gershwins’s Of Thee I Sing and Strike Up The Band to Sherman Edwards and Peter Stone’s 1776. Was it more frank than many of the prior works? No doubt, as standards of what is considered progressive and acceptable on stage evolved, and has continued to change, right up through Hamilton.

Lynn Ahrens (Photo by Howard Sherman)

For Ahrens, the historical elements of Ragtime, which are woven through the fictional saga of slowly blending families, were not exactly new territory for musicalization. In fact, more than a decade before she gained attention as the lyricist of such shows as Lucky Stiff, Once On This Island and My Favorite Year, Ahrens was part of the core group that created the much beloved Schoolhouse Rock, seen on ABC TV during its Saturday morning cartoon block. It wasn’t just Ahrens’s lyrics that helped to make up this series of short cartoons – her music and her voice were heard as well.

For those who managed to entirely miss the 44 year legacy of Schoolhouse Rock, or came to it only in its endless reruns, compilations or stage version, Rock was a series of short, musical cartoons that sought to educate the kids glued to TV sets for such intellectually stimulating fare as Jabberjaw, Scooby-Doo and Dynomutt, Superfriends, and The Krofft Super Show. Arranged around the subjects one might find in elementary school or middle school, the original curriculum was multiplication, grammar, American history and science. Money was tackled in a new set of shorts in the mid 90s, and the environment was given the Schoolhouse Rock treatment in 2009. Rather than being part of an ABC effort to add educational programming, Schoolhouse Rock was created by an ad agency, McCaffrey and McCall, which used it as a vehicle to flog breakfast cereals for one of its clients, General Mills.

Ahrens was working as a secretary at the agency and often played her guitar on lunch breaks, leading one of the execs to invite her to try her hand at a Schoolhouse Rock song during the second round of cartoons, grammar. The original 1973 series, on multiplication, had been written solely by Bob Dorough. While some reports have that initial entry as being “The Preamble” (to the U.S. Constitution), other sources say it was “A Noun is a Person, Place or Thing,” which is more consistent with schedules of original airdates. Whatever their birthdates, Ahrens sang on both.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qk4N5kkifGQ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHp7sMqPL0g

Given the themes of Ragtime, another Ahrens composition (sung by Lori Lieberman), seems to have somewhat prefigured that show. It is as timely as it ever was, if not more so given recent executive orders, although some of its cartooned racial caricatures are rather unfortunate.

All told, Ahrens wrote three “Grammar Rock,” five “America Rock,” six of the nine “Science Rock,” one “Money Rock” (the patter song “Tax Man Max” with her theatrical songwriting partner Stephen Flaherty), and four contributions to “Earth Rock.”

Leaving aside the Ragtime link, yet another Ahrens contribution seems especially vital these days, given the degree to which the separation of powers and constitutional rights are part of the 24-hour news cycle.

While Ahrens is currently at work with her Ragtime collaborators McNally and Flaherty on Anastasia, a mixture of Russian history and conjecture,a special screening of some of her Schoolhouse Rock work might be worth setting up in Washington right now. It seems there are people in that town who could still learn a lot from Lynn, especially people with short attention spans who are given to flipping through TV channels on a whim.

Over the past 48 hours, the culture pages in England have been filled with reports which are all variants of the same story: “Walkouts abound at The Royal Shakespeare Company’s Marat/Sade.” I first spotted this on Sunday in The Daily Mail and since then, the BBC, The Guardian and The Telegraph, among many others, have all piled on.

Marat/Sade, while an acknowledged modern classic, is a challenging work with content that surely doesn’t appeal to all audiences. So it shouldn’t really surprise anyone that a play about the Marquis de Sade might provoke squirming and even early exits; I suspect that Doug Wright’s Quills, also about de Sade’s incarceration at Charenton, sent some people fleeing from assorted theatres as well. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if artists involved in various productions of both of these plays see the odd hasty retreat as a sign that they’re succeeding, a badge of honor.

So whether the current press frenzy is a result of an opportunity to portray theatre as transgressive and dangerous during a time when arts support is already challenged, or if it’s a case of schadenfreude to see the fortunes of the august RSC brought into question, or if the show is in fact deeply off-putting – or simply not a good production – I really can’t say. But the reports have set tongues wagging on this side of the Atlantic as well, prompting online chat about whether it’s right to walk out of a show, whether anyone has personally walked out of a show, and so on.  As this seems to be snowballing, I cannot resist sharing a few thoughts and admissions.

Let me start by saying that I have worked on shows that have prompted audience walkouts – and I mean real walkouts, during the show, not politely at intermission. Off-hand, I recall people exiting mid-scene from two productions in particular at Hartford Stage: a 1986 production of Sam Shepard’s The Tooth of Crime and a 1990 interpretation of Büchner’s Woyzeck by director Richard Foreman (which ran, in total, only 70 minutes, but some folks just couldn’t wait to escape). As staff of an institution where I was, in part, responsible for drawing in audiences, this was troubling. But given the artistic choices, it was also inevitable; we did our utmost to prepare the audience for what they would be experiencing before they went in, and then had to let the chips fall where they may.

I consider the mid-scene walk out to be a very strong statement; it is at best impolite, at worst a middle finger thrust upwards at all involved (even if the director, designers, author and company leadership aren’t there to see it first-hand in most cases). During these plays, the people I saw leave made no attempt to do so surreptitiously; they haughtily stood and marched indignantly up the aisles, determined that others would register their statement. In one instance during Tooth of Crime, actor David Patrick Kelly (who was, coincidentally, also our Woyzeck), costumed with a pistol, paused the action as one couple left loudly and prominently – and leveled his weapon at their backs until they were completely gone, to the profound amusement of all who remained, which was the majority of the audience.

If we believe theatre to be a conversation with an audience, and at times a provocative or confrontational one, then perhaps the walk-out isn’t something to look down upon. It certainly beats staying and heckling the cast for material they did not create, but only take part in interpreting. It is perhaps the one opportunity the audience has to express displeasure during a performance, beyond stony silence (which can mean just about anything); theatre audiences do not have the outlet of booing, as opera seems to, but even then the “commentary” is reserved for curtain calls.

I have never walked out of a show mid-scene, or even between scenes, but I will confess to having quietly departed at intermission a few times over the years (never during my tenure at the American Theatre Wing, where such an action, if known, could have had repercussions in connection with The Tony Awards). But there have been times when the lure of television or bed have been stronger than the appeal of a second act, though I am not proud of this; in one case, I left because I was – for perhaps the only time in my life – offended on behalf of my religion and had no desire to watch it subjected to more ridicule. I have no doubt that had I willed myself to stay for some of those second acts, my ultimate opinion of the show concerned might have shifted, but at these times, I wasn’t patient enough to wait and see.

Was I taking the coward’s way out, rather than making a statement? I don’t think so, since every actor I’ve ever spoken with tells me how acutely aware they are, from the stage, of what goes on in the house. A full house in act one followed by one dotted with empty seats in act two speaks volumes. But I bet it’s preferable to audience members fidgeting in their seats, repeatedly checking their watches or glaring at their companions from time to time.

The problem with the walk-out, be it ostentatious or subtle, is that, as I alluded to earlier, it rarely reaches the people to whom the opinion is most properly expressed. They experience it, if at all, only through a stage manager or house manager’s report, and it is the house manager, box office personnel and even volunteer ushers who absorb the displeasure first-hand. Though it feels declarative as it happens, it is a fairly impotent act.

There is a corollary act, more acceptable but no less pointless: the withholding of applause at a curtain call. I have, as I know others have, at times been so miserable at a production that I am disinclined to applaud. But if it is the story, or the production concept which dismays me, withholding applause insults only the actors, who have just spent several hours telling me a story in the manner they’ve been asked to. I may feel better, but it is ineffective – the loss of my two hands hardly register in the overall decibel level of an ovation, nor does remaining seated while the rest of the audience rises to its feet visibly alter a standing horde.

I am not writing to endorse the walkout, since it is an expression of opinion that is misdirected and often falls on deaf ears. I feel for the actors in the current Marat/Sade, since surely they are giving their all, regardless of whether they in fact feel good about the show. But I cannot help but feel that a reduced audience is better than an actively hostile one.

What would I like people to take away from this? That sometimes a walkout is just a walkout, and it can be a sign of failure or even success. It really shouldn’t rise to the level of news coverage, let alone international attention, unless the audience is so decimated after the interval that half the crowd has fled, night after night after night. If you feel you must leave, at least wait for intermission, or if you must go sooner, a scene break. You owe that courtesy to the actors and your fellow audience members; remember, this is much more than changing a channel or stopping a film midstream at home. But if you really want to let the right people know what you think, write a letter or send an e-mail to the producer or company leadership; even tweets may never reach the decision makers.

No one should feel compelled to be miserable at the theatre. Leave if you must – that’s your right. But walk, don’t run.

This post originally appeared on the 2amtheatre website.