In about 48 hours, I begin a three-day theatergoing binge. But I have no idea what I’ll be seeing.

Intrigued?

As part of their upcoming “Theatre Week” in September, I’ll be seeing and writing about the experience of spending 72 hours on a jam-packed odyssey through the New York International Fringe Festival for Narratively, a website dedicated to the telling of New York stories. But in discussing a Fringe-based article with editor William Akers, who I know best as ouijum on Twitter, I proposed a slight twist that might set me apart from the countless die-hards who feast on all that New York theatre has to offer on an ongoing basis.

I proposed to Will that either he or someone of his choosing make up the schedule for me, and that’s what’s happening. I don’t know who is setting my theatergoing agenda, I don’t know what shows I’ll see, I don’t know how long my days will be, I don’t know how much crisscrossing of Manhattan I’ll be undertaking. Do I need an emergency sign-up for CitiBike? When might I get meal breaks, or simply time to think, check e-mail or return calls? No idea. Really.

My theatergoing pace in this scenario is hardly unique. I’ve been reading posts from friends and/or journalists at the famed Edinburgh Fringe who are reveling in (or enduring) five, six, seven shows a day, some for a period of weeks. I haven’t given Will and Narratively quite that much time; my three days pale compared to the dedication of the Edinburgh stalwarts. Also, I’m reading lots of reviews of the work at Edinburgh, and while what I write may well talk about shows I was sent to, I’ll stop far short of critique, as has been my policy online for years. My goal is to chronicle my adventure, not the discrete productions.

What I’m hoping to explore is an experience few of us (beyond critics) ever have, which is seeing theatre that is not self-curated. I am not merely a theatre professional, but also an avid theatre fan. Yet even omnivorous buffs have to make their own choices about what they see: does it fit around their work schedule, do their friends or spouses care to see it, are tickets available when it’s convenient to attend, can they afford to see all that they want.? But “want” is the key word, since later this week, I won’t be seeing what I “want” to see but what I’m made to see, and I won’t vary from the supplied agenda. I will react with my ingrained biases, but they won’t be a factor in the theatrical menu prepared for me. I’m hoping to be freed of my self-imposed theatrical constraints and wondering if in seeing work I would have otherwise skipped, or simply have known nothing about, there will be discoveries.

I’m gearing up to plunge down a rabbit hole with anticipation and anxiety, knowing I’ll be seeing shows picked by what will be, until the journey is over, an unseen power (I’ve never met Will, by the way; we’ve spoken by phone only once and otherwise have only communicated by Twitter and e-mail). Did he find a friend of mine who will program against my personal preferences? Perhaps someone who follows my Twitter feed or reads this blog who relishes playing puppetmaster? Might it have been left to the whim of the festival’s publicist who surveyed participants about who would most like to host me? Maybe there was dart throwing.

I always say that I try to go to every show with an open mind. But in this particular experiment that I’ve created, my mind will be truly open, or at least as open as it can be after I get my daily roster.  When it comes to theatre, I haven’t been a tabula rasa for a long time. But this week, my slate will be as clear as its been for some thirty years.

This is not a cranky older guy post, whining about the way things used to be, but merely an observation about how the digital revolution has affected a behavior that was long taken for granted. I am referring, specifically to the habit of browsing bookshelves and record collections when visiting a home for the first time.

For me, this was a time-honored activity because, in moments when I might be left alone in the appropriate room, or during a party seek refuge from din, I would drift to bookshelves or record (later CD) racks to peruse the archive, as it were. Visiting a new friend, it would help me to quickly understand what more we might have in common; on an early date, it might provide fodder for conversation during a forthcoming lull. Even the manner in which the materials were kept was a indicator; as a compulsive alphabetizer, a jumbled collection might give me pause; my books are still divided between fiction and non-fiction and my CDs are broken down, by rock, jazz, classical, comedy and cast recordings.

Some of my fiction books,
imperfectly organized

Long before we talked of online curation, one’s music or literary collections were a snapshot of a person just ripe for the examining. In The New York Times, Verlyn Klinkenborg has likened a book collection to being a personal reminder of one’s literary pursuits and achievements. I instead see them as somewhat more external, hunting trophies for the cultural adventurer, displays of prowess for others to marvel at. True, they’re hardly foolproof record. There was an era when nearly every self-respecting bookshelf held Stephen Hawking’s  A Brief History of Time, but I’ve never actually had a conversation with anyone who’s read it; it was the equivalent of buying a stag’s head in an antique shop rather than tracking wildlife through the Rockies (not that I’m advocating anyone running out to kill animals for display).

Mind you, the digital shift has been an enormous boon to many. One no longer need  enter someone’s home to check out their interests; the cavalcade of Facebook likes means you can surf the interests, if not ownership, of people you may have just met – or don’t yet know – allowing you to prejudge if you wish.  Trying that option with me online will prove vastly less fulfilling than a bookshelf crawl in my apartment; I tend to “like” very little on Facebook so that my news feed won’t be overrun with ads and “you may also like” suggestions. I’m not intentionally shielding my digital footprint or my enthusiasms from others, but only trying to limit marketer access to the degree that’s still possible.

A portion of my music archive,
alphabetized by artist

The iPod and the Kindle (and their competitors) are responsible for stymieing this wholly acceptable form of social and cultural snooping. If you’re spotted gazing at a bookshelf, no one would think anything of it, and might even evince a certain amount of pride, while if you were to suddenly activate their tablet while they’re off getting you a drink, they might not be so sanguine. The digital survey, even if deemed acceptable, is also not so rewarding as to do so physically; there are no book flaps and author bios to read easily, or album art or liner notes to study.  To be sure, the digital devices allow us access to our collections constantly, thanks to portability and now even cloud storage, but it has hidden our interests from view, cutting off a line of communication.

Of course, as an avid theatergoer, that aspect of my interests has always been less accessible. There are only so many Playbills and programs one can artfully array on a coffee table before it comes clutter, and theatre programs don’t have spines with the names of shows visible if stored on shelves. Part of my CD collection is  misleading, because I often acquire cast recordings for reference, not necessarily personal enthusiasm; I have musicals on disc that I have never listened to, but they’re right at hand should the subject come up.

I am a creature of habit, and my attachment to the physical is deeply ingrained. I suppose on a vacation I might download a stray mystery to the Kindle rather than carry a book (hardcover is my preference, in almost all cases, with the attendant weight burden). The stray pop tune may warrant an iTunes impulse buy, rather than an album purchase, and the same holds true for some obscure material that is no longer in print but remains downloadable. But as someone who still dreams of a room in my home called the library, with comfortable reading chairs, a great sound system and walls filled with books, I can’t let go of my prizes, which even after periodic culls, have traveled from home to home with me, not least being my copies of published plays, in weathered paperback, some of which date back to my teen years.

It wouldn’t be cost effective for me to rebuy my books in digital form, even if it would free up precious apartment space; I could convert all of my recordings to digital, but I’d need a bigger iDevice. Doing either would deprive me of a portion of my trophies (the limited edition 5-CD Elvis Costello live set; the signed, numbered first edition of Vonnegut’s Slapstick) and of the display of my cultural plumage. I’m just not prepared to give that up. And like the owner of a home “under water,” I’ve invested a lot in this ephemera, only to find its physical value eroded by the march of technology, so it wouldn’t be close to an even trade if I opted to upgrade.  I am, at this point, rooted in my outdated pursuits, even if I ever choose not to be.

Mind you, I’m told that some people also like to check out bathroom medicine cabinets when they visit a home; that’s a line I’ve never been compelled to cross. But for aficionados of that level of intrusion, it’ll have to remain a physical pursuit, unless Facebook starts letting people “like” pharmaceuticals, which I hope never comes to pass.

I happen to follow a group of smart, funny and insightful television journalists on Twitter – among them Alyssa Rosenberg, Todd VanDerWerff, Linda Holmes, Alan Sepinwall, Kate Aurthur, Roger Catlin and June Thomas. As a result, for the last 10 days or so, my feed has been overrun with their real-time thoughts and intramural conversations about the new and returning crop of television programs, because they’ve all been together at the Television Critics Association‘s summer residency in California, where they’ve had a daily barrage of presentations by dozens of TV networks.

It’s been pretty entertaining and informative watching these folks melt when Tom Hiddleston starts quoting Shakespeare (he plays Prince Hal/Henry V in the upcoming The Hollow Crown) and get riled up when sitcoms try to defend reactionary humor about race by draping themselves in the flag of All In The Family. Even as they acknowledge their own complicity in a grand promotional scheme, they’re proving their value as cultural commentators, generating instant awareness for the upcoming TV season and no doubt stockpiling material for coverage and commentary to come.

So I ask: where’s the corollary event for American theatre?

To be sure, there are few media outlets these days that are likely to underwrite theatre journalists spending a week or more hearing comparable presentations; travel budgets are limited if they exist at all. Unlike TV, the majority of theatre is ultimately a local or regional, rather than national, event.  But it strikes me that while there are any number of conferences and convenings within the field itself (i.e. the TCG conference and Broadway League spring road conference), some of which invite the press, they are designed for “internal” field conversations, rather than focused for those who write about the field. The open-to-the-public TEDx Broadway conference is, consistent with the TED template, presentational; the annual “day after the Tony nominations” press event is a mob scene of media outlets scurrying for timely soundbites from shellshocked nominees, shuttling from booth to booth, providing brief access tied to a singular event.

The American Theatre Critics Association meets twice annually, and they regularly invite artistic guests. But by and large, content is geared towards what’s taking place in the locations they visit; their winter/spring gathering is in New York every other year, with alternate spring events and the summer locale varying. I wonder how fully the broad spectrum of American theatre is available to them each year, as a result of purely logistical and budgetary considerations.

Now maybe part of the lure of the TCA events is that it allows TV journalists to be in the same room with people they normally see only on screens, or perhaps in the occasional phone interview. Certainly there’s a thread of fandom running through their tweets when certain figures appear; in addition to the Hiddleston admiration, Sesame Street characters and one of the Bunheads also provoked enthusiasm from the TV tweeters. Theatre journalists, on the other hand, are used to being in the same room as many of the artists they cover, not least because the performances are live, not on some digital medium.

But I’ve also watched as the TV journos take the opportunity to ask questions of the various panels arrayed before them, and even comment upon each others questions, as well as the sometimes informative, sometimes evasive responses from the panelists. While it seems that the networks do their very best to control the flow of events, some of the conversations that ensue can be unexpected and even messy. Still, even after day upon day of seeming incarceration in hotel meeting rooms, the writers can get fired up about the field they’re covering, both pro and con.  That has enormous value.

So how do we foster this kind of engagement with the journalists who cover our field? They, like we, face enormous challenges, and we should be bonded together in our support for the arts. Yes, Twitter has created a platform where certain critics and select artistic leaders pursue truncated dialogues and debates, subject to the vagaries of happening to be online at the same time, but sustained interactions between the press and our field are usually limited to proscribed interviews on certain subjects, rarely lasting more than an hour. That’s pretty perfunctory for people who rely on one another for aspects of their livelihood, and we should do better.

I’m not suggesting a marathon event like the TCA’s, for practical reasons. But what if every summer (when fewer companies are in production), artists, commercial producers and not-for-profit heads, of ventures large and small, from around the country, had a platform for candid but on the record conversations with the theatre press? What if the ratio were more or less equal? What if journalists could speak with creators not just from their own community, but hear what’s going on in multiple locations from the people making the work, not just their peers who actually get to see it? Yes, I imagine the prospect might frighten many on the theatre side, since the instinct is to always try to control the story, but don’t you think that’s the case as well for the TV networks? Admittedly, showing the work itself would prove problematic (not an issue for TV or film), but properly constructed, an event of two or three days duration could do more than just hold participants’ interest, but inspire it as well.

This is not rocket science and the TCA event is only one model. Social and streaming media could actually open up such an event even more broadly, and if there’s one thing theatres and theatre journalists could use, it’s a broader platform, rather than an ever-narrowing one. Could this take place under the aegis of an existing entity or several banded together? Of course it could, so long as everyone seeks a common goal, not the singular aim of their own organization. Could this prove contentious at times, as thoughts are openly shared? Absolutely, but that’s what makes news, and disagreement isn’t always detrimental.

None of what I say here should be taken as criticism of any of the events that already exist in theatre or in the broader arts community. They are constructed with certain goals for distinct constituencies and each achieves their ends ably I’m sure. But perhaps we need one more event, one crafted specifically for the mutual needs and interests of those who make and produce work and those who help carry our news and work to a broader audience, instead of, on occasion, inviting them in to watch us talk among ourselves or to serve our immediate promotional needs – or being in a select group from our field invited in to talk with them. We are often in the same rooms at the same time at performances. What about being in a room where we actually converse?

Volume 1 of Fantagraphics’
The Complete Peanuts

In one of his best known stories, “Adrift Just Off the Islets of Langerhans: Latitude 38° 54′ N, Longitude 77° 00′ 13″ W,” the science fiction and fantasy author Harlan Ellison tells of a man who has lost his soul and who embarks on a metaphysical journey inside himself to find it again. At the end of his adventure he finds (partial spoiler alert) a bit of long forgotten pop culture ephemera.

I never need to go on the journey taken by Ellison’s protagonist, because while I know my soul is more complex than any single touchstone, I am certain of what looms largest inside the innermost me. That’s because it also happens to sit, at 18 volumes and counting, on the shelves across from where I write. I refer to “The Complete Peanuts,” an ongoing series of hardcover reprints from Fantagraphics of every “Peanuts” cartoon drawn by Charles M. Schulz, which still has several years to go before it is fully complete. Between those covers are perhaps the single greatest influence on me from age five to 15, and in many ways both the formation and reflection of my psyche.

A relatively early “cast” of Peanuts

Since I was born in the early 60s, “Peanuts” was already established by the time I began reading the comics page of the local newspaper. Thanks to tag sales and paperback reprints, I was able to work my way back to the strip’s earliest years without any difficulty.

Remarkably for a comic so steeped in Schulz’s own Midwestern childhood decades earlier, the Peanuts were a late 60s-early 70s phenomenon, as TV specials, a long-running musical and theatrical films spread the gospel of Charlie Brown and company (there was even a book called The Gospel According to Peanuts). Both the establishment and the bourgeoning counterculture found something they could share in Peanuts, and while there was surely a massive marketing campaign run by The Man, resulting in Happiness is a Warm Puppy taking  up permanent residence at cash registers everywhere, you could also find Peanuts-emblazoned merchandise in progressive record stores too, with Snoopy posters (maybe even some in blacklight-sensitive colors) on the walls behind the bong display cases.

I’ve only read the first volume or two of the collected works, even though I buy them as they’re published; they seem to call for a certain kind of lazy Sunday afternoon, perhaps in a hammock, that one rarely finds in Manhattan life. Even those earliest strips remain familiar; they don’t trigger a forgotten memory like a random madeleine, but merely jog my brain where snapshots of the strips reside barely out of reach, filed, not faded. While the digital transition continues apace, I’m putting these books aside to be read by me in two or three decades, though youthful visitors with clean hands will be welcome to page through them in the meantime.

Here’s the World War I
Flying Ace, high over
France…

While a biography has already emerged which links, in some cases unfavorably, Schulz’s own life with that of his characters, I have no particular interest in the artist’s role as a man, a husband, or father. As much as possible, I want to retain that childhood innocence where the work simply exists, that time before we fully realize that an actual person has created these things we read.

Then, as now, Peanuts is a marvel. The main characters are archetypes: the ever aspiring but never succeeding Charlie Brown, the take-no-prisoners Lucy, the contemplative Linus, the artistically single-minded Schroeder, the free-spirited and soulful Snoopy. It’s worth noting that for all of the other characters Schultz created, these five were the core of the strip; Violet, Patty, Shermy, Frieda, Franklin, Pig Pen, Woodstock, Spike and so many others were always supporting players. Schroeder even ran out of steam after a while, ceding his lead position to both Sally and Peppermint Patty.

But for me, Peanuts was all about Charlie Brown and Snoopy – the former being the person I saw myself as, the latter being the personification of who I hoped to be. I never could kick a football, even if it wasn’t snatched away from me; I couldn’t throw or hit a baseball; the little red headed girl (or blonde or brunette) would barely notice me, let alone return my affection. I couldn’t let go of that enough to enjoy the simple pleasures of a good meal (suppertime!) or an imaginative foray into dark territory. No Red Barons for me – too scary.  Even as I achieved academically, even as I began to gather a group of friends with whom I am close four decades later, I always felt like the kid who got a rock in his Halloween candy, the kid laying flat on his back, staring at the sky, wondering why he’d fallen for the same ridicule yet again.

Flyer for Amity Junior High School’s 1977
You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown

Peanuts even provided my entryway into theatre. The first time I can recall performing publicly, I played the title role in a significantly truncated and surely unauthorized presentation of You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown at my day camp at age six or seven; in ninth grade, in the first musical ever produced at my junior high, I played Snoopy in the complete show, taking on the persona to which I aspired. I can’t remember auditioning for either engagement, but perhaps there’s something to be gleaned from the fact that while in my single digits, others saw me as I saw myself, while perhaps seven years later I could assume (or had assumed) a more exuberant façade.

I muse on my one-time obsession and future comfort because after decades of ever-less-inspired television specials, I read last week that the Peanuts characters will soon return to the big screen…in 3D rendered images and 3D projection. I will stop short of calling this sacrilege, because, as I say, the original work remains intact. But I worry about Peanuts going the way of Alvin and the Chipmunks, Underdog or Rocky and Bullwinkle, other childhood treats who proved to have less dimension when a third was added. Peanuts, like The Simpsons, have always looked vaguely creepy when fully modeled; they are best suited for the two-dimensions of the page precisely because they function in an isolated world wholly their own and their distinctive features can seem monstrous when extrapolated into something resembling reality. The makers of the stage musical intuited that immediately, which is why there are no oversized heads or dog costumes in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

I am not a die-hard collector of memorabilia; there is no “Peanuts room” filled with collectibles in my apartment. But my bookshelves belie my interests. Those Peanuts volumes share space with the complete works of Berkeley Breathed (“Bloom County” and its successors), I’m working out a justification for buying the multi-volume hardcover compendium of “Calvin and Hobbes,” and I should probably start squirreling away funds for the as yet unannounced but hopefully forthcoming complete “Doonesbury.”

I will spend hundred of dollars on these books because I want to hold them in my hands the way I did when I first read them, not scroll through them on a screen. “Doonesbury” is and will be the chronicle of American life in my era (conveniently beginning in New Haven when I was growing up there). But Peanuts – which ended just before Schultz died in 2000 – will be the constant reminder of my childhood, and in some ways the record of it as well, the philosophy, the psychology and the often rueful humor that gave birth to me as I am today, burrowed deep inside my brain and my heart.

Iowa’s Ottumwa High School

What is the purpose of putting on shows in high school? Is it educational? Recreational? Is it community relations? Is it a family activity?

I’ve always thought that high school theatre was for the benefit of the students putting on the show – for the education, the team-building, the exploration of talent and so on. That parents, siblings, relatives, friends and neighbors come to see these productions – whether academic in origin or extracurricular – is a byproduct, not a purpose. Although, to be fair, in many schools, the drama programs have to be self-supporting, so a certain amount of general audience development may be necessary, which can mean throwing a wide net.

Nonetheless, the recent cancelation of a high school production of The Laramie Project in Ottumwa, Iowa caught me by surprise. Not because I’m unfamiliar with educational administrators being uncomfortable with Laramie, but because the principal there has said “the play is too adult for a high school production but it does preach a great message.” If the message is great, where’s the problem?  What makes it too adult? That it’s about a murder? Murder is in movies, books, plays, and TV shows consumed by much younger kids. Is it that the murder victim was gay? Sadly, homophobia remains everywhere, but it’s worth noting that marriage equality has been the law in Iowa since 2009.

According to reports in The Ottumwa Courier and Heartland Connection, both the principal and superintendent are pleased that arrangements have been made for the production to be done by the students elsewhere in the community. So why exactly don’t they want it in their own backyard or, more accurately, auditorium?

The reason cited is because they feel what the school offers should be family entertainment for all ages, and that the admirable but adult themes of Laramie don’t fit that criteria. So the question is whether this is a long-standing, publicly stated policy, or one introduced only to block the production of this particular play, which is taken from verbatim accounts of the death of Matthew Shepard in Wyoming more than a decade ago.

I spoke with Moisés Kaufman, the artistic director of Tectonic Theatre Project, the company that created The Laramie Project and its companion piece The Laramie Project: 10 Years Later, since he has the best perspective on the play’s production history. Referring to Laramie as one of the most produced plays in America – professionally, amateur, college and high school – Kaufman acknowledged that productions are also challenged or canceled with some regularity, saying it happens in high schools two or three times annually.  Based on my general awareness of theatre news nationally, I was surprised: I thought it was more frequent, but the play’s popularity in high schools is confirmed by Dramatics magazine.

“Invariably,” Kaufman observed about cancelations of Laramie, “it has the opposite effect of what the administration is trying to do – it emboldens the students to be artists and social activists. Students realize that art is an incredible weapon and they have a responsibility and opportunity that comes from being an art maker.”

Kaufman said that, comparable to the figures often associated with marriage equality issue, there’s a big divide in the thinking between people over 50 and those under 50. “Students are very ready for this conversation, they’re living it,” said Kaufman. “It’s adults who are having a hard time with it.”  Describing the typical conflict over high school productions of Laramie, Kaufman said,  “First, it’s a disconnect in ideology and preparedness to deal with contemporary ideas, and secondly, that they’re listening to outside voices that have nothing to do with the education of the students.”

In Ottumwa, if the administration freely acknowledges the value of the piece and expresses support for the students doing it, but off school grounds, it seems that what’s at stake is a fear of outside pressure, an avoidance of potential challenges, with “family friendly” as a smokescreen for conflict avoidance. It’s a shame that the administration can’t back up their own sentiments and advocate for Laramie within the school, rather than harboring school resources and insulating themselves from any personal and professional risk instead of standing up for what they believe in. What kind of example and lesson is that?

The assertion that high school shows should be for all ages is not a new argument to me; I heard it voiced at a Board of Education meeting at my alma mater, Amity High School in Woodbridge CT, when a handful of community members registered their displeasure with a pending production of Sweeney Todd. It suggests that because so many parents and administrators were raised on the anodyne – albeit wonderful and classic – musicals of the 40s, 50s and 60s, that those shows remain exemplars of the only appropriate repertoire.

I think that perspective is deeply flawed. Would we choose to teach students from textbooks that were written with 1960s sensibility? Would we protect our athletes with the insufficient equipment of that era, or even from the 80s? Would literature and music be comparably circumscribed? I doubt it, especially in any district that wants to prepare students educationally, socially and emotionally for the world they’ll soon face, out from under the protective wings of parents and schools. High school theatre may still be thought of by many as a charming and even quaint activity for kids, and an easily expendable one at that, but it can instill great lessons and even save lives, if the students are permitted to engage with the full range of dramatic work, be it classic, new or even original.

The lessons of The Laramie Project are obvious to anyone who knows the piece or even just the facts surrounding Matthew Shepard’s death. High school teachers and administrators should be proud that students want to perform it and should be proud to have it, and other socially conscious, emotionally charged works on their stages.

As someone who had to make do in high school with Don’t Drink The Water and Bye Bye Birdie, I admire and envy every student who has had the chance to engage with material as challenging and important as The Laramie Project and other equally important, thoughtful and moving pieces of theatre. And if some pre-teens have to miss seeing their big siblings in a show, well surely that’s not the only time they haven’t been allowed to tag along. What’s done in their elementary or middle school is for them, and what’s done in high school is for bigger kids – and for every adult in town. Maybe there’s still time for Ottumwa High School to teach the right lesson.

*   *   *

Update: Hear me discussing censorship of high school plays on the Reduced Shakespeare Company podcast

Update, August 9: from The Ottumwa Courier: “Laramie Project Pushes Forward” by Chelsea Davis

MA’s Everett High School, where content
complaints morphed into budget woes.

Follow this with me, will you?

“The plays bothered a lot of us,” says a school superintendent, referring to works presented by a high school drama group. “The plays had references to sex and drinking.” In one instance, a male student reportedly doffed his pants, revealing shorts.

Subsequently, the school system, citing an influx of students (reports a news article) announces that all drama classes are terminated, with the superintendent saying (as paraphrased in the article), “The school can no longer afford to offer the classes as enrollment grows.”

Did everyone notice the sudden turn in there?

This is no hypothetical, but a scenario played out at the high school in Everett MA and reported by The Boston Globe. While the school superintendent, Frederick Foresteire, wraps himself in the protective shroud of marshaling resources in challenging economic times (unquestionably a legitimate concern in every public school in the country), targeting a drama program for eradication after registering his personal disapproval of said program smacks of retribution.

The article seems riddled with mixed messages. If there has been the demand for multiple sections of drama up until now, how does increased enrollment warrant elimination of a course of study? It is impossible to determine from the article whether any other academic area was treated comparably, though that would seem germane.

If the school has been content to have a single teacher take responsibility for drama education for six years, why does the superintendent note that “there will not be four or five sections taught by one teacher” if drama classes return in the future? Supposedly this action is not in response to the teacher’s qualifications to teach drama. One teacher with expertise would seem the economically and pedagogically prudent solution down the line, full or part-time.

And while a school system is well within its rights to post teachers based upon need, why would Everett High’s principal make the decision to reassign the drama teacher (who also teaches science) to a K through 8 school? If the high school’s enrollment is an issue, sending teachers elsewhere wouldn’t seem to solve the problem (unless this was some sort of trade) and this teacher could certainly go back to more science courses. And surely where that teacher was sent to address the district’s needs wasn’t the principal’s decision, but that of someone higher up, with a more global view. Like, say, a superintendent.

While drama will remain at Everett High as an extracurricular activity, the article also notes that the school’s new principal, Erick Naumann, “will have more authority over the drama club,” and the drama coach “will have to submit a description of props and, if possible, stage directions, at least two months in advance.”

Does anyone still think this situation has anything to do with budgets?

In the past, I’ve acknowledged that schools and school districts have the right to decide what material is appropriate for their drama groups, academic or extracurricular, but I believe those decisions should be made in the best interests of the students, not the school system. I lobby for the widest range of material possible, but I admit am not charged with the creation of educational standards. When content issues arise, it is usually because administrators have paid scant attention to drama courses or clubs for years and only take an interest when something of “questionable” propriety is brought to their attention, often late in the game, or because of personal biases by administrators. But prop lists? Stage directions? At least two months in advance? That smacks of Big Brother and is impractical if not impossible, as anyone with a basic understanding of how theatre is made would know. It would be interesting to learn by what criteria such a submission would be either challenged or approved.

Also pertinent at Everett High is that some of the “offending” material that drew Mr. Foresteire’s ire was written by the students. Well, you know what? If kids are writing about their lives, topics like sex and alcohol are going to come up. Hiding them from view only serves to deny the opportunity for dialogue and learning — and it’s censorship of the students’ voices in an educational setting. Will Mr. Naumann also be determining which student essays and stories may be read aloud in English classes in his school? I doubt it. But I bet original student dramas won’t soon be seen again in those parts, so long as they need to be approved every step along the way, killing any possibility of creativity, spontaneity or truth.

When high school theatre initiatives are threatened or cut, attention to the issue is predominantly local and discrete, as if each was unique and only of interest to the specific school and town. That the Globe wrote about the situation in Everett is commendable, though it appears to have emanated from a local news bureau; read online, it’s impossible to discern whether it was in a regional edition or in the full run of the print version. The Everett High School drama decision deserves even more attention and investigation, as inconsistencies abound.

Even though the final verdict will occur every time at the local level when school arts programs are threatened over content, funding or both, these challenges to drama and indeed all of the arts need to be taken up nationally in each and every case as ongoing evidence of a continuing trend. That’s why as a Connecticut native and a New York resident, I’m worried about what has taken place in Everett MA, because I know it’s not an isolated incident. It’s just another in a long line of school administrations afraid to allow students to grapple with and learn about the world through art, under the guise of protecting them. Perhaps it’s even something more.

Oh, and by the way Mr. Foresteire: I dropped trou onstage, revealing boxer shorts, in a high school production back in 1977. The offensive material? Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple.

*   *   *

Click here to sign a petition in support of the restoration of drama education at Everett High School.

Julie Hennrikus of Stage Source in Boston wrote about the situation at Everett High School as well, explaining why the arts aren’t extra, but essential.

While the arts are often notoriously slow adopters of new technology, the rapid rise of social media would seem to dictate that commercial theatre jump on the bandwagon and hold on tight.

But social media may be best suited for use by subsidised companies, rather than the shows that populate the West End and Broadway.

Certainly, every show has the basics in place, a Facebook page, a Twitter feed and so on, in addition to the now de rigeur website. But producers and their marketing teams seem to view most social media as an extension of advertising or PR, feeding out casting announcements, special ticket offers and ‘exclusive’ photos and video all directed at driving sales.

The problem is that for most productions, especially early in their runs, there aren’t necessarily enough people who have followed or liked the show to read what’s on offer, and the content is often repurposed for other uses, diluting the impact that ‘exclusivity’ might still carry.

Shows appear drawn to the media portion of this new manner of communications, when it is the social aspect that is most innovative and compelling. Social platforms offer rapid and direct communications with individuals, but the fact is that people engage most with those who actually engage with, or entertain, them. It may take place on an overwhelming scale when it comes to major celebrities, but in the theatre, it’s quite easy for fans to strike up conversations with stars, writers, designers, directors and even critics – something virtually unimaginable a decade ago. So, if shows don’t actually engage with their audiences beyond tarted-up press announcements, they’re dropping the ball.

Of course, the challenge is how creative on an ongoing basis any one show can be, since they’re a relatively fixed offering (people, on the other hand, can have remarkably varied day-to-day lives) and how much  they’re willing to invest to be socially rather than sales-oriented, focusing on the long game rather than immediate gain. Except for a very small portion of the audience,  attendance at a commercial show is a one-off event, not an ongoing commitment, seemingly at odds with the basis of social media. The building of relationships afforded by social media can create a stronger bond for an ongoing company producing an array of works over months or years.

In 2009, when social media was still working its way into public consciousness, the Broadway production of Next to Normal garnered great attention and achieved a remarkable million followers through two initiatives. It offered one night “live-tweeting” the plot of the entire show for anyone who cared to follow. Shorn of songs and even most dialogue, they were serialising an outline in real time, but it was a distinctive effort that marked the show as creative and tantalised people with the framework of a show they might then choose to see in real life.

Next to Normal also ran a campaign in which Twitter followers were encouraged to make suggestions for a new song for the show, creating a connection directly with the authors, who did indeed write a song based on suggestions. While it wasn’t added to the finished work, fans could hear it online. It’s a shame that, since the account still has 946,000 following (though it is closed), it hasn’t tweeted since April of last year, leaving a huge untapped base of potential ticket buyers for other productions.

Despite the efforts and success of Next to Normal, social media still seems an afterthought for most Broadway shows. In a survey of Broadway theatres in early May, prompts to interact with the show through social media activity (primarily Facebook, Twitter and Instagram) were on display at 15 theatres – yet a nearly equal number (14) had no such reminders in their front of theatre or box office lobby displays (a number of theatres had no tenants at the time). A few showed real initiative in advocating social media use (a photo backdrop outside the Lunt-Fontanne for Motown; a ‘photo stop’ in the upper lobby of the Gershwin for Wicked).

Unfortunately, others simply displayed social platform logos without the specific names used by the shows in those arenas, so one would have to seek them out; it’s akin to posting ‘we have a website’ instead of giving a URL.

If productions don’t feel that social media gives them sufficient bang for their buck, perhaps they shouldn’t establish a presence only to give it short shrift. On the other hand, as some shows are demonstrating, with a little thought, a show can build its profile at a proportionately low cost, amplifying the power of the ever essential word of mouth, so long as they’re willing to commit to subtly promoting their presence by offering intriguing content and damping down the urge to shout “BUY NOW”.

I’m unable to see a Shakespeare play without thinking of my late mother.

“How sweet,” you think, “He and his mother must have shared many great evenings together watching Shakespeare. Their common love of the Bard transcends her passing.”

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. I think of my mom, an elementary school teacher by training, whenever I’m headed to a Shakespeare production because, for the 23 years I lived in her house, I heard the same thing every time I was en route to see one of Bill’s plays.

“Did you read the story first?”

One of many editions of Charles & Mary Lamb’s “Tales From Shakespeare”

My mother was convinced that the only way to fully appreciate Shakespeare, because of the dense and archaic language, was to read a detailed plot synopsis immediately prior to seeing one of his plays. Specifically, she meant for me to pull down her copy of Charles and Mary Lamb’s Tales From Shakespeare from the living room shelves. Far predating such study guides as Cliff’s Notes, the Lamb book was originally written in 1807; my mom’s edition probably dated from the 1930s or 40s and was a tool in her own Shakespeare studies, such as they were.

I resisted my mother’s advice on a consistent basis, perhaps because I found Tales to be stodgy and unreadable on its own, or perhaps I was just being intellectually cocky. She never quite understood how I could see Shakespeare plays without this essential crutch. But my appreciation of theatre always seemed innate, rather than inspired by my parents, so this was simply one more example of how different we were from each other.

Ultimately, I learned about Shakespeare by seeing the plays over and over again, with an assist from the standard high school curriculum (including Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth). I remember being required to memorize Mark Antony’s funeral oration from Julius Caesar; perhaps there were a few other speeches I had to commit to memory as class work (though, oddly, today I most remember Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”).

My greatest training in Shakespeare came during my eight and half years as p.r. director at Hartford Stage, which gave me to opportunity to see and discuss the plays with Mark Lamos, the artistic director, who is most responsible for what Shakespeare knowledge I may have. During my tenure, we produced Twelfth Night, Pericles, Hamlet, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Julius Caesar and All’s Well That Ends Well; I’ve also seen productions of Measure for Measure, Cymbeline, As You Like It, Romeo and Juliet and Richard III directed by Mark. I’ve seen countless Shakespeare productions, but Mark was my true guide – beginning when I was 23 years old – immeasurably aided by my access to seeing the former group of plays multiple times in a short span.

Ken Ludwig’s book title says it all

I was reminded of all of this as read through the newly published How To Teach Shakespeare To Your Children (Crown Publishing, $25) by playwright Ken Ludwig, author of such plays as Lend Me A Tenor and Moon Over Buffalo.  Much as I’ve enjoyed Ludwig’s farces, I was mildly skeptical of his skills as a Shakespeare teacher, but in point of fact his book is exactly what its title says, a cogent, chapter by chapter study guide designed to empower parents to familiarize their children with Shakespeare’s language. Ludwig fundamentally believes in the primacy of Shakespeare’s work and words, so much so that he makes his case for parents teaching Shakespeare to their kids in only seven pages of the 314 page book, with memorization of key speeches as his touchstone. The rest is process.

Not having children, I can’t test Ludwig’s theories and conduct my own experiments. But surely he’s not alone in his belief in the value of memorization as introduction, as attested to by countless adorable YouTube videos of toddlers stumbling through Henry V’s speech before the battle at Agincourt and the like; an often viewed clip of Brian Cox teaching Hamlet to a youngster is a particularly delightful example. Though to be fair, the children on YouTube are younger than Ludwig’s suggested starting age of about six years, and surely the age should vary – if one wishes to embark on the Ludwig method – based upon the nature of each individual child.

As astute as Ludwig’s lessons are, I can’t help but think that they’re actually a stealth method of teaching Shakespeare to parents. Surely my mother might have grown more comfortable with the (to her) impenetrable language that got in the way of the stories; indeed, Ludwig’s book is focused more on moments from Shakespeare than with the plots themselves. A parent who doesn’t know, in particular, Hamlet, Midsummer and Twelfth Night might need a separate book to familiarize themselves with plots and cursory analysis before launching into the Ludwig method, besides reading the plays themselves.  If parents need to be eased into Shakespeare, they may want to use one of the countless graphic novel versions, an alternative study method apart from more didactic texts and the original scripts.  And there are countless imaginative films spanning the history of cinema to use as teaching (and learning) tools as well.

Yes, this is a real book

By sheer coincidence, How To Teach Your Children Shakespeare was published just weeks before, of all things, William Shakespeare’s Star Wars: Verily, A New Hope by Ian Doescher (Quirk Books, $14.95) a scene-by-scene rewrite of George Lucas’s Episode IV rendered in iambic pentameter. While it’s far from the first work to mingle Shakespearean style and more modern stories (I saw a quite entertaining Tarantino travesty, Pulp Shakespeare, last summer at the New York International Fringe Festival; here’s a clip), it’s a solidly accomplished piece of work, which, like Ludwig’s curriculum, place its emphasis on language. It’s witty, but never anachronistic just for a laugh. It’s hard to tell whether it’s actually stage-worthy (I can imagine countless Shakespeare troupes racing to acquire performance rights, at least for readings or benefits, but this trailer doesn’t inspire confidence), but for the sci-fi geek who’s also a Shakespeare nerd (there are probably plenty), it’s a fun read. Purists will note that the slim volume is clearly not drawn from George Lucas’s First Folio, as it includes scenes with Jabba the Hutt which were not in the original 1977 film release, but rather in the much-later digital makeover; this version also fudges whether Han or Greedo shot first.

The Shakespeare-Star Wars mash-up might be just a lark for most (I particularly enjoyed R2-D2 proffering fully articulated asides to the audience while his companions hear only “meeps” and “beeps), but I wonder whether it might be another tool in the Shakespeare educational kit. If children and teens know Star Wars well, but are Shakespeare novices, this book might serve to teach them “Shakespeare as a second language,” since the faux-vintage language tracks so closely with the film. I don’t mean to suggest that Doescher’s gloss is equal to the Bard’s words, but especially for tweens and teens, it might be a helpful gateway text.

From the recent production by NYC’s The Shakespeare Forum

It is perhaps ironic that I’ve grown to like Shakespeare so much, because I don’t take any particular pleasure in reading him. It’s not a chore by any means, but I don’t pick up my hefty Oxford compendium of a Sunday morning for fun – it’s a reference tool. For me, the playing is all. As a result, while I know any number of the Bard’s plays rather well (in addition to numerous productions of the standard repertoire, I’ve seen no less than three Timon of Athens and three Cymbelines), I also have huge gaps in the canon, one of which was filled only two days ago when I saw The Shakespeare Forum’s production of Love’s Labour’s Lost.

For the first time in many years, I encountered a Shakespeare play that was wholly new to me. I was actually a bit concerned early on in the production, as I wasn’t immediately grasping the plot and the words weren’t even distant echoes of an ill-remembered prior production. For the very first time, I found myself wondering whether I should have read up on a Shakespeare play before seeing it; maybe my youthful defiance of my mother’s teaching tool was ill-placed.

But as I settled in with this alien story, it became clearer; flotsam of my Shakespeare knowledge took hold as I pondered whether Holofernes was written as a female role, as played in this production, and the play within the play echoed (actually, prefigured) the Pyramus and Thisbe scene in Midsummer’s Act V. Did I get every word, every plot point, every allusion? I sincerely doubt it, but that’s because I was a stranger in a strange land for the first time in a long time; since my exposure to LLL isn’t regulated at 50 year intervals, I’ll glean more from the next encounter, which will come in only weeks, with the new musical version set to debut at The Public Theatre’s Shakespeare in the Park.

I have to say that in the case of Shakespeare, familiarity breeds not contempt, but respect and appreciation, and there’s no single way to achieve that knowledge (a close friend and Shakespeare fan uses recordings of the plays as a nightly sleep aid, which I can’t imagine). I do think it can come too soon (impenetrable Shakespeare surely builds up cognitive antibodies to fight off the Bard), but never too late.  Whatever the method, I suspect that anyone can come to enjoy, and even love, all of those words, words, words. I just wish I had been able to share them with my mom.

During the 2012/13 Broadway season, a total of nine new musicals appeared on Broadway (hitting the average annual level of recent years). Of those nine, only four are still running. As I write, there are seven new musicals playing Off-Broadway, with an eighth due in a few weeks; there may well be others. What does it tell us when 12 months of Broadway yields just about as much new musical material as we find Off-Broadway in only a couple of months?

To be fair, many of the Off-Broadway musicals are limited runs in the seasons of subsidised companies, and two are commercial transfers from such companies from earlier this year. Only one will play in a theatre which is comparable in size to Broadway venues, and in that case it’s under the auspices of Shakespeare in the Park; most are in spaces where one week of performances equals the capacity of one Broadway performance. A transferred Off-Broadway hit can easily become a Broadway casualty given the commercial demands of larger theatres and higher costs.

Certainly, hit Off-Broadway musicals are hardly new; one need only look to The Fantasticks, You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown, Godspell and Little Shop of Horrors for precursors, and it’s unlikely the current new shows will ever attain the longevity of those icons. But in recent years, the standard model has tended much more towards the Off-Broadway to Broadway transfer for success, as evidenced by shows ranging from Rent to Avenue Q to The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. Even shows that began in rudimentary stagings at the New York International Fringe Festival and the New York Musical Theatre Festival have fought their way to Broadway, including Urinetown and Next to Normal.

Surveying the variety of material, it would appear that the modest scale of Off-Broadway allows for a greater range of topics and styles than the Great White Way, from the sung through pop opera of Dave Malloy’s Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 (based on a portion of War and Peace, and performed in a tent) to David Byrne and Fatboy Slim’s Imelda Marcos disco bio Here Lies Love. There’s one musical that is drawn from a film (Far From Heaven) and two with their roots in Shakespeare (Venice, after Othello, and Love’s Labour’s Lost). Several adopt variations on an environmental, break-the-proscenium approach (Here Lies Love, Murder Ballad and Great Comet). None model themselves on the formula of the classic American musical.

I suspect that no one is getting rich off of these productions, while the backers of Kinky Boots, Matilda and Motown on Broadway will surely do quite well over time. For these Off- Broadway musicals to become true earners for all involved, they will either have to manage sustained runs under a commercial model, on Broadway or Off, or spawn productions across the country and abroad. But even if that doesn’t come to pass, what they are doing is providing a superb showcase for predominantly new talent and unexpected subjects; they are bolstering the musical repertory at a pace at least equal to Broadway and building the reputations of artists.

This shouldn’t suggest that musical success Off-Broadway is a breeze, and it’s worth noting that many of these shows are only mounted with significant donor underwriting or “enhancement” from producers who hope the property will turn out to be Broadway-worthy. But with different scale and different expectations, Off-Broadway musicals may well be supplanting Broadway in advancing the form.

Hindsight doesn’t benefit anyone, but it is hard to resist wondering whether the short-lived Hands on a Hardbody might have fared better at director Neil Pepe’s Atlantic Theatre Company instead of in a Broadway theatre. Ironically, that was the birthplace of Spring Awakening, a musical that had struggled through a number of developmental productions over the years only to find praise, first Off- Broadway, then on.

There’s an old saying that one can’t make a living on Broadway, but can make a killing. It’s not easy to make a living off of Off-Broadway musicals either, but you can build a career.

Ever so quietly this week, the national arts scene became a bit more fragmented, a bit more stratified and a lot more invisible. The Associated Press has just spiked a chunk of its opera, dance and off-Broadway coverage. And in this case, no news is bad news.

In an email, AP chief theater writer Mark Kennedy described the decision to me:

“We sent out a survey before the Tonys to the members of our cooperative, asking about their use of our reviews,” he wrote. “While music, books, movies and TV came back positive, the results proved what we have long suspected: Members overwhelmingly are not using our opera, dance or off-Broadway reviews.”

“It’s more than that,” Kennedy continued. “In some cases, they actually resent [that coverage], thinking we can use our resources better. So while we of course will dip into the world of off-Broadway, whether for an occasional review or a story, we have to listen to the people who pay our bills.”

This may seem like an inside-baseball story, of interest only to theatrical publicists and producers. But the ramifications are a little greater.

Coverage in The New York Times has prestige and tradition, and speaks to the arts community; The Wall Street Journal reaches art organizations’ board members and corporate sponsors; USA Today has mass appeal. But the AP almost certainly has the widest reach of all: Its copy is available to hundreds of print and online outlets internationally, including the big three above.

Indeed, as news has increasingly shifted online, AP arts coverage is probably more accessible to more people than it has ever been. It appears directly on countless news websites — including NPR’s — without any human effort, as part of a continuous news feed, where it’s not subject to the day-to-day editorial priorities and space limitations that govern a print paper or radio show. Even when editors “don’t use” this coverage, it appears on their sites; in some cases, an AP item may prompt an outlet to do its own story on the same subject.

In my days as a publicist, pre-Internet, reportage by The Associated Press often resulted in a single story cropping up in the most unexpected places. It would get relayed back to me by other publicists in other cities — or, charmingly, by the parents of co-workers.

Further back, when I was a teen hungry to learn, AP coverage fed my arts interest with news of culture beyond that originated by my local paper.

What’s important to note is that this week’s news is not the callous edict of a commercially driven corporate behemoth, but rather a practical decision by a member-driven service organization that operates as a not-for-profit. Yet it represents how, in an ever more challenging environment for the news industry, the arts are drawing the short stick.

Some might think that coverage of these areas is essentially local news for Manhattanites. But the arts ecology is more complicated than that. Sure, many people may not be able to attend a New York opera in person, but both radio and TV broadcasts bring those performances to audiences across the country — and the AP’s stories may be the most accessible source of advance coverage for fans in a variety of markets.

Dance companies may well tour to those same locations, and since few can sustain themselves playing only in Manhattan, the AP’s coverage has a direct impact on the viability of those bookings as well.

As for off-Broadway? That’s the easiest to argue for. It’s home to a significant number of new works that may never reach Broadway, but which increase the body of theatrical literature — and which often go on to play numerous regional and amateur stages.

This is particularly important when it comes to plays (as opposed to musicals): Of the 45 works recognized by the Pulitzer for drama or the Tony for best play since 1984, only five originated on Broadway. Yet that is the arena on which the AP will now narrow its focus. Coverage of “regional” arts organizations — long hailed as a similarly deep well of creativity — has already been marginalized.

This is just the latest news in a dispiriting trend. Onetime show-business bible Variety has all but eliminated regional theater reviews, along with a significant amount of its off-Broadway coverage; there’s occasional opera coverage in its pages these days, and no dance coverage.

The Village Voice, home to off-Broadway’s Obie Awards, laid off drama critic Michael Feingold just weeks ago, after more than four decades of service, even as it broadened its coverage of food.

There are countless other examples: Arts coverage at outlets large and small has been narrowing in favor of the largest and most popular companies and offerings, just as arts funding sources have been shrinking, and often tilting in favor of the bigger players. That stratification will only be reinforced by the AP’s coverage reductions.

There’s an invisible cost here. When attempts to reduce or eliminate funding to the arts crop up — which they do with a depressing regularity — they gain traction in part because not enough people encounter the arts, or even regular coverage of the arts, on a daily basis. When a resource as mighty as The Associated Press can’t even offer material for consideration because of a professed lack of interest by other media gatekeepers, I worry it’ll only lend support to those who want to delegitimize the arts with a charge of elitism.

Because celebrity holds ever-increasing sway in all entertainment coverage, and because the performing arts are (to too many editors) the poor stepchild of entertainment, I have a sneaking suspicion that if Hugh Jackman ever ventures off-Broadway, when Renee Fleming sings something at the Met, wherever David Hallberg dances, The Associated Press will probably manage to tell us about it.

We’ll also still hear from the AP when an artistic leader is the victim of internecine violence in his own company, or when a tech mishap injures a performer. Bad news always trumps good.

But we will know infinitely less about all the fine work being done by those who aren’t already well known, or at companies where tragedies mercifully don’t happen, or among worthy troupes that could most benefit from national attention not found elsewhere.

And should The Associated Press’s decision prove to be a model for yet more media outlets, then entire swaths of the arts may be, as long feared, on the brink of popular irrelevancy. Because soon no one may know they’re there.

Here’s the post in its original form on NPR.org