Brian D’Arcy James, Andrew Rannells and Jonathan Groff perform at Ham4Ham
If you’re a dedicated fan of the musical Hamilton, or if you follow me on social media, you may well have come across the streetside #Ham4Ham show videos I’ve been sharing since late July. As I write, they’ve collectively been viewed on YouTube about 890,000 times – and that doesn’t include views of the same videos that have been uploaded directly to Facebook. So without doing a careful count, I can truthfully say the videos have been seen over 1.1 million times.
As a result, I have been labeled a Hamilton “superfan” on social media, and I’ve been interviewed by a handful of media outlets. I’ve been credited as “Ham4Ham documenter” in Entertainment Weekly. I even get recognized by people in the crowd when I show up to record the shows. But I’ve also found that there’s a lot of curiosity and outright confusion about what I’m doing there, so I’ve decided to satisfy the questioners and settle any uncertainty by asking myself questions I’ve actually been asked about my continuing presence at the #Ham4Ham shows – and a few no one has asked.
Why do you do it?
I started recording the shows in late July, before there hadn’t been much press specifically about #Ham4Ham shows, because I thought it would make for a blog post at some point, and also be material for my weekly column in London’s The Stage newspaper. That said, both the blog post and Stage column mention ran in early August.
But it’s now December. Why are you still showing up?
During previews, #Ham4Ham shows were happening daily, sometimes even twice a day. In the final weeks of previews, I was trying to get there pretty consistently, in the hope of coming up with a few great videos. But once the regular run began and Ham4Ham dropped to twice or perhaps three times a week, I found it had become a habit and, being a creature of habit in many things, I just keep going.
How do you manage to get to every one?
I don’t. I’ve missed dozens. I didn’t go for the first two weeks, and I’ve had week-long trips to California and England, as well as assorted conflicts. Because I do in fact have to work, and have a personal life, I’m not there all the time.
So how many times have you been to #Ham4Ham shows?
But there are only 42 videos online right now. Why are you holding out?
That’s because I screwed up the recording once, on Halloween. I managed to start recording and accidently hit stop, without realizing it, about halfway through. I felt like an idiot. Fortunately my friend Laura Heywood (aka BroadwayGirlNYC) was also there that day, so there’s still good video readily available.
Do you work for the show?
Absolutely not. I’m doing this entirely on my own. In fact, I’ve decided that if anyone connected with the show ever calls me and specifically asks me to record something, I’ll stop altogether. I am not part of the show’s marketing and communications plan. If I shoot a video, I know full well that they may use it, but so can anyone else.
Do you know what the performance is going to be before it happens?
The night before Thanksgiving, I did an interview with Lin-Manuel for Dramatics magazine (look for it in February or March) and he did tell me what he had planned for that weekend. Once Lin tweeted me to say that he wouldn’t be at the show but that there would be “a lot” of people performing. That turned out to be the Broadway Inspirational Voices. But other than those instances, I don’t know anything more than what anyone can learn from reading Lin’s Twitter feed.
How can we believe you?
If I knew what was going to happen, I would have been in a much better position when Alexander from the Big Apple Circus did his juggling act. The only reason that turned out reasonably OK is because of camera zoom.
What kind of equipment do you use?
My iPhone. That’s it. I have a really nice DSLR that shoots video, but I’ve never learned how to use the video function. So I’m going the simple route.
Why won’t you use an even better camera if you have one?
Maybe I’ll try to learn how it all works during the holiday break. But you have to understand, I’d been shooting #Ham4Ham videos for a couple of weeks before I realized I ought to figure out how to get them off of my phone. I’d never posted to YouTube prior to that. It took me even longer to discover how to upload HD video. But let’s hear it for the iPhone.
How many times have you won the lottery?
Never. I don’t usually enter. I’m there for the Ham4Ham show. I’ve only entered a couple of times, when I’ve had friends in tow.
But you have seen Hamilton, right?
I’ve seen it twice, once at The Public and once on Broadway. I’d enjoy seeing it again, no doubt. Maybe for my birthday (hint, hint). And my eldest niece is dying to see it, so maybe I can figure out taking her.
Do you have any advice for people who want to shoot their own videos at Ham4Ham?
Always shoot horizontally – vertical only looks good on your phone. Hold your phone or camera with two hands, to keep it steady – you’d be surprise how hard it is to hold steady for four or five minutes. Get there about 45-50 minutes ahead of time for a decent spot – but remember that people are shooed off the sidewalk, so plant your toes as close to the curb as possible. Don’t sing along, laugh hysterically, scream Daveed’s name excitedly, and so on, because you’ll likely shake your camera in the process and you will be the loudest thing on your video.
Are you doing this to build your social media profile?
I admit that I’d love it if more people learned about my advocacy work as a result of this, but my sense is that people are watching because of Hamilton and not many find their way to my actual work. Sigh.
Have you monetized your YouTube stream?
No. I don’t own the rights to anything in the videos – the performances, the song rights, etc. I shouldn’t even try to profit from them.
Do you hear much from fans?
I see a lot of people posting how happy the videos make them. The most frequent comments seem to be a variant of people either “dying” or “dead” as a result of watching. I’d just like to say that I have an alibi, and no jury would convict me.
Do people say anything to you directly?
People have been unbelievably warm and appreciative in writing to me about my videos. It’s lovely.
But c’mon, why do you really keep doing this? You’ve ducked the main question.
When I wrote the blog post that was the reason I started, I wrote about the extraordinary generosity of Lin-Manuel in creating the Ham4Ham show, which is entirely his doing. It’s not part of the production’s marketing plan, and given how the show is selling, they hardly need more promotion. I’ve kept this up because I’m not a performer myself (anymore), but if Lin, the Hamilton company, and people from many other shows can be kind enough to offer this up, it seems the least I can do is to try to preserve these one-of-a-kind moments for posterity, and help them to be seen by more than just the crowd on 46th Street. This is my act of generosity, and I like to think that these videos will be watched for a long time to come. Just like Hamilton.
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Counting down my top five #Ham4Ham videos to date on YouTube (keeping in mind that these are just from those I’ve recorded, and other videos by various other people have even more views than some of these – plus views of direct uploads to Facebook aren’t counted):
It is not my habit to offer my opinion about current productions, and I tend to even avoid doing so retrospectively. But I do want to briefly discuss the shows I’ve seen over the past week or so, because they’re never the same each night, because they’re exceptionally brief, and because they’re free. I’m referring to the “Ham4Ham Show,” the two to three minute bits of entertainment offered up outside the Richard Rodgers Theatre at the ticket lottery two hours before each preview of the new musical Hamilton.
For those who haven’t seen them or heard about them, the Ham4Ham shows can be anything – you have no idea what you’ll get – that the protean Lin-Manuel Miranda and the company choose to present. It could be a song, a dance, a Q & A with Lin in which he answers using only the lyrics of a favorite musical. But what it means is that those who’ve trekked to 46th Street in hope of snagging a pair of seats in the front row of the theatre for the performance two hours hence for only $10 a ticket may walk away empty handed, but they’ve gotten a little something more than suspense out of the experience.
Now it’s easy to look at this and be cynical, if you tend that way, thinking this is all about selling tickets. But while videos of the nightly event may spread out on social media (and the show’s official accounts do participate in that), the performance is first and foremost for people who haven’t bought seats, and very possibly can’t get or can’t afford tickets any other way. It is an act of generosity by Lin and the company, without a marketing message attached; indeed, it seems more an expression of gratitude to fans than anything else.
I say this as someone who has attended a dozen of these little shows, and viewed others online. I find the spirit of the crowd and of those who come out to perform to be enormously congenial and electric. I’ve seen no jostling for space, no rivalry among those competing for the same tickets, and I’ve watched the crowd spill into the street in blazing heat and humidity without complaint. I don’t attend to enter the lottery – I’ve been going to see, enjoy and record the shows for those without the proximity or time to attend in person. It just so happens that my office is on 46th Street and I simply have to cross Broadway to be there.
As theatres talk about how to engage audiences, there’s no question that Ham4Ham is a sterling example, if not necessarily a replicable model. To tick off just some the things that make this unique: 1) Lin-Manuel wrote and stars in Hamilton, so it’s truly his show, 2) no one is required to perform, they’re doing it entirely of their own accord, 3) lots of theatres don’t have the easy foot traffic that New York can generate to draw impromptu crowds, 4) not every show has the advance excitement (and sales) that Hamilton has generated off of its run at The Public – and so on. But it’s also worth noting that, my personal example aside, people would be there trying for the cheap tickets regardless – Ham4Ham is simply a bonus.
For all the reasons why Ham4Ham would be difficult to reproduce, there is something at its core that can perhaps provoke other models of engagement for other shows, for other theatres. If we can all learn from Lin-Manuel’s example and actively engage in giving something to audiences that they can’t get anywhere else, outside of the space that they need a ticket to enter, that may even stand alone and apart from what’s being offered on our stages, then perhaps we’ll find some new friends and new relationships that go far beyond just ‘how do we sell more tickets.’
Once Hamilton opens on Thursday, Ham4Ham may be less frequent, or perhaps change in format. So for everyone who has been out on 46th Street since the Ham4Ham shows began, thanks Lin, thanks Ariana, thanks Jon, thanks Renee, thanks Okieriete, thanks Karen, thanks Jon, thanks Philippa, thanks Alex – and thanks everyone I haven’t named too. The best show in town was the crowd, outside the R. Rodgers Theatre for A. Hamilton.
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The videos above were all shot by me (and let’s hear it for the iPhone), as was the photo at the top of the post, but here are a few more, shot by others in the crowd, that I think you’ll enjoy:
When I first started going to theatre in my teens, I loved attending post-performance discussions and special seminars and panels about plays. They were my education, my chance to learn from artists about how and why they did what they did. I was so fond of the form, that I began moderating these kinds of talks at my college performing arts center when I was only 19, leading off with JoAnne Akalaitis and Athol Fugard in my first year. Once I began working at theatres, I’d pitch in when a literary manager or dramaturg was overcommitted, and translated events like this into the new form called podcasting in 2004, ultimately hosting or co-hosting 325 artist conversations under the banner of “Downstage Center.” This coming weekend, I’ll travel to Philadelphia to do a post-performance chat with Terrence McNally on Sunday and a full evening with Bill Irwin the next night.
So it probably won’t surprise you when I say that, as a result of my access, I tend not to go to many pre- and post-show events anymore. I’m still completely committed to their value, which is why I happily moderate them when invited. But for me, when I am merely an audience member, the sense of discovery is not what it used to be. The fact is, they’re not geared for me and other working professionals. They’re designed for the audience at large, those who rarely if ever get to walk through theatre doors marked “staff only” or have their name on a list at the stage door.
So I was a bit surprised at my own reaction recently when a paper flyer inserted into a program at a show I was seeing proved uncharacteristically effective on me. It wasn’t anything special, but it invited the audience to gather at a nearby restaurant, just one block away, after the performance to talk about the show, saying such conversation was a feature whenever the play is performed. The fact that it was a minute’s walk away made sense: the theatre’s lobby is too small for any events and if the audience had been invited to stay in their seats, there would have been a formality to the proceedings, and obviously the theatre was seeking something less structured.
I don’t know why this particular invitation appealed to me. Perhaps it was because I was attending alone and I thought I might want to at least listen to what others thought afterwards, even if I chose to hang back at the fringes. I tucked the flyer back into the program and figured I’d make up my mind after the performance.
The show ran less than two hours. I had nowhere particular I had to be and I was certainly intrigued and troubled by the play. So I gathered my things, I stopped in the theatre’s rest room, I lingered on the sidewalk to overhear what other patrons were saying as they exited. Finally, I walked to the designated site.
Entering, I wondered at first if the restaurant was closed, though I spotted two tables at the back with patrons. The entire front section, a mix of tables and surprisingly open space by the bar was empty, save for some solicitous restaurant workers who exhorted me to sit. They generously reminded me that my ticket would afford me a small discount off any order. “I’m going to see if others come to talk,” I said, “Let me wait until others get here.”
No one else came.
I waited for 15 minutes, and not a single customer of any kind entered the restaurant, let alone fellow theatregoers. No staff from the theatre turned up either, and I stood there awkwardly, not wanting to take a table and then disappoint a server when I failed to order, my interest in hearing about or discussing the play waning as I pondered the reasons for my solitude.
Admittedly, the cast for the show was small, they were in previews and it was a two show day, so it was unreasonable to expect any of the actors to appear. Maybe after a few evening performances they might stop by, but not today. The show was not a premiere, the press was already coming (so the show was no doubt frozen), and the production team may have all moved on to their next ventures, or were simply enjoying some deserved time off. But despite a venue, admittedly a small one, which was full for the performance, I was the only person who chose to answer the invitation. I had decided, to use a buzzword, to “engage” – and no one else who had shared the prior couple of hours with me saw fit to do the same.
I was so disconcerted, that following my 15 minute wait, I retraced my walk from the theatre, eyeing each passerby to see whether they held a program, or the telltale colored paper flyer. I kept looking back over my shoulder for as long as I could to see if anyone was entering the restaurant. I would have doubled back. When I got to the theatre, the sidewalk was clear, and only two couples remained in the small lobby. So I went home and I have yet to discuss the play with anyone, or hear it discussed.
I have purposely avoided saying the name of the play and the theatre because I don’t write to blame either or both for my experience. Perhaps it was a fluke, and crowds have gathered at every other performance. I appreciated the effort to engage me, even if it left me feeling like a child who realized no one was coming to his birthday party, or a suitor stood up by a blind date, foolish and alone. I would have felt worse, actually, if just one other person had shown up, since then I would have been forced to talk, not merely to observe, to stave off their potential disappointment.
Maybe once the audience was released from the building, the sense of community engendered by a shared experience completely dissipated. Maybe the relatively comfortable weather after a cold snap was too inviting to miss. Maybe the 20 to 25 college-aged students who appeared to be there as a group would take up the play in class and consequently saw no need to discuss it sooner. There were plenty of variables, and unless I choose to visit that restaurant after a number of performances, I’ll never be able to analyze what contributed to my experience.
Because I am not the average audience member, this episode was ultimately a reminder about how difficult it can be to engage an audience beyond the time they spend seeing a show. I wonder: how many newsletters and program notes have I written or edited that have gone unread, how many people have left partway through talks I’ve moderated because of my failings rather than other commitments, how many people have actually listened to the end of every podcast? For all the efforts towards deepening the experience, about continuing the conversation, about creating a context for artistic work, what is the alchemy of engagement, and is it different not only for every theatre, but for every play? Or perhaps, sometimes, is it that a play is simply enough and we would all rather be alone in our thoughts?
For this play, at this theatre, at that performance, I will never know. But I’ll always wonder exactly why I was left unengaged and contemplate how I and others can do better.
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It is not my intent to criticize or embarrass the theatre or show discussed above by naming them. In that spirit, comments attempting to do so will be deleted, but I welcome your comments on what I experienced and how you and others might engage audiences – or what engages you.
“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.
I am going to take it for granted that, since you’ve opted to read this article, you care about the arts. I’m also going to save time and typing by assuming that you appreciate media coverage of the arts and that you realize that without the attention of the media, it will be ever harder for the arts to share their news, their work and their value locally, nationally and internationally.
Since we are agreed, I will proceed directly to my point.
If you want to see intelligent, comprehensive coverage of the arts – features and reviews alike – then you’ve got to start clicking. Journalism is well on its way to being a numbers game for most outlets. How many people clicked on a story or video, how many times was it liked or shared, how much time was spent looking at it? We are already seeing journalism sites paying writers base salaries with bumps or bonuses based on online metrics; outlets say they are dropping certain types of coverage because it’s simply not generating enough traffic. It’s not enough to be happy that arts coverage exists, you have to actually engage with it to insure its survival and the job survival of those who create it.
Clicks mean eyes and eyes mean advertisers. As print becomes an ever-harder sell, online advertising grows ever more important to outlets. Even back in the days pre-internet, I encountered cuts in arts coverage because the arts didn’t generate enough advertising revenue (whereas advertisers loved sports sections and we get regular features about new cars because auto dealers buy big ads). Even now, arts spending online is a small sliver of online advertising, so our best means of supporting arts coverage is by actually reading it.
Let’s face it: anyone with a WordPress blog knows how many people read each piece they post (yes, I’m watching you). But that’s amateur hour compared to the realtime and cumulative algorithms and analytics applied at big media outlets. There are teams of people looking at clicks, links and likes for every story, and media empires are being built on click-bait methodology (why, hello BuzzFeed). It’s running the show in many places and it can’t be ignored.
So here’s what I propose. Every morning, when you get online, go to the arts section of your local media outlets, seek out their arts and entertainment stories, and click of them. Don’t click on each in rapid succession, but spend 30 to 45 seconds on each one (remember your multiple browser windows). You have to wait a bit because one analytic is stickiness or hang-time or whatever it’s called now, namely whether people are really engaging with coverage. A click on and immediate click off looks like you got there by mistake. And needless to say, it certainly won’t hurt in the least if you actually read a story or watch a video while you’re at it.
I should also note that just liking or retweeting a story isn’t enough: you actually have to look at it. Sometimes you’re just liking a friend posting about a story, not the story or video itself, and that’s an important difference. There have been studies that show that many people retweet items without ever actually reading them, and anecdotally I know that to be true: I often see my own tweets with embedded links that have more retweets than clicks. You’ve got to stop and look. That said, on Facebook likes and shares feed into an algorithm that’s sure more people might see the post featured in their feed, and retweets do the same, so be liberal with those too.
You need to share this idea with your staffs, your audience, your donors. This can’t be an effort by a couple of thousand core die-hards; this has to be a movement and it has to be sustained. I do my part every day in curating the articles I share on my twitter feed. You don’t need to be as exhaustive as I am, but whether you seek out a story or if it comes across your social media feed, click on it (often click on opera and symphony stories even though I rarely attend them). If the arts generate eyes, if they generate numbers, you’re going to have a direct impact on how the arts are viewed by the media decision makers. Clicking on the occasional ad next to an arts story matters too.
I’d like to give this idea some snappy name that the field can adopt, but I’m only coming up with corny and possibly inexplicable ideas like “Click 10 For The Arts,” which in my mind is shorthand for remind you to click on 10 arts stories daily. I hope that if people buy into this idea, someone will come up with something clever.
But unlike the world of journalism 25 years ago, where outlets only knew how many papers they sold, it’s now exceedingly easy to know what gets traffic and what doesn’t. No need for audience surveys when our every move online is recorded. If we don’t actively work to pump up the stats for arts coverage, it’ll continue to erode.
To quote Joni Mitchell, “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til its gone,” and we’ve lost too much already. So next time you want to take a quiz about what Shakespeare villain or what Sondheim character you are, at least spend the equivalent amount of time reading articles about Shakespeare plays or Sondheim shows. Because while the former may be fun, it’s the latter that will actually sustain arts journalism and sustain the arts.
P.S. Thanks for clicking on this story. Now would you be so kind to like it, favorite it, share it, retweet it and so on? And yes, I’ll know if you did.
There are many reasons to enthuse about The Public Theatre’s inaugural “Public Works” production of The Tempest – the conception and direction of Lear de Bessonet, the original score by Todd Almond, the perfect weather that blessed each of the three evenings it was on, the enthusiastic performances centered by the Prospero of Norm Lewis. But the greatest achievement was the participation and wrangling of some 200 non-professional performers, rallied in service of a musicalized and summarized version of Shakespeare’s play.
Billed at times as a “community Tempest,” the production utilized, according to a program insert, “106 community ensemble members, 31 gospel choir singers, 1 ASL interpreter, 24 ballet dancers, 3 taxi drivers, 12 Mexican tap dancers, 1 bubble artist (who I must have missed), 10 hip hop dancers, 5 Equity actors (though there were 6 by my count), 6 taiko drummers, 1 guest star appearance (again, I must have missed that, or simply not known the performer), and 5 brass band players.” It was an undertaking of remarkable scale that put me in mind of the deeply moving finale of the New York Philharmonic’s 80th birthday tribute to Stephen Sondheim, when the stage and aisles of Avery Fisher Hall were filled with the bodies and voices of singers uniting for “Sunday,” except that in this case, the large company was present throughout the show and the music was raucous and exuberant.
Christine Lewis & Patrick Mathieu as Alonsa & Gonzalo Photo by Joan Marcus
The preceding litany of performers accurately suggests that this Tempest was, like Prospero’s isle, full of noises and a wide variety of styles, an at-times almost vaudeville approach to the reworked text, with a wide variety of acts sharing the same stage (I remember the Mexican tappers vividly, though I have already forgotten the pretext under which they were included). But that’s befitting a production which endeavored to engage the New York community not simply by inviting them to watch the production for free, but to participate in it as well. It was also a fitting artistic complement to The Public’s immediately preceding production at the Delacorte, a musical version of Love’s Labour’s Lost.
To be sure, this wasn’t the result of a some lunatic open call. De Bessonet and her team established relationships with specific community groups and performing ensembles and presumably they each rehearsed their segments discretely until the final days when they were assembled en masse. The program for the evening even suggests that in some cases, existing work was incorporated into The Tempest, rather than groups necessarily learning specific material. Sometimes the fragmentary nature was rather obvious (what were those cabbies doing there anyway), but at other times seamless, such as the sequence when a corps of pre-teen ballet dancers wordlessly tormented Stephano, Trinculo and Caliban.
Xavier Pacheco & Atiya Taylor as Ferdinand & Miranda Photo by Joan Marcus
This manner of artistic engagement with the community isn’t new; the production itself was modeled on a 1915 musicalized Tempest in Harlem with a cast of 2,000. More recently, companies like Cornerstone have gone into specific communities with a handful of professionals to foster the creation of works featuring local non-professionals and there’s probably many a Music Man production which has fielded 76 trombones and more from local schools. But in Manhattan, where community based performance can be overwhelmed in the public consciousness by the sheer volume of professional arts performances, this Tempest was a reminder that a very special and joyous entertainment can emerge from the efforts of those who may not be, nor even desire to be, professional artists.
Clearly this effort was guided by expert professionals and I suspect that its budget far exceeded that of many professional productions seen in New York or around the country. Costuming alone for 200 performers takes some doing, even when many of the clothes may have been borrowed from some of the country’s top regional theatres. Just opening the Delacorte Theatre for rehearsals and performances has real cost. The level of corporate and foundation support behind this Public Works production means this isn’t likely to result in a profusion of comparable efforts.
Norm Lewis as Prospero Photo by Joan Marcus
That said, the driving concept behind it is worthy of exploration by other groups in other cities and by other coalitions in New York as well. At a time when engagement is both a goal and a buzzword, this Tempest is a high-profile flagship that will hopefully inspire others means of mixing professionals and amateurs, that will prompt more artists to create works that encompass their community, that will even mix up audiences so that the cognoscenti sit alongside proud parents. The production once again affirmed that community theatre is not only valuable but essential, an asset to pro companies rather than a pale imitation of them.
It was also a reminder of the power of collaboration, of the intermingling of different artistic pursuits and organizations to create a blended whole. At a time when the arts are often seen as frivolous or disposable, there is enormous strength in variety and in numbers, sending a message about the essential and broad-based value of creativity and performance at every level of society and life. After all, no one arts group is a magically protected island – they are all part of a vast archipelago, threatened by rising tides that would seek to swamp them.
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Howard Sherman.
