Based on the commentary I was seeing in online articles and social media comments yesterday, someone had just painted a mustache on the Mona Lisa. No one seemed to care that Da Vinci had decided to it himself.

I’m referring to the outpouring of dismay over the news that some changes had been made to the storyline and score of Disney’s upcoming film of Stephen Sondheim’s Into The Woods. Mind you, no one has seen the film as of yet; the response resulted from a New Yorker “Talk of the Town” piece in which Sondheim spoke of the changes, and more to the point, from online articles based on that story which extracted out the specifics of the pending changes without the full context of the original report, which regrettably is behind The New Yorker’s paywall. Therefore it’s the secondhand reportage which seems to have reached the widest audience and sparked a healthy flurry of unhappiness.

I for one would like to state that I’m shocked – shocked, I say – to find that the creative and commercial forces behind the film adaptation of a stage work have mandated changes in the original material (for those immune to written sarcasm, I mean to say that I’m not remotely shocked). The litany of stage material (or for that matter books, true life stories and even prior films) that has been slightly altered or radically reworked for movie consumption is endless. But even minor changes become the fodder for endless online investigation, interpretation and instantaneous outrage, the currency of so much digital derision by the faithful. And it’s not even an online phenomenon – I remember the furor that arose when Tim Burton had the temerity to cast Michael Keaton as Batman in the 80s, even for what was a major reworking of material that had been reduced to camp 20 years earlier on television.

That Disney might want to homogenize some of the spikier elements of Into The Woods should have come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the company’s brand, which has a long history of altering fairytale stories, from Snow White and Sleeping Beauty to Once Upon A Time and Maleficent. Yes, I am one of the many who revere Sondheim’s work, and the man, but just as the removal of “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd” from that film adaptation didn’t ruin the story on screen, I’m at least willing to wait to see Into The Woods before I critique its choices, whatever the rationale. And let’s face it, after almost 30 years, it’s not as if film companies were fighting for the right to bring the material to the screen.

What frustrates me much more in this scenario is the way in which the details of changes have been excised from their context in The New Yorker. Sondheim’s revelation came out of a conversation with high school teachers which touched upon some of the problems they face in trying to produce challenging work at their schools, by Sondheim and others. While reporter Larissa MacFarquhar is glib about opposition to Sweeney Todd (“the teachers were smut and gore idealists”), she does report on the portion of the conversation specific to Into The Woods. In particular, she relates how the teachers told stories of opposition to elements of infidelity and sexuality in the Sondheim-Lapine piece, and how Sondheim compared the attitudes of school administrators to those of Disney executives. (I asked the organization that arranged the conversation, the Academy for Teachers, whether a recording of the full session had been created, but founder Sam Swope said they had none, that the New Yorker account was accurate and that the censorship discussion was only a small part of a wider-ranging talk.)

When a teacher explains that she must always present bowdlerized versions of musicals (please look up that odd word if you don’t know it), the article reports:

“Can you let them read the original and then discuss why, say, Rapunzel is not allowed to die in the adulterated version?” Sondheim asked.

“We do that, but they just get angry. They feel censored–they don’t feel trusted.”

“And they’re right,” Sondheim said. “But you have to explain to them that censorship is part of our puritanical ethics, and it’s something that they’re going to have to deal with. There has to be a point at which you don’t compromise anymore, but that may mean you won’t get anyone to sell your painting or perform your musical. You have to deal with reality.”

Now I’m not entirely comfortable with Sondheim’s conflation of censorship with marketplace realities, since censorship is performed unilaterally by people in power against those without influence, whereas creative alteration in a commercial setting results from negotiation – and money is at the root of the decisions on all sides. Into The Woods wasn’t taken unwillingly from Sondheim – he sold it. I trust that he has safeguarded the essence of the show. But I agree that the impulse to homogenize for the marketplace does indeed come from a puritan ethic, as does school censorship, both cases where adults take a patronizing view of what young people can handle – though in the case of a Disney film, they’re trying to reach audiences much younger than the participants in high school theatre programs in a big tent effort.

It is the stage alteration in schools that perpetually worries me. In cases when creators or rights holders have authorized “junior”or “school” versions of stage works, they are active participants in the excision of “challenging” material,” and while perhaps that’s also a market-driven decision, I like to think that it also occurs in the best interests of allowing to students to take on work which would otherwise be wholly off-limits in a school setting. Regardless, I worry about the academic gatekeepers who mandate these changes, which may vary from school to school or state to state, and in far too many cases are done at the school level without any approval from the licensing house or creator. That’s where censorship is truly taking place and insidious. It’s where the idea that anyone can alter a stage text at will is born, much to the consternation of authors, and their representatives at the Dramatists Guild, in the U.S.

As Sondheim notes in the New Yorker piece, “If you look at most plays, it’s like the sonata form in music–if you screw around with that, you’re taking your life in your hands.”

It is clear in the article that Sondheim is an active participant in the film of Into The Woods, whether his resulting choices are grudgingly mercenary or willingly collaborative is hard to assess. Regarding the removal of the Baker’s Wife’s liaison and the song “Any Moment,” the article reports one educator’s distress and Sondheim’s acquiescence.

“Stick up for that song!” a teacher called out.

“I did, I did,” Sondheim said. “But Disney said, we don’t want Rapunzel to die, so we replotted it. I won’t tell you what happens now, but we wrote a new song to cover it.”

As with any adaptation of a prior work, changes are inevitable. Fortunately, the new version doesn’t change the source, and in the case of Into The Woods, Disney’s film won’t yield a whole new stage text. I do worry that schools will interpret the screen revisions as permission to alter their own productions, which is in fact illegal; I’ve been struck by how often opposition to Sweeney Todd has arisen from the film’s gouts of bloods, which suggest that gore is essential to the show, when even John Doyle’s Broadway revival dispensed with obvious blood-letting, so the films do suggest a template to the public. What is very likely to occur from the Into The Woods film is that people beyond the core fan base for musicals will be introduced to the genius of Sondheim and, perhaps, that even more schools will do the show – according to the approved text.

It may be fun join in online outrage, but it’s an impotent act in a case like this. The film will be what Disney wants it to be. Why not put those efforts to better use, and direct them to supporting live theatre and making sure that the teachers whose genuine concerns sparked this kerfuffle have the opportunity to tackle brilliant and challenging work with their students, their schools and their communities. That’s where your voice can make a difference, in advancing the cause of arts education and in the battle against true censorship whenever it arises.

Addendum, June 23, 2014: One week after The New Yorker article came out and five days after the online furor began, Stephen Sondheim released the following statement about changes to Into The Woods, which largely negates the cuts he said would be happening. It reads:

An article in The New Yorker misreporting my “Master Class” conversation about censorship in our schools with seventeen teachers from the Academy for Teachers a couple of weeks ago has created some false impressions about my collaboration with the Disney Studio on the film version of Into the Woods. The fact is that James (Lapine, who wrote both the show and the movie) and I worked out every change from stage to screen with the producers and with Rob Marshall, the director. Despite what the New Yorker article may convey, the collaboration was genuinely collaborative and always productive.

When the conversation with the teachers occurred, I had not yet seen a full rough cut of the movie. Coincidentally, I saw it immediately after leaving the meeting and, having now seen it a couple of times, I can happily report that it is not only a faithful adaptation of the show, it is a first-rate movie.

And for those who care, as the teachers did, the Prince’s dalliance is still in the movie, and so is “Any Moment.”

Nineteen sixty-two was too late for vaudeville, and surely the Roman comedies of Plautus were known only by Latin academics. But with the debut of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, these two great comedy epochs were inextricably linked right from the first notes of “Comedy Tonight,” one of the great opening numbers of any musical.

Instead of introducing us to the characters or putting the plot in motion, it seeks only to tell the audience what kind of show they’re about to see. The song is a litany of quick, descriptive rhymes (erratic/dramatic, convulsive/repulsive, surprises/disguises) that set only mood, a lightning bolt of perfection instigated by choreographer and show doctor Jerome Robbins after two prior songs had been discarded out of town.

It’s ironic that Forum delivered such a show-stopping standard in the first five minutes, since it has been confirmed by composer-lyricist Stephen Sondheim that his show’s songs were meant to give audiences a respite from laughing, as had songs in the theatre of Plautus. While Sondheim is repeatedly critical of Forum’s score in his book of annotated lyrics, Finishing the Hat, it has considerable charm, most notably “Everybody Ought to Have a Maid,” a paean to feminine domestic help, replete with built-in encores.

When first I saw the film version directed by Richard Lester, I got a taste of what the whole show might be. But I’ll admit to some disappointment, generated perhaps because I was watching alone, perhaps because film is the enemy of spontaneity, perhaps because the fully realistic design was fighting the complete artificiality that is farce. It did, however, blend Broadway originals Zero Mostel and Jack Gilford with Michaels Hordern and Crawford.

It was only when I was at university, and cast in the supporting role of henpecked, randy husband Senex in a dramatic society production, that I came to know Forum fully – and to realise that bookwriters Burt Shevelove and Larry Gelbart were the true masterminds, even though by then I had completely fallen for Sondheim via Sweeney Todd.

Forum’s criss-crossing plots – the slave Pseudolus’s desire to be a free man, the Roman boy Hero’s search for love, the virgin Philia’s resignation to a life bound to a man by contract, Hysterium’s impotent efforts to keep order, Erronius’s search for his lost children – built one upon the other. This carefully wrought framework made room for leggy chorus girls, repeatedly mistaken identities, well-honed schtick and some wonderfully low puns. Whatever the merits of that college production, the show’s brilliant construction ensured that we were met by gales of laughter each night.

Convulsed audiences seem almost guaranteed in Forum – theatre history bears out its Broadway success originally with Mostel and a decade later in revival with Phil Silvers, then two decades after that with Nathan Lane, followed by Whoopi Goldberg. Frankie Howerd launched the show in London in 1963 and now another British comic favourite, James Corden is rumoured for the forthcoming Broadway revival. The talk of Corden seems both genius and a no-brainer, since One Man, Two Guvnors‘ Francis Henshall is a direct spiritual descendent of Pseudolus in his appetites, his self-made muddles and his manipulative ingenuity under pressure.

There is perhaps something perverse in championing Forum, since it flouts so much of what we’re told a musical should do. The songs say little about the characters, and don’t advance the story. It requires choreography, but demands little true dancing. In its emphasis on plotting, it does away with music altogether in the latter half of the second act (as does another favourite, plot-heavy musical, 1776). But Forum, a couple of millennia after Plautus and more than a half-century since its debut, is a marvel of gleefully saucy yet wholly innocent vintage and modern farce that wants nothing more than to leave you spent from laughter, humming a catchy tune. What’s not to love about that?

as originally seen in The Guardian

As the cab pulled into the driveway, I got a glimpse of a sign propped against a telephone pole, starkly gray, black and white. On it were the typical details of any theatre production: the company, the dates and times, the title of the show, the website. Depicted was a single leafless tree, suggesting perhaps Waiting For Godot, or Spoon River Anthology, or maybe even a spooky Halloween attraction. I knew the show I was headed to was going to be a heavy one, so the foreboding promised by the sign wasn’t inappropriate; it followed a dictum I believe in strongly, which is truth in advertising. I just didn’t expect this for a high school play.

The play in question, about which I knew next to nothing beyond a website marketing synopsis, was Infinite Black Suitcase by EM Lewis, a playwright new to me. It was being done as a “major black box production” at Staples High School in Westport CT, a school whose theatre program I have heard about for literally decades, knowing kids and parents of kids who had at one time or another been connected with the school. While challenges to other high school plays have taken me to other towns in Connecticut – Waterbury, Woodbridge, Trumbull, Milford – I happened to meet the head of the Staples drama program when we served together for one year (two meetings) on an advisory committee for Samuel French, the theatrical licensing company. So I’d been keeping an eye on what he was up to, even as more pressing issues in high school theatre took me elsewhere.

Had I visited the Staples Players website and found they were doing Twelve Angry Men/Women/People/Jurors or To Kill A Mockingbird, I might not have been so quick to head to Westport along with the commuter crowd on their way home on Thursday night. But the online description of the play, not out of character with the school’s past repertoire, about various residents of an Oregon town dealing both with impending death and the aftermath of prior losses seemed so incongruous in a high school setting – even a high school with a 200 seat black box in addition to a spacious main auditorium – that I had to go up and see for myself.

Jacob Leaf, Claire Smith & Jack Baylis in Infinite Black Suitcase at Staples High (photo by Kerry Long)

Before going, I looked up the playwright, wondering whether the author wrote specifically for high school productions, and discovered that she has a number of professionally produced works to her credit (the play premiered in Los Angeles in 2005) and that Infinite Black Suitcase was in fact receiving its high school premiere. This prompted me to ask Roth, who was directing the play with his wife Kerry Long, how he came to the play. He responded that the folks at French had put him on to it, as he had been looking for a relatively large cast contemporary play.

I attended the first of four performances, and until 10 minutes or so before curtain time, I wondered if anyone would be there, so empty was the parking lot and theatre entrance – as did some students who seemed connected with the show, milling in the hallway near the theatre. An audience did arrive, a bit tardy, filling the small theatre to perhaps a bit more than half of capacity. Once inside, the trappings of the school fell away and the environment resembled many an Off-Broadway house. Indeed, the fact that the theatre wasn’t completely full showed that challenging work is always a hard sell, regardless of whether it’s professional or academic. Of course, it was a school night.

Jack Bowman & Joe Badion in Infinite Black Suitcase at Staples High (photo: Kerry Long)

Obviously my intent is not to review the play or production, but I can say that it met one criteria I declared important when I first started writing about high school theatre, namely that the work challenged the students performing in it. Playing (mostly) grief stricken adults mourning or anticipating death in a series of short, intertwined scenes, the students were “punching above their weight,” rather than merely romping through an entertainment that catered to their natural, youthful exuberance. The play also fulfilled what Roth had told me led to its selection, in that the 16 actors were a genuine ensemble, each afforded at least one “moment” in the 80 minutes to showcase their abilities.

Contemporary drama is hardly unknown in high school theatre, although it was outside of my own experience years ago. A quick glance at the Staples repertoire over many years shows that, as did the most compelling portion of Michael Sokolove’s book Drama High, in which high school students performed Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa’s Good Boys and True. That said, in the Educational Theatre Association’s survey of the most produced high school plays, only one contemporary play makes the top ten: John Cariani’s Almost Maine (at number one). Surely Cariani’s play stands atop the list because while originally produced with four actors and lots of doubling, it easily affords the opportunity for a larger cast to play its many roles without repetition, expanding to meet the interest and needs of high school drama, where musicals with casts of 50 are far from rare. Cariani’s new play, Love/Sick, might well appear on the list soon.

The rest of the EdTA list is decidedly older plays, from public domain works like A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Importance of Being Earnest to American classics like Our Town, Harvey and You Can’t Take It With You. While I have affection for all of the plays which are most frequently seen, with a particular and deep admiration for Our Town, a play often mistaken for pablum when it is really a profound meditation on death, I do worry, as with musicals, that even as the canon of theatre literature grows, the majority of our high schools produce the same standards year after year, the experience at Staples, the popularity of The Laramie Project and Sokolove’s story of Levittown PA notwithstanding.

This may well be a byproduct of the downsizing of the American play. Ask any playwright and they’ll tell you how they have to craft their works for casts of four to six, preferably with a single set, in order to get them done; look at the most produced plays in America and you’ll find those small casts: Venus in Fur (two), Red (two), God of Carnage (four), Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike (six), and so on. So when high schools seek to involve as many students as possible in theatre outside of musicals, they’re forced back to the days when larger casts were de rigeur. On the one hand, we can say that this only reflects modern trends in professional theatre, and students should work with the same expectations, but in practice small cast plays either deny students the chance to learn about dramatic ensembles or the chance to tackle new work.

I have to hand it to Roth for putting his students up to the challenge of Infinite Black Suitcase, although I suspect it’s unlikely to be come a standard work in the high school repertory. But I’m also pleased to know that it’s not the only option out there. Student-written plays, although typically one-acts, afford high schoolers the opportunity to take on work by and about their peers, although that’s not without its challenges, as cases in Everett MA and Wilton CT have shown. Lend Me A Tenor author Ken Ludwig premiered one of his plays, a holiday show, at a high school near his home. There is also a thriving subset of writing targeting the academic market, though it is wholly unfamiliar to me.

One model that I wish were better-known or, better still, duplicated in the U.S., is the one forged by NT Connections in England, in which the National Theatre commissions new works by major contemporary playwrights specifically for secondary schools to perform. This may give the writers a chance to work on a larger canvas than they can with works seeking professional production, while letting the students take on modern plays crafted specifically for them that aren’t necessarily simplified for them or condescending to them, by writers they well might be reading about in the culture pages. Though I admire the concept, I regret knowing very few of these plays; I can, however, heartily recommend Mark Ravenhill’s Moliere riff Totally Over You.

I must come back to one last aspect of the experience of seeing Infinite Black Suitcase at Staples High. In my experience as an audience member seeing high school theatre, plays or musicals, I am always in the position of watching a show I’ve seen before, in many cases more than once, its words and music well known to me. With Suitcase, my experience was perhaps closer to the majority of my regular theatergoing precisely because I didn’t know it. I wasn’t spending the evening just seeing how well the kids managed to perform a familiar tale, I was actively engaged in watching the play itself, since I had no idea what would happen next and, for me, the Staples cast – of students I’ve never met, and so have no reason to respond to with indulgence or affection – is forever linked with the play, as with any show when one sees it for the first time. For Infinite Black Suitcase, they are my original cast.

P.S. I continue to learn a great deal about high school theatre as I see more and write more and as readers respond to what I write. If you have other examples of high school theatre giving students the opportunity to take on challenging contemporary or even new work, I hope you’ll share it in the comments section below. Teach me, and share so that other students and teachers can learn as well.

I realize I’m writing this blog post for a very specific subset of readers, but after nine months of writing my “American Stages” column for London’s The Stage newspaper, I have a request of those cited in the title.

Now mind you, I’m prepared to stipulate that many of you still may not be aware of the column, despite my own efforts and the efforts of the folks at The Stage to promote it. So if you’re reading this and thinking, “What ‘American Stages’ column?,” allow me to direct you to the index of the columns thus far. I’ll also agree that the column is somewhat New York-centric and probably east coast-centric. But there’s a reason for that.

None of you are sending me press releases. Not even theatres I’ve called in the past and asked for material for use in this very column.

Perhaps I should have been more explicit in asking for releases. So I’m writing this instead. Now before you all deluge me with material on every single thing you do, including grants you receive, ‘best of’ lists you appear on, one night only readings and the like, let me take a page from Wall Street Journal critic Terry Teachout, who is quite clear about what he’s likely to be interested in and when you’re barking up the wrong tree.

So here are my rough guidelines:

1. I’m not a critic. “American Stages” is meant to highlight work that might be of interest to readers in the British theatre community, but I don’t review shows. I do like to see as much as I can, but there’s no correlation between my seeing a production and my featuring it in the column.

2. I am committed to representing interesting work around the country. Because of the curation of arts stories that is a significant part of my Twitter feed, I often surface interesting productions worth writing about on my own. But Twitter is a rush of information, and there’s no guarantee that I’ll be seeing your tweets when you happen to send them.

3. I’m looking to highlight new work or major productions that might prove interesting to UK readers. The fourteenth production of one of the most produced plays in the country isn’t likely to get in. Neither is your Christmas Carol. But even with new work, it needs a hook beyond “a new play,” so think about tipping me to something that might cause theatre pros across the pond to take an interest.

4. If there’s an English, Irish, Scottish or Welsh hook, make sure I know it – whether it’s a playwright, actor, director and so on. It is a London publication after all.

5. Because the column is online, even though I’m writing with a certain focus in mind, remember that it can be shared as widely as you and I both like. There’s no paywall and no geographic limitation to who can read it.

6. Photos are helpful (if they’re good photos) and videos are sometimes even better. While there’s typically only one main photo a week, I can embed several videos with my copy, and I’ll use everything from trailers to interviews to musical numbers to humor.

So far as I’m aware (and by all means, feel free to correct me), there’s no other UK outlet with a regular column dedicated solely to US theatre news. Sure, big stories like Kenneth Branagh in Macbeth get covered in international media as they happen, as do the Tony Awards. But new musicals in San Diego? Not so much. So use me, because I want to showcase the entirety of US theatre, within my word limit and my fortnightly schedule.

As an aside, I write a second, monthly column for The Stage’s print edition, which unfortunately I can’t share online effectively. I’m writing specifically about aspects of the business of theatre in those pieces, and I eventually post that material to my website (though I’m far from up to date). But new initiatives and thematic stories are my bailiwick there, and can showcase trends and innovations wherever I may learn of them.

As some of you may know, I used to be a publicist in not-for-profit theatre. I’m all too aware of the challenges posed by the explosion of online outlets in how you do your jobs and you can’t give one-on-one service to every writer out there. So add me to your national list using howard AT hesherman DOT com. I’ll let you know if it’s too much (or too little). Frankly, if I was still a publicist, I’d be all over me about “American Stages.”

“I got into a brawl one night in a saloon in Greenwich Village. Elia Kazan, a great director, saw me put out a couple of hecklers and figures there was some Big Daddy in me, just lyin’ dormant. And out it came. ”

—Burl Ives, the original Big Daddy

Anton Troy & John Lacy in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof at Repertory East Playhouse

First, to state what I hope would be obvious to anyone who bothers to read me, I believe that hate speech is vile. But in reading the accounts of what took place this past weekend at the Repertory East Playhouse in Santa Clarita, California, while I am angered by the the comments that ended up halting a performance midway through, and ultimately pleased that the speaker was shut down, I am struck by the failure of the staff of the theatre to address the situation properly as it unfolded.

The short version of the story is that during a performance of Cat On A Hot Tin Roof, an audience member, reportedly drunk, repeatedly and loudly hurled anti-gay slurs at the actor playing Brick. At a certain point, which I’m guessing to be somewhere during the play’s second of three acts, John Lacy, the actor playing Big Daddy, came off the stage to confront the despicable patron. The situation became threateningly physical, and two patrons, Tim Sullivan and Rob Vinton, interceded to remove the ugly patron. The performance, remarkably, continued.

The upshot? Lacy was fired for physically engaging with a member of the audience and actor Anton Troy, who played Brick, quit in support. The production has been canceled as a result of the loss of two central cast members. For fuller accounts, I refer you to The Wrap, which appeared to be first with the story, and to the L.A. Weekly, which did an enlightening follow-up, including addressing details that had emerged in comments on the first post. I suspect we will see more.

For anyone involved in running a performing arts venue, the Repertory East scenario should become a training case study for any member of your staff who might potentially interact with the audience. It is a superb case study because, it seems, not a single person at the theatre that night did anything correctly. It was an awful situation, badly handled. The best that can come out of it now is that it becomes a teaching tool.

Let’s start with the patron. Free speech does not give anyone the freedom to shout fire in a crowded theatre, any more than it gives someone the right to announce sexist, racist or homophobic slurs in a theatre. Frankly, it doesn’t give them the right to interject anything they might care to say during a live or filmed performance. Even if the drunk at Repertory East had been bellowing in sympathy with Brick’s emotional trauma or vociferously condemning Big Daddy’s own failure to understand his son, the patron should have been warned once and then removed if the behavior persisted.

So where was the house staff during this incident? Was there not one usher, let alone an assistant house manager or house manager, in the auditorium itself to witness this at the very start? I even have to wonder why, at least according to the statement given by the theatre’s management, no one supervisory was aware this was happening. Did any patron exit and seek a staffer and, if so, why didn’t they do anything? If the shouting was loud enough for the actors to hear, why didn’t the stage manager or deck crew contact house management? Could no one hear this on house monitors? If house management felt frightened by the bellowing patron, why didn’t they call a senior staffer for backup, or for that matter, the police? Why didn’t the actors simply stop performing and walk off stage to seek redress?

I don’t know this theatre and I daresay the attention that’s flooding their way swamps any prior national attention they’ve received. But whether they’re professional or amateur, Equity or non-AEA, have just begun operating or have been around for years, if they undertook to bring in an audience for a performance, they should have had systems in place for common scenarios, including disruptions. If they did, the systems failed; if they didn’t, then the management failed. This should have never escalated to the point where an actor should have even had to contemplate coming off the stage to handle it personally, let alone have done so.

If you run a venue, circulate the stories from The Wrap and the L.A Weekly to your staff, and talk about them at your next staff meeting. If you’re an actor, know that when audience behavior goes beyond the pale, your best course of action is to pause and ask for help, not to become an enforcer. If you’re a patron and other attendees are getting out of hand, seek out the theatre’s staff, even if you have to miss a bit of the show.

Oh, and one final note, for those who run venues as producers. If you undertake to fire your actors for handling a situation that you or your staff should have nipped in the bud long before it became explosive, don’t issue mealymouthed statements like this, from Repertory East:

Due to unforseen circumstances, the run of the Tennessee Williams’ drama “Cat On A Hot Tin Roof” at the Repertory East Playhouse in Newhall has been suspended and the show will not be completing its projected performance schedule. The show was originally scheduled to end June 14, however, an incident during the May 31 performance has resulted in cast members leaving the show with no time to adequately re-cast their parts and provide the quality theater experience patrons have come to expect from the REP.

During that evening’s performance, an unruly patron allegedly made discriminatory comments that distracted audience members and a confrontation occurred between a member of the cast and the disturbing party. The management of the REP regrets that this situation was not brought to their attention sooner and would like to assure future audiences that disruptive behavior, including disparaging remarks from the audience, incidents of bullying or hate speech, and racial, discriminatory or homophobic utterances, will not be tolerated and offending parties will be asked to leave the theater.

“We are committed to provide groundbreaking subject matter and professional performances to our audiences,” said Ovington Michael Owston, Executive Director of the REP. “We are extremely sorry that our patrons experienced this disruption and will do our best to make it up to those holding reservations for cancelled performances.”

Repertory East (presumably Ovington Michael Owston and Mikee Schwinn, the executive director and artistic director), you reference the specific, reprehensible language of the disruption in an effort to mask both your company’s inaction the night of the incident and your subsequent actions towards John Lacy, which are deeply questionable. You failed to eject the homophobic lout, but then eject the only person who sought to address his behavior. What transpired at Repertory East Playhouse is already known far beyond your theatre and your community, so why pretend you can control the story with obfuscation and gain sympathy with your declaration of support for essential decency? Your statement is mendacity indeed.

Thanks to Meg McSweeney for the Burl Ives anecdote

Here Lies Love at The Public Theater (photo by Joan Marcus)

For some people, the words “interactive theatre” strike fear into their hearts, and they’ll do anything to avoid it. The prospect of being accosted by an actor, of having the spotlight turned on them, of potentially being embarrassed in front of others for the sake of everyone else’s amusement is something they equate with impromptu public speaking or a trip to the dentist. They certainly don’t want to pay for the opportunity to have this occur.

I have no such fear. I gave in to the participation at Sleep No More with only slight resistance (I was ultimately rewarded with a soft kiss on my neck from one actress, the only person to access that area in such a manner since I met the woman who is now my wife more than a dozen years ago). I threw myself into Queen of the Night with more enthusiasm. I dream of being brought up on stage by Bill Irwin and David Shiner, or by Penn & Teller, to be their prop or their stooge, as they see fit. I lean forward eagerly when those teams start scanning the audience. Perhaps I’ve never been selected because, after many visits, I look too eager.

But this should not suggest that I am an exhibitionist, least of all in every circumstance. As a result, my own particular bugaboos initially kept me from even considering two current shows, until I reminded myself of my commitment to not just see work that has the most obvious appeal for me, but to challenge myself more. That’s what pushed me into seeing Here Lies Love and Drunk Shakespeare, two radically different shows that few would likely ever group together. But they each featured elements that trigger my anxiety, my awkwardness, my flight reflex, so for me they’re of a piece.

Even with all the acclaim for its original engagement at The Public Theater, the words that leapt out at me in connection with HLL were “disco” and “dancing,” which both separately and together hold no appeal whatsoever. I lived through the original disco era without ever enjoying the music (I was moving out of prog rock and into British power pop at the time), and while I wouldn’t have undertaken to steamroll disco records (someone really did this as a stunt), I didn’t care to own or hear the music at all, unavoidable as it was. As for dancing, I have no natural gifts in this area whatsoever and few things make me so self-conscious as the act of attempting to move in some relationship to music, be it a formal waltz, a Broadway showstopper, or rock and roll. I’ll nod my head or tap my feet in rhythm, but that’s my limit.

The complete, rotating cast of Drunk Shakespeare (photo by Della Bass)

With Drunk Shakespeare, the first word in the title was more than off-putting, despite my affection for the latter. Though I have sampled alcohol on a few occasions over the years, I never cared for it; I was probably priggishly moralistic about it in my youth (though the only two times I was ever drunk were as a teen), but my ongoing avoidance of liquor is really rooted in nothing more than not caring for the taste and having no interest in developing it (this applies to vegetables as well, FYI). As a result, I have spent many an evening watching friends get gently tipsy or utterly blotto, while my consciousness remained unaltered. So a show in which an actor aggressively drinks but still performs his or her role, in an environment which encourages the audience to imbibe along with them, seemed like paying for the opportunity to watch strangers get smashed, which wasn’t much fun even when I watched my friends do it.

I ultimately saw Here Lies Love because of the overwhelming critical enthusiasm that prompted its return to The Public this spring; I needed to find out what had everyone so excited. I decided to see Drunk Shakespeare because it is drawn from the work of the company Three Day Hangover, the leadership trio of which includes a woman who interned at The O’Neill when I ran it, as well as her husband. I had skipped their last production because of my prejudices and I didn’t feel good about it, because I felt I was being unsupportive of the woman who had been a diligent worker years earlier and who I was pleased to reconnect with recently.

Now this is where you’ll expect me to say that in both cases, the shows were revelations which upended my previous biases. But I’m afraid I can’t. When exhorted to dance along at HLL, I hugged the perimeter of the endlessly reconfigured staging areas and moved only when a shifting platform required me to do so, even as others joined in with abandon. At Drunk Shakespeare I attempted to sip some Jameson’s Irish Whiskey, once the favored spirit of my college drama troupe, but found I could barely get it past my lips, let alone consume enough to have any impact on my blood alcohol level. No fun at a party then, no fun at a party now.

That said, there was a key difference. I have long ago stopped wondering what within me makes dancing such torture, or caring when people quiz me in amazement about my abstemiousness. There’s no real peer pressure on these issues anymore and if one or both are limitations in the perception of others, then so be it. I never wanted to be John Travolta and realize I can’t possibly be Gene Kelly; I’ll never appreciate a fine wine or enjoy a round of beers at the end of the day. I don’t need to move to love music; a truly great hot cocoa gives me all the spirit lifting I need, sans spirits.

Selfie with cast members of Drunk Shakespeare

As a result, though I stood outside the action of Here Lies Love and Drunk Shakespeare, much as I had stood literally at the fringes and figuratively outside so many social events over so many years, I could enjoy them – and the people enjoying them – without condescension or alienation. I could appreciate the shows even without being fully immersed, but also without feeling like the odd man out, the way drinking and dancing had made me feel for so long. I guess it’s a sign of comfort in my own skin that I didn’t feel for many years, as well as an affirmation that things I might instinctively avoid because of long-held fears, I can now enjoy, opening me up to new experiences in the theatre and, perhaps, outside of it as well.

So shake that thang, boogiers of all ages at Here Lies Love. Drink up, college dudes and bachelorette parties who enjoy The Bard and Jagermeister at Drunk Shakespeare. I can’t fully join with you, but I’m glad you’re having fun with theatre.

P.S. Three Day Hangover is about to begin performances of Twelfth Night, or Sir Toby Belch’s Lonely Heart Club Cabaret, featuring karaoke with a live band. Have I mentioned that I happily sing in public, often a bit too loudly, even when I probably shouldn’t? I can’t wait to go. They’ve been warned and, now, so have you.

It’s a funny thing about milestones, the way certain thresholds get set in our minds. If you follow reporting on the movie industry, breaking the $100 million gross barrier is a major achievement (and for those of us in the arts, an astronomical figure), although its not always connected to the cost of the film under discussion. But that number has been a yardstick for years, once cause for double page ads in Variety whenever it was reached, regardless of whether the movie that achieved it was released in the 60s, 70s, 80s or today – despite inflation making the success happen a little faster with every passing year. To be sure, plenty of movies still don’t make it, but it’s a less rarified club than it was in the days of The Sound of Music or Star Wars.

Once upon a time, when people still spoke of the price of a loaf of bread as an economic indicator, gas prices crossed a big threshold when a gallon broke over the $1.00 price point. People under 40 may not even remember this being breached. This was a big deal in those non-digital days, when prices couldn’t simply be altered with a tiny bit typing; I happened to be in England a few years back when the price of a liter of petrol broke the £1 mark, resulting in some creative solutions to signage that never anticipated announcing such a sum.

In theatre, in my lifetime, the big round number that sticks in my memory was the $100 ticket for The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, though it could be explained away by the massive physical production, cast size and length. It seemed a one-off as opposed to a trend-setter. Miss Saigon had $100 tickets at the start of its run, but didn’t sustain them, dropping back to the then more typical $65. The $100 price cropped up again for the 1999 revival of The Iceman Cometh, which by virtue of its length, simply couldn’t give enough performances in a week to make economic sense otherwise. You may know of other isolated instances.

We didn’t truly reach the $100 asking price per ticket milestone until The Producers introduced the $100 ticket in the wake of rave reviews, also giving us the innovation of the VIP ticket at the extraordinary price of $480. This was in 2001, just 13 years ago. At the time, other hits were quick to match The Producers, with Mamma Mia! jumping to $100 per ticket just two months later.

But it should be noted that the $100 price was the theatre equivalent of a hotel’s “rack rate,” the stated top price for rooms which were in reality variable and negotiable. In theatre, through group sales, discount offers, the beloved TKTS booth and day of show lotteries you could still see a Broadway show for much less than that. As a result, over the past decade, while regular prices have risen, especially at the most successful shows, the average price paid on Broadway stayed under $100 per seat. That is, until last year, the just-completed 2013-14 Broadway season, when the average ticket was $103.92, up $5.50 over the year before.

So while articles may be trumpeting record revenues and record attendance, they’re either downplaying, avoiding or ignoring the true breaking of the $100 threshold, preferring to lead with the allure of numbers in the millions (attendance) or billions (dollars). That’s a shame, because in terms of what matters to the average audience member, the average ticket price seems much more essential news. To me, that’s the headline.

It’s always important when discussing prices over time to acknowledge overall price changes in comparable fields or the economy as a whole. So let me point out that in the period since The Producers in 2001, the Consumer Price Index has risen from 177 to 233, an increase of 32%. The average movie ticket price nationally has gone from $5.65 to $8.13, a jump of 44%. But the Broadway jump from $58.72 to $103.92? That’s an increase of 77%.

I don’t have the resources to analyze all of the factors contributing to that jump, beyond the prevalence of premium or VIP seating, along with hit shows with higher prices that don’t need to discount (The Book of Mormon and Wicked) and superior supply and demand management (The Lion King). Maybe Nate Silver and his Five Thirty Eight team could work on this and tell us whether there’s a valid economic underpinning, or whether its just naked supply and demand having its day.

But surely if Broadway price hikes outstrip the economy and even other entertainment options, Broadway will eventually reach a tipping point that could have an impact on the already dicey economics of producing and running shows. Purchasing decisions based on price could put even more shows at risk for sustaining an economically viable run, whether in theory, as a Broadway engagement is contemplated, or even once it’s up and running.

So I want to call out this pricing milestone for all to see, and wonder where it will lead our commercial theatre yet a few more years down the line. If price resistance takes hold, if the Broadway price-value equation tips too far with the former outweighing the latter, will it be a place where shows can only be smash hits and utter flops, with no mid-level performers managing to run? If that happens, I hope it will prompt more people to sample institutional and independent theatre, here in New York and elsewhere. But on Broadway, and indeed at every level in the arts, ticket pricing is our global warming crisis, steadily rising year after year without raising true alarm and provoking meaningful action, until it threatens to swamp us all.

“Saturday at 10? It’s a date!”
Neil Patrick Harris in Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Broadway’s 7 pm curtain on Tuesdays was introduced more than 11 years ago. I thought it a somewhat more recent innovation, especially since I still regularly attend shows where audience members enter at about 7:50, usually far into the first act, looking embarrassed, angry or both.

Of course, this curtain time is no longer limited to Tuesdays, as many shows also play on Thursdays at 7, and shorter shows that can still give their company an appropriate break between matinee and evening even manage it on Wednesdays.

I remember the doomsayers when the Tuesday plan began: people wouldn’t be able to eat dinner, restaurant business in the theatre district would suffer, suburban patrons would be deterred from coming in for a show given the compressed travel time. That doesn’t seem to be the case, because while overall seasonal attendance has fluctuated between 11.5 and 12.5 million in the past 10 years on Broadway, there’s no evidence that the change in curtain times hurt business and it’s entirely possible that the adjustment helped to stave off declines by introducing flexibility.

Of course, that flexibility has gone far beyond the 7 or 8 pm curtain options. There are also shows with 7:30 weeknight performances, matinees variously at 1 pm, 2 pm, 2:30 pm, and 3 pm, and family oriented shows may well play two shows on Saturday and two on Sunday. (I remember the 1999 Broadway revival of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown experimenting with three show Saturdays, though that was short lived and, to my knowledge, never repeated.). At long last, the Thursday matinee (long seen in London) has been added. Right now, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, perhaps to retain a connection with its downtown roots, has 7 pm and 10 pm shows on Saturdays, a performance schedule that was once commonplace in the Off-Broadway of my younger days. I’m probably leaving a few options out.

I recount all these variants because I think it’s worth recognizing that Broadway producers and theatre owners, no doubt in collaboration with the theatrical unions, have proven that by being responsive to the changing needs of audiences, they can break out of habits for which the rationale may be long forgotten. For tourists, this means there are more possibilities of catching a show; for die-hard theatregoers, it means their binge weekends can be even more packed, in that eternal quest to see as many shows as possible in a limited number of days. For local audiences, it means they may have plenty of evening ahead of them post-show, or the opportunity to get to bed earlier on theatre nights.

I will say that this proliferation of performance times doesn’t surprise me in the least. Growing up in Connecticut, many theatres there had 4 pm Saturday matinees (followed by 8:30 or 9 pm evening shows) and the 4 pm shows were usually the fastest to sell out, no matter what was on stage. 4 pm shows also yielded the most geographically diverse audience, since the schedule allowed for day-trips with the greatest options of complementary activities – even plenty of time to sit by a pool or at the beach before heading to the theatre. And it was in 1985 that we surveyed our audience at Hartford Stage about their weeknight performance preferences, finding that by a 2 to 1 margin, they wanted 7:30 instead of 8 pm. It was implemented with nary a complaint.

All of this is merely a reminder that, as we search for ways to retain or develop audiences, the most simple tried and true elements of past patterns may not be something to cling to, just as abandoned practices may yet come into vogue once again. What may have been just fine five years ago may not hold today. We’ll only know for sure by experimenting – and by asking our audiences for their input whenever possible. We’re never going to be Netflix when it comes to entertainment on demand, but we might find there are some demands we can easily meet, if we’d just listen, and give things a try.

Note: I fear the headline that ran with this piece was misleading, since the column focused more on how companies not known for traditional musical theatre were making it a part of their producing mix. That said, if the resources expended on opera were allocated to new musicals then, well, wouldn’t it be loverly?

Bryn Terfel and Emma Thompson in Sweeney Todd. Nathan Lane reprising his career-making role in Guys and Dolls. Film actor Billy Zane and musical veteran Jenn Gambatese in The Sound of Music. Three intriguing stage productions with one common thread: none was produced by a theatre company.

Respectively, they were mounted by the New York Philharmonic, Carnegie Hall and Chicago Lyric Opera. They drew upon Broadway artists, but none were on Broadway.

It seems that when non-theatre companies want a sure thing they turn to musicals. While theatre companies, subsidized and commercial alike, seek to sustain audiences amid an array of entertainment options and ever-escalating price barriers, musicals are offered as budget balancers by symphonies and opera companies, with ever greater frequency. That’s on top of theatre companies which were once devoted solely to dramatic works having made an annual musical de rigeur. And when it comes to the big halls, it’s big names, both for titles and performers.

These events owe a great deal to the Encores! series at City Center, which has proven the significant audience for limited run versions of great musicals, some rarely seen. But they also attest to the broad appeal of musicals when companies step outside their own repertoire.

Thirty years ago, it was considered startling when the late New York City Opera embraced Sweeney Todd. Theatre only seems to attempt opera perhaps once every decade or so, notably with Baz Luhrman’s La Bohème and Peter Brook’s La Tragédie de Carmen. It seems that when it comes to producing across disciplines, for theatres it’s primarily a one-way street.

With the English National Opera’s announcement of plans to produce commercial musicals, it’s not quite the “unique” venture cited in their announcement. In their efforts to “embrace the new climate where audiences seem to enjoy the blurring of boundaries between opera, theatre and musicals,” one cannot help but wonder how the balance will play out if a West End berth, as stated, is a goal for these projects. Several years ago, the Metropolitan Opera announced a joint venture with its neighbor Lincoln Center Theater to develop works along such lines, but it has yielded little.

Given the budgets for major operas, or the musical richness of a full symphony, it’s easy to see why musical theatre artists would be eager to work outside their usual sphere. But so long as musicals are viewed as cash cows, economic pressure will dictate reliance on the tried and true, with the same repertoire being repeatedly mined by ever more groups. What musical theatre really needs is more resources and new models for sustaining new works beyond the hit or flop reality of Broadway and the West End. If only the symphonies and opera companies could help out there.

We all know that web traffic is the lifeblood of online media, giving rise to such essential reporting as “Which Game of Thrones Character Are You?,” “Which Breakfast Club Character Are You?” and every imaginable variant on this gambit. It is, of course, clickbait, designed to get you to interact with a site and see some advertising and increase page views, engagement time and other such metrics. Frankly, after finding out which Muppet I am (Beaker, if you must know), I stopped taking the bait.

But there’s some more high-minded clickbait out there, and The Hollywood Reporter is engaging in it right now. Via SurveyMonkey, THR is asking people to vote for what they think are the Best Drama Programs, at the high school and collegiate level (there’s no distinction between undergraduate and graduate for the latter). While I couldn’t find the survey on their website, it was being tweeted around, so I have the survey sans preface, sans methodology, sans everything. The fact that the schools you can choose from are pre-selected could be the top results of a larger study, but as it travels the tubes of the Internet, there’s not necessarily any way to know. (If there is any science behind this, I challenge THR to append it to their survey, and I’ll amend this post accordingly.)

To put it simply, I think this is preposterous and rather insidious, because when the resulting article comes out, a number of aspiring young theatre artists just might think it’s based in some degree of expertise, rather than the result of a narrowly defined popularity contest. A few schools might even cite it in promotional materials, and you can be sure the results will go zipping around with both pride and dismay.

So I’d like to say simply this: if you come across it, ignore it. Don’t fill it out. Don’t share it. Don’t comment on the results when they appear. Recognize it for the clickbait that it is, far beneath the sometimes excellent reporting that has been a part of the truly resurrected THR. If they exist to report on the industry, then they surely could commission a real study, or build a special section about drama education, not exploit us for our eyeballs. Offering a list of schools (and classes and even summer camps) with a slight nudge towards the fame of a few graduates (mostly actors, some of whom graduated decades ago) isn’t designed to inform anyone, it’s designed to get people to read and talk about The Hollywood Reporter. It doesn’t even offer the opportunity for write-in candidates, which would at least make it a fairer popularity contest. And who thinks the resulting article, revealing the skewed results, is likely to come out right around The Tony Awards, when theatre’s profile, like it or not, is at its highest nationally? I sure do.

What’s the harm, I hear some of you say? Isn’t it just another benign internet survey? No, because it will be the basis of boasting, of decision making, of aggravation, depending upon who you are and how you relate to the results.

While I’ve reproduced the survey, you’ll notice I haven’t linked to it. I won’t give them the satisfaction. I hope you won’t either. And if you want to give them a piece of your mind, tweet them at @THR.

P.S. I don’t mean to suggest that THR is the only site to do such spurious surveys. There are others. But this one is happening right now.