“Mr. Roth,” the tweet went, “What kind of system is needed to feed the truly great theatre all over America to Broadway?”

Until I saw that, I had no intention of writing a semi-sequel to my blog post of last week, “This Blog is Prior to Broadway.” But despite the fact that I am not Jordan Roth of Jujamcyn Theatres, for whom the original tweet was intended, I feel compelled to put in my two cents on this topic, since I began working in American not-for-profit theatres in 1983, during my junior year of college, and have spent the past seven years in the Broadway environs as head of the American Theatre Wing.

There’s no question that despite all rational arguments, resident theatres dream of getting a show to Broadway and having it become a big hit. The dream was instilled in the hearts of many when Arena’s Stage’s production of The Great White Hope was, by general assent, the first show to make the journey from a regional production to a Broadway landmark. It is a trip that has been made many times, both successfully and unsuccessfully. In my own experience, I have had the opportunity to see three plays on which I worked and dearly loved (and several others less adored) make the journey to New York (one to Off-Broadway) with varying degrees of success: Our Country’s Good (critical success but commercial failure), Marvin’s Room (critical hit, and I don’t actually know how it did commercially), and Stand-Up Tragedy (critically lambasted and a fast flop).

Since last week I elucidated the reasons why I worry about theatres that dream of and promote shows as prior to Broadway, let me more directly address the idea of regular berths on Broadway (or even in New York) for regional productions.

1. It’s been tried before. Not that prior failure negates future success, but I can think of two efforts that were particularly friendly to shows from resident companies, and neither lasted.

In 1985, the Joyce Theatre Foundation hosted a summer series, the American Theatre Exchange Festival, of regional shows, each with a four-week run: Season’s Greetingsfrom The Alley, Faulkner’s Bicycle from Yale Rep, and In The Belly of the Beast from the Mark Taper Forum. Interestingly, when I mentioned this festival recently to Cora Cahan, who ran the Joyce at the time, her response was one of surprise; I believe she said she’d forgotten about it. But she elucidated on some reasons why it didn’t work, which I’ll fold into my thoughts herein. (You can hear her on this edition of Downstage Center. )

In the early 90s, there was a plan created called The Broadway Alliance, which was designed to reduce the cost threshold which might be keeping certain works from Broadway. Only four shows were ever produced under this plan, which had achieved concessions from all of the unions but also capped a show’s capitalization in order to qualify; to my recollection, the limit was $400,000. The two regional shows that did make it to Broadway under this plan were the aforementioned production of Our Country’s Good, from Hartford Stage, and The Speed of Darkness, from the Goodman. The former ran for 48 regular performances, the latter for 36. Skimping doesn’t make for success on Broadway.

In addition, a stand-alone project seeking a downtown berth, designed to import productions from resident theatres, the American National Theatre, was trumpeted by the New York Times in September 2003 as a $170 million, three-theatre project in lower Manhattan. More than seven years later, there is no such building nor to my knowledge has the organization behind it imported any productions.

2. The theatres are full. Even though we’re just weeks from the annual spate of January closings, which every year is bemoaned as a sign that Broadway is unsound, as if such mass closings had never happened before, those theatres will be filled again by April. If any of those shows opt to not go forward, there’s probably a backup booking for every single theatre, and in some cases, backups to the backups. This is not the 1980s, when we saw the Mark Hellinger sold to become a church, and owning theatres is, in part, a real estate business. No one rents space cheaply when demand is high, and no one is likely to be charitable when there’s money to be made.

3. There are already resident theatres on Broadway. While the term regional doesn’t apply, we now have three not-for-profit companies, operating on LORT contracts, with their own Broadway houses: Roundabout with three and Manhattan Theatre Club and Lincoln Center Theatre with one each (LCT also frequently rents Broadway houses when the Beaumont has a long-runner on its stage, such as South Pacific); Second Stage is slated to join that cohort soon. Combine the output of those three theatres with shows that start Off-Broadway in not-for-profits and then make the move onto the Great White Way (a journey pioneered with great success by The Public Theatre with A Chorus Line and sustained today by a plethora of shows from The Public alone), and the kind of work that regionals/not-for-profits do around the country is hardly alien to Broadway. Further, with short-run, often star-led limited runs of works by such resident staples as Mamet, Williams and Miller, it’s hard to say that there’s a notable distinction between the kind of work seen in major regional productions or on Broadway, save for the big musicals.

4. Press and Producers Rarely Travel. To get a regional show to Broadway, one must find a producer who wants to champion the show and take it on as a major commitment. Unfortunately, producers aren’t flying to theatres around the country constantly checking out every possible new play and revival for their next Broadway success. And unless you’re in a major city and you have a preponderance of positive reviews by long established critics (whose numbers are in decline), your own entreaties aren’t likely to cause anyone to jump on a plane unless you already have a relationship with them.

As for “national press” discovering your work and bringing it to the attention of New York bound producers, your only real option is luring The Wall Street Journal’s Terry Teachout to see your show (and Terry regularly publishes his guidelines for what he’s likely to be interested in). While The New York Times ventures out of town on occasion (though most frequently to the Berkshires, Chicago or London, it seems), it’s rare even for the country’s largest newspaper, USA Today, to see work outside of New York; attention from television and radio is even rarer. There are many reasons for this, but as old-line mass media is fighting for its own place in the American consciousness, covering regional theatre is not a key point in their strategy, and thus a one-time tool is blunted. Internet-based writing has yet to achieve the same level of influence.

5. Broadway is really expensive. With plays costing between $2 and $3 million dollars to produce, and musicals typically ranging from $6 to $18 million (Spider-Man is an outlier), quality is not enough. There are indeed great plays, new and classic, produced around the country, but do they have enough inherent appeal to draw between six thousand and twelve thousand theatergoers on a consistent weekly basis long enough to recoup the investment that goes into bringing them to Broadway? A smash hit resident run in a large house might drawn 20 to 30 thousand audience members; that equals roughly three weeks on Broadway.

6. Planning for a regional hit is really hard. Frankly, we rarely (if ever) know what will be a hit on our own stages, let alone on Broadway. Until productions are up and running, there can be no judgment, and since Broadway theatres aren’t sitting idle, and even a New York not-for-profit can’t afford to hold slots open while waiting for a regional success to crop up, planning a New York stage schedule around what may come to pass is problematic, under commercial or non-commercial producing guidelines. In addition, runs are fairly short at resident companies, so there’s very little time to get the word out once you’re sure you do have something particularly noteworthy on your stage.

I could go on, with my brutal tough love for you all. And no one should misconstrue anything I’ve said as being anti-Broadway. I’ve repeatedly confessed to the thrill it has given me in the past, and I have seen extraordinary work there. It continues to be a magnet for major talent, who like many of you, have been seduced by the Lullaby of Broadway. And on occasion, it has provided windfalls of publicity, pride and money for not-for-profit resident companies whose work has made the trip there successfully.

So if Broadway is still your desire, let me speak to things you might consider, and explore, in order to make the trip.

A. Are you on mission? Many theatres around the country include in their mission statements phrases like “create theatre of a national stature” or “contribute to the national repertoire.” These are admirable, but presumably they are preceded, both in order of appearance and priority by a phrase about “serving their local community” or some defined constituency therein. So before you set your sights on Broadway, make sure your board of directors or trustees are truly behind any effort in that direction but with measured expectations of success, lest you find that your Broadway dreams undermine your relationship with your core audience, which must sustain you whether you produce the next Rent or the next Bobbi Boland.

B. Is the show likely to engage the hearts and minds of the New York press and theatre cognoscenti? There are plenty of shows that are brilliantly suited to regional theatres, and please audiences enormously, but simply don’t have the style or subject that’s likely to get past the gatekeepers of opinion in The Big Apple. That’s no insult to the work, your company or your audience, and their success on your stages are a testament to the perceptiveness of your artistic staff. But be brutal about whether the piece can compete in the crowded and often elitist New York marketplace, even though work on Broadway has to appeal to the largest possible audience. Yes, it’s a paradox, and it’s hard to judge your own work dispassionately, but it’s a necessity.

Also, in the case of revivals, check to see when the show you’re hoping to move was last on Broadway. It’s been roughly 25 years since Broadway last saw The Merchant of Venice, but the current one has Al Pacino and the last one had Dustin Hoffman. You’re not likely to land your Merchant on Broadway anytime soon, since America, unlike England, seems to think we can only have great plays in our commercial venues (or even in New York) every 10 to 20 years, instead of annually.

C. Take on commercial partners. I wrote last week about the double-edged sword of producing shows at your theatre that already have been optioned commercially, so I won’t rehash it, except to say that there are plenty of commercial producers seeking berths on resident stages in order to try out work or get it on its feet more economically. I refer you first back to item A above, and then, if the work itself (not the prospect of Broadway glory or the hope of enhancement money) truly appeals, make your decision accordingly. But don’t rent your stage to the highest bidder, and be sure you do full due diligence on the background of any prospective partner before you figuratively get into bed with them.

D. Find a New York or tri-state area not-for-profit with whom you can partner.Unless you are going to self-produce, the challenge outlined above in item 4 is significantly mitigated if you get the show closer to New York so it becomes easier for “the right people” to see it. Shows frequently play Off-Broadway or even Off-Off-Broadway and then are moved to Broadway when the New York press embrace them.Avenue Q didn’t leap from the barn at the Eugene O’Neill Theatre Center to Broadway; it came to New York first as a co-production of The Vineyard Theatre and The New Group (though in that case, there were commercial producers behind it all along).Marvin’s Room had been acclaimed in Chicago, but had no legs until the New York Times saw it at Hartford, after which it went to Playwrights Horizons and then to a commercial Off-Broadway run; Wit had a comparable experience as it went from South Coast Rep to a wholly separate production at Long Wharf, which in turn went to MCC Theatre and then to the Union Square and a Pulitzer Prize.

Don’t be afraid to share your show with other not-for-profits to give it a chance at a New York berth. You’ll get reviews to bring back home regardless of the ultimate outcome, and your risk will be vastly less.

E. Do it yourself. I’m personally not keen on this, but if you live in a large enough community, you might just be able to stir up enough local pride and money to raise funds to produce a show in New York on your own. Let’s remember, there may be plenty of folks who loved the show on your stage who believe it should reach a wider audience, and may pull out money to support such an effort that they might not have donated to you, since with a commercial production, there’s at least the prospect of financial gain. After all, these are the people who saw the effect the show had in your theatre. But if you choose this route, be very careful that you make no promises of success or return, and indeed are bluntly honest about the prospect of financial success for any Broadway show; that should commit to future donations even if the commercial effort fails. You don’t want these people abandoning you altogether if the trip to Broadway goes sour.

In addition, unless you have key staff with prior Broadway experience of note, hire highly recommended people to run the production for you in New York. A not-for-profit artistic or managing director may be brilliant in that context, but if they aren’t experienced commercial hands, this is not the time to afford them on-the-job training.

Broadway is our Field of Dreams; there’s no denying it, and it’s great to have an icon that makes the idea of American theatre an international beacon. But Broadway cannot, and never really has, represented every type of theatre, and in a country as large as ours, why should we restrict our imaginations to 40 theatres in Manhattan? We are a very large country geographically, politically, economically and aesthetically. Our literally hundreds of theatre companies and thousands upon thousands of theatre artists do themselves a disservice if they measure success by a single metric.

There are periodic calls for a National Theatre for the United States, but to make (or to allow) a single venue to carry that imprimatur is even narrower than Broadway dreams. All theatre in America, commercial or not-for-profit, is our national theatre and success on Broadway should be no more or less legitimate an achievement than success on any stage. I am as proud to have been part of shows that never reached Broadway and played to perhaps 18,000 people in Hartford CT as I am of shows that went to New York and died a quick death, or those that made the same trip and have subsequently been produced across the country.

But please, make theatre for your audience first and foremost, support the work of artists less known than those who intermittently reach Broadway; that’s what resident theatre, and presumably your company, was founded to do. And if your work makes it to Broadway (or Los Angeles or Seattle or Chicago or…), I hope I get the opportunity to see it, and I look forward to applauding it.

 

This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website.

If you are an inveterate consumer of theatre news, scanner of theatrical advertising in any U.S. market other than New York, or theatrical journalist bombarded by press releases, you have invariably run across the phrase “prior to Broadway,” probably many times. Indeed, I nominate the phrase “prior to Broadway” as perhaps the most flagrantly and falsely used – and accepted – promotional phrase in theatre hucksterism. I would also say it is perhaps the most damaging.

Now I am not suggesting that every invocation of the phrase is intrinsically false. It originated in the days when engagements in cities like Boston, New Haven, Philadelphia and Washington DC were frequent and true out of town tryouts, productions that were on a direct path to New York, and it has many modern analogues: The Producers’ pre-New York run in Chicago or The Scottsboro Boys’ sojourn at The Guthrie Theatre are two recent, truthful examples. In these cases, if the shows were promoted as playing prior to Broadway, they were stating a fact, as they indeed had all of the necessary arrangements made in order to move them into Manhattan after their out of town runs.

What bothers me are the countless shows that announce themselves as prior to Broadway without having raised a dime or having received a commitment from a Broadway landlord to rent the production a theatre. Yet it happens all the time and is, I fear, swallowed whole by press and audiences.

On a purely semantic level, one could claim that any literary material that has not previously been presented on Broadway is therefore “prior to Broadway,” since the Great White Way might be in its future. That is why you can express all due skepticism at the title of this piece (and please, feel free), but the claim is not ever absolutely impossible, no matter how improbable it may be (and composing teams are welcome to call me).

Let me posit some of the dangers of the “prior to Broadway” (from here on, “PTB”) gambit:

1. Declaring a show from the outset as being PTB may be nothing more than a fishing expedition. In my days as a press agent, the most desirable place to announce a forthcoming show was in “the Friday column” (it had various names) on page two of the Friday arts section of The New York Times. Most weeks in those pre-Internet days, The Column would carry at least one such announcement. Some came to pass, but others were, according to one of my former bosses, placed by producers who he considered to be “producing in The Column.” That is to say, they would float an idea in the paper and if their phone rang enough in the ensuing days, then they might begin work on such a project in earnest. Today, when a press release can be instantly rendered fact by multiple news sites and subsequent propagation by Facebook, Twitter and the like, the column is no longer required, just a reasonably reliable publicist with an e-mail account. But PTB (or its cousin, “Broadway-bound”), lives on and on. The Apprentice, The Musical, anyone?

2. PTB creates expectations that may not be fair to the play or musical to which it is applied. The moment a show declares its Broadway destination (or aspiration) it is looked at through a new lens. Critics and audiences alike become show doctors, dramaturges, prospective investors and commercial soothsayers, viewing any such production not simply for its inherent qualities in the current incarnation, but prognosticating as to its future chances and pondering what elements should or should not make the trip to Manhattan. Such pressure is ultimately antithetical to artistic development, since the project is thereafter seen only through eyes looking for commercial feasibility.

3. Theatres that regularly trumpet shows as PTB and have some successfully play there create false expectations for all of their shows. If your audiences and local media become accustomed to Broadway transfers that you repeatedly trumpet, at some point they imagine that PTB is the goal of every show you do, and the expectations are there regardless of whether they are intended or claimed. To be sure, there are a number of not-for-profits that have achieved popular recognition and financial remuneration from their transfers, but that only serves to make shows which don’t equally succeed to be perceived, even tacitly, as somehow less than worthy than the others, even when the audience has a great time. Broadway should be a bonus, not a raison d’etre.

4. Some producers come to believe that all not-for-profit organizations hunger for PTB product. Frankly, there are plenty of theatres that would love to be the home to an out-of-town commercial tryout, to raise their profile and perhaps their coffers. But I suspect that these days, it is the promise of enhancement money and star talents that lead to commercial projects landing on not-for-profit stages, diminishing and demeaning the mission and perception of the not-for-profits. The days when a show like The Great White Hope or ‘night, Mother were produced by not-for-profit theatres and discovered by the commercial theatre are in the minority.

I will never forget a cold call I received from a producer offering their show to Geva Theatre in Rochester, immediately stating the amount of money they could offer to support the production. The call was surreal on many levels, among them a) that the call was made not to the artistic director (who chose our productions) but to me, the managing director, under the assumption that the offer of funding would make me an ally in advocating the project to the a.d. and b) that it came from someone I had dated very briefly a few years earlier, who made no connection between our dinners and the name on her call list of regional theatres until I reminded her (but perhaps the latter issue results from other factors as well).

But not-for-profits are hardly naïve. Indeed, I have heard of theatres so eager for PTB engagements that they all but have rate cards at the ready, in order to quote their required enhancement price when producers come calling, regardless of actual need.

5. A show that garners PTB attention, albeit naturally, during an out of town run can place stresses on both the theatre and the show. The moment Broadway buzz begins, expectations change, and the concerns raised in Item 2 come into play. In extreme examples, situations can arise where artists are removed from creative teams while the show is still in a not-for-profit setting, on a show that is open and running, which may be antithetical to the credo of the producing company. I worked a regional show where commercial producers, unnecessarily, informed one member of a five member acting company that the show would be traveling to New York, but that he would not be going with it, yet the actor had to continuing performing for two weeks in the role, knowing that he had been judged commercially less than worthy.

6. Promoting PTB reinforces the notion that theatrical success can only be achieved on Broadway. There are only 40 theatres that are designated as Broadway houses and they are controlled by a handful of individuals or companies. On an annual basis, there are perhaps 35 to 40 new shows in total, in contrast with some 500 to 600 film releases and untold music and book releases. Broadway is a fabled place where great things can happen, and money can be made, but in order to play a Broadway house, a show must jump over countless hurdles, and very few ever will. Theatre as an art form benefits from having a wider horizon for and definition of success.

I cannot deny the allure of reaching Broadway, not simply because the American Theatre Wing’s Tony Awards are a widely recognized symbol of success in that iconic arena. I have also been a part of productions that have gone to Broadway and have felt the thrill of being in that heady maelstrom, even though none of the shows succeeded commercially. But for the sake of artists, I urge producers, commercial and not-for-profit alike, to wield the claim of prior to Broadway very carefully, lest it backfire on them and the artists involved. I urge journalists to get more detail before repeating such a claim, as a protection of your own integrity. And I urge audiences to watch any show thusly labeled as if it were just another night at the theatre, and enjoy it not as a result of its marketing and prospects, but for its own sake, and for your own.

P.S. While I’m harping on shopworn promotional phrases, let me offer another tip. If you ever read publicity materials which summarize a show as being “about the human condition,” you should immediately assume that the project comes off as confusing, at least to the people promoting it, or has content that they are worried will turn off potential audiences, and they’re hiding it. After all, every piece of theatre is about the human condition. Even Cats.

 

This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website.

 

Before I am beset by rampaging hordes of “gleeks” incensed by the title of this entry, let me state for the record that I am in fact a fan of the television series Glee. I have seen every episode to date, save one (due to an unfortunate DVR mishap). While I don’t place it in my TV pantheon along with The Sopranos (1st season only),Hill Street Blues (yes, I’m old), the first ten years or so of The Simpsons, and the glorious Slings and Arrows (if you’ve never seen it, you must), I enjoy and applaud Glee for its championing of artistic expression, of the importance of pursuing what you love even when others would belittle you for that love. Frankly, even if the series were little more than musical numbers interspersed with the inspiring and heart-breaking scenes between Chris Colfer and Mike O’Malley, I would enthusiastically endorse it.

But as with members of our family, we can care for them and still have issues with them. So it is with me and Glee.

Glee disappoints me because I feel that it stints in one area. I am willing to admit that perhaps I am setting the bar too high, or asking something which is beyond the range that the show’s creators wish to tackle, and I am a strong advocate for judging the work of creative artists based on their parameters, not my own. I should also share with you that when I once ventured to discuss this issue with the arts editors at a major U.S. daily newspaper, I received the verbal equivalent of a “slushie attack,” the form of ridicule so thoughtfully re-popularized by Glee‘s writers and producers.

So now that I’ve built it up, let me simply state my problem: when do these kids actually rehearse?

Think about it. We see the students in the show choir rehearsal room on every episode, where they discuss song choice – but then they either break right into that song, fully arranged (with musicians who magically and disappear as necessary) and note perfect (except when dramatic effect requires something less than perfection and they turn off the auto-tuner), or they are whisked into a flight of fantasy in which they are costumed, made-up, choreographed, coiffed, lit, and edited within an inch of their life in settings that even Sue Sylvester’s cheering budget couldn’t afford. The vague bows in the direction of rehearsal always seem to take place in someone’s bedroom, involving both lip-syncing and lip-locking in most every instance, or if they’re actually on a stage, the rehearsal usually ends suddenly due to someone’s personal crisis.

Obviously you could look at this in many ways. The show is, like all scripted television (and in fact most “reality” television), a gloss on life and why should we expect fidelity to accuracy? Or perhaps Glee is something more than that, a descendent of Dennis Potter’s Pennies from Heaven and The Singing Detective, in which every musical moment is a fantasy counterpoint to the harsh realities of life? Maybe the entire show is an obscure metaphor, and in its final episode we will discover everything took place in the mind of an autistic child?

All that aside, Glee is squandering what could be its most valuable and longest lasting asset. Let’s face it, in less than a season and half Glee has become America’s leading public advocate for arts education in our schools. It weekly champions the glory and beauty of musical performance, and packages it in a manner which is drawing audiences presumably beyond just the high school students it portrays. It is wise enough to show teachers who get carried away by sublimating their own ambitions through the achievements of their students, but doesn’t have the courage to show that performance is actually hard work, not an endless series of divine musical inspirations that have singers knocking everything out of the park at the very first mention.

The football team and cheerleaders practice, and are coached. But when did Mr. Schuester last say, “Let’s take it again from the bridge,” or “Someone was flat in there. Was it you, Rachel?” As a former high school chorus member (though the show choir concept was alien to me when the series began, and thank god I never encountered it, as I can sing but not even “move” well), I recall being drilled over and over in material we were to perform, working from something quaintly known as “sheet music,” which you can now download illegally from the internet (but that’s another blog entirely, already written by Jason Robert Brown).

Accepting the fictional construct behind the show, I can liken Glee most closely to sports movies, like The Rookie and even Major League, in which an underdog or group of misfits fight their way from the very bottom to the very top. But part of what makes those films so emotionally stirring is that we see how hard the athletes have to work to achieve their goal and as we watch them do so, we become part of their struggle to defeat the odds and triumph when no one had any belief that they could ever do so. Would Rocky have been half so effective had we not seen Stallone punching sides of beef, drinking raw eggs and running up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum?

Young people (and their parents, who can effect arts funding) would surely benefit from the occasional scene of rehearsal struggles, which show the rigor of true performance, show that kids need the arts and the arts need support, that we don’t just open our throats and sound like Barbra, but have to work at it. And even for those tens of thousands who will never achieve the perfection put forth by Glee and the recording stars who both the characters and their viewers idolize, isn’t it important that we see the efforts to achieve if indeed show choir is a competitive event, and that even those who don’t make the cut, or don’t pursue it professionally, will make the audiences – and understanding parents – of tomorrow? One does not magically become great, let alone a star, without work and sacrifice.

Glee has ratings and buzz, which in the world of television, means that Glee has power. But as Peter Parker’s Uncle Ben taught us, with great power, comes great responsibility. Do you hear me Ryan Murphy? You’ve done a lot, but there’s more to be done. The great work begins.

* * * My advocacy is complete. I will leave the following to your own discussion, for extra credit:

1. Who is the guy with the beard at the piano, and why is his presence never really acknowledged? Is he Matt Groening? Is he invisible?
2. Who is running the drama club at this school, and aren’t they awfully upset, especially over a Rocky Horror production that was to come to full fruition in only two weeks, without any consultation?
3. Is Heather Morris playing a barely disguised version of herself, or is she actually giving, through underplaying, the most brilliant performance on television today?
4. Is Show Choir a class or an extracurricular activity, and does anyone at this school ever learn “The Hallelujah Chorus”?
5. Is Kristin Chenoweth playing “the Dennis Hopper role” on Glee (from Hoosiers, people, not Speed)?

 

This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website.

This may well be the longest blog piece I’ll ever write, and that’s precisely because it wasn’t written as a blog. What follows is an essay I wrote 17 years ago, as I was trying to work out my feelings regarding a production of The Merchant of Venice for which I was doing publicity. I felt that, at the time, I had no one with whom I could share my internal conflict, and this was my only outlet. It has remained on the multiple computers I have owned since that time.

The new Broadway production of Merchant is on my theatergoing agenda this week. Spurred by a few comments from a regular Twitter correspondent about his feelings while watching the current production, which even in their brevity reminded me of this outpouring, I reopened my essay, long unread by me and never read by anyone else. So much has gone on in my life in the ensuing 17 years, that I could pepper the piece with emendations and new perspective. Instead, with only a few edits, I share with you the words of a much younger man, at something less than a crisis, but something more than a professional challenge. While it recounts my particular personal experiences, I hope it illustrates how much we bring of ourselves to theatre, far beyond what may exist in a given script or production, whether we work on or in or simply attend it.

* * *An anecdote: late last month, late September to be exact, I stopped in at my dry cleaners to pick up some laundry. As I turned to leave, the lady behind the counter, with whom I’d previously exchanged nothing more than comments like “No starch,” “Hangers please, not folded,” and “Is tomorrow possible?” wished me “Happy New Year.” I wished her the same, on reflex, and left, realizing only after I was out of the shop that she had identified me — correctly — as Jewish, since only a Jew would be wished Happy New Year in September. I do not cover my head with a yarmulke, adorn my face with no beard, have no trace of Yiddish or even New York accent. Yet I must, apparently, fit the visual and vocal stereotype that identifies me as a Jew. I wear no star of David, but it appears that I am, inexorably, marked.

Another anecdote: when I was in the seventh grade, somewhat unwillingly attending Monday night confirmation classes at synagogue, our class was told something by the teacher that compelled me to walk out of the schoolroom and sit outside until my car pool arrived perhaps an hour later. Though I have forgotten the context of the comment, made by a man who during the day was the principal of a local public school, the remark itself remains etched in my mind: “You can’t really trust your non-Jewish friends, because if there were to be another Holocaust, you’d learn it’s only your Jewish friends who can be trusted.” Though I eventually met with my rabbi, who tried to explain the origins of such a comment while assuring me I was right to be upset by it, it’s funny that I remember only the private apology of the rabbi. I cannot recall if the rest of the class ever heard it as well.

And another: Five years ago, I visited the former Soviet Union on a business trip that included a good deal of sightseeing. As my group toured the Hermitage in Leningrad, I suddenly stopped on one of the grand staircases of the enormous, ornate building. Another in our group, noticing that I’d fallen behind, came to where I stood to ask if anything was wrong. “When my grandparents fled this country 80 years ago or so,” I replied, “I’m sure they never believed that anyone from their family would ever be allowed back in, or would even want to go. They certainly never could have dreamed that their grandson would be a guest in the Tsar’s Winter Palace. I just realized that.”

One more: when I was in the fifth or sixth grade, I found myself fairly close to our congregation’s cantor, a man probably the age I am now, who took the time to spend an occasional afternoon taking the rather awkward me to museums, which I remember most specifically, and involving me in the theatrical presentations he produced at the our synagogue. Though an adult’s memory of childhood events often seems magnified by time (since we probably only took our outings a few times), they do loom large in recollection — I remember this as the period when I felt closest to my given faith, even though I don’t recall a single moment with Cantor Epstein that we spent discussing religion. Yet I know that the career I’ve pursued for some 10 years is a direct result of his interest, his care and his opening my eyes to a world I had not seen in school, at home or in synagogue.

* * *
Over the past few months, I’ve found myself continually thinking about the title of an old Philip Roth story, one I’ve actually read a few times over the years, though not recently. The story, from his Goodbye Columbus collection, is called “The Defender of the Faith.”You may have noticed I’ve mentioned that it’s the title that keeps popping into my head, not the story itself necessarily. The story, in short, as I recall it, is about a Jewish army sergeant who is manipulated by a Jewish private through a calculated play on the sergeant’s largely dormant Jewish identity. The private cadges time off from his duties through what is clearly only a feigned interest in the Jewish customs which he purports to be trying to observe in his newly acquired free time. I may be confusing the men’s ranks, but that’s the gist of the plot.

So why do I keep thinking about the title, “The Defender of the Faith?” Because I am a Jewish man whose job for the past couple of months has been to promote a production of The Merchant of Venice, a play reviled by many of my heritage for its portrayal of Shylock, a vengeful Jewish usurer. And as a result, I have been forced to examine my allegiances: to my race, to my religion, to a job I have devoted myself to for more than eight years.

Notice I separated race and religion. Like many of my generation, much to the consternation of my parents’ generation and the generation that preceded them, I unwaveringly identify myself as Jewish, but I cannot call myself a faithful follower of Judaism. I am Jewish the way others are Italian or French. Though I’m often told the two are inextricable, I long ago bought into something I was told often in Hebrew school, which is that the Jewish faith is not dogmatic (usually this was held up in contrast to other faiths). I therefore forged my own identity as a Jew, subject to no dogma but the inner self which steered me.

I frankly long for faith. I envy those I know who have true faith in their religions, but at this point in my life, I’m highly skeptical. I often wish I did believe, especially when someone I love dies, but that is longing and loss I’m feeling, not belief. However, when a childhood friend who is now a Protestant missionary, in a discussion of my feelings about faith, tentatively floated the suggestion that Jesus might be my answer, I recoiled — I knew immediately that if I was to find faith, I knew that it had to be through Judaism.

But I’m digressing.

Defender of the Faith.

For eight years, I have very proudly been responsible for sharing the work of a theater company and an artistic director with a community through its media. It is work that I admire, generated by the sensibilities of a artist I have grown to love.

Though my opinions on the plays we do are heard internally, I can neither get a play included in our season nor blackball one. I’ve often joked, though in my humor there is truth, that while a play is on our stage, I’m paid to like it, and so I do. As a result, I have successfully promoted plays I’ve loved, a few I’ve hated, and on several occasions ones I thought I’d loathe to find they moved me unexpectedly. So whenMerchant was chosen, I never even suggested it shouldn’t be done. Yet, as one of the theater’s very few Jewish staffers, I suddenly began to find myself in the position of being, in the phrase that kept coming to mind, a defender of the faith.

I should say that I have no problem with Merchant being produced if the artists involved are using it to reinforce humanity, not fracture it — I do not believe that Shylock should be taken as an emblem of his people any more than Superfly or Fu Manchu represent theirs as a whole. They are all characters, created at a certain time in the history of the human race, which allow certain stories to be told. We lock these characters away at our own peril, for they must be exhumed periodically in an environment of enlightened debate — we must never forget them, we must be forced to grapple with them, if only to be reminded of the ignorance which led to their creation.

That’s not even fair to Shylock, since I think Shakespeare gave his character great complexity and variety, though I know that a certain ignorance indeed informed some aspects of his character. But knowing our theater’s director as I do, and knowing how he approached the play when he had directed it once before, I believed that Merchantcould be performed as a condemnation of prejudice, not a perpetuation of it. Once the play took the stage, my faith in the director, my boss, was borne out in a complex and provocative production.

Yet…

I cannot discount the concerns of my Jewish brethren, even though I do not personally share them. Just as I respect and defend my theater’s right to produce the play, I absolutely understand where the animosity towards the play is coming from, and I respect it, even though I can’t help feeling that Merchant has become for many a Rorschach test, where each person projects themselves, and perhaps their own fears about others’ perceptions of the same ink blot, onto the images placed before them.

There are people in our community who are deeply pained to see Shylock on our stage, who see only his ugliness. There is nothing I can do or say to them or for them that would lessen their distress, though I understand its source, or alter their perceptions, which they have an absolute right to hold. I have tried to represent their reactions and their positions, which I anticipated from the moment the play was chosen, and will continue to, as a voice inside the institution. And in any job I ever have, when questions and concerns about Jewish identity come up, I will represent our common heritage, even though I may not wish to take up their distress as my very own.

I defend the race and the religion we hold in common even as I despair of not wholly sharing it. In doing so, I hope it brings me closer to the kind of God I so desperately want to believe in — the God who saw to it that a member of the Jewish clergy exposed a young Jewish boy to the decidedly Christian images which adorn many museum walls, a God who brought a Jewish man into the Tsar’s palace two generations after his ancestors fled from tyranny and poverty, not a God who would allow a Holocaust to happen only to find it used as a tool which would forever keep people wary of each other’s natures. But just as I defend my heritage in hopes of finding God — I defend The Merchant of Venice that is disturbingly alive on our stage, in the hope that it will bring everyone who sees it closer to eradicating the anti-Semitism, the anti-racism, it portrays – and I believe condemns.

(October 1993)

 

This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website.