Of Bygone Theatre, And Artists As They Pass

September 24th, 2012 § 2 comments § permalink

I don’t know that I saw Kilty during the last 20 years of his life. Perhaps we ran into one another in a few theatre lobbies, I would occasionally hear a little something about his health, but he was long out of my mind and, I fear, the minds of many others who knew him during his lengthy theatrical career. So when I first saw a news story from a small Connecticut publication reporting that he had died, at age 90, in a car crash, I surprised myself with the depth of my feeling.

I had met Jerome Kilty immediately upon my college graduation, when I went to work as a press assistant at the Westport Country Playhouse. Kilty (as many called him when speaking of, not to, him) was part of the Westport theatre crowd, a fairly tight-knit group of theatre pros who had moved to the Connecticut countryside in the 50s and 60s, long before its main street became lined and littered with chain stores, before big box stores cropped up along once bucolic Route 1. He only performed at Westport once during my two summers there – a benefit reading of his own Dear Liar, playing the role of George Bernard Shaw – but he seemed to be around so often, an impression helped, no doubt, by the schedule of 11 shows in 11 weeks, meaning opening nights every Monday between June and August, the central event of Westport’s theatrical social circle. Then, magically, when I went to Hartford Stage, there was Kilty again, acting in the first show of the season and acting and directing in the third, the former a Shakespeare play, the latter a Shaw.

Kilty was a character from another era – actor, director, playwright; a man who had worked with the stage greats of the 50s, who had founded theatres and, with Dear Liar, written theatre’s most successful epistolary two-hander (until Pete Gurney overtook him with Love Letters). I remember sitting in my little office as he told me the story of his army leave in England, when he trekked to George Bernard Shaw’s home and, denied an audience with the great man, how he scooped some pebbles from Shaw’s driveway as keepsakes and how they still sat on his mantel as we spoke. The people we meet at this age make such an outsized impression when they deign to give us their attention, their time, their interest. Kilty embodied the perfect English gentleman – which is ironic since, as I would learn, he had been born on a California Indian reservation.

When I read of Kilty’s death, I knew that he left no survivors and I feared that his passing would go largely unnoticed, which struck me as profoundly sad, for a man of accomplishment. Having been raised in the climate of old media, I felt that he was deserving of a New York Times obituary, an honor he would have appreciated. So I forwarded to news story to the theatre editor, commenting that this was a man worthy of a final recognition. I made a few calls, I wracked my own memories, and provided what little material I could when called by the reporter working on the piece, all the while feeling inadequate to the task, regretful that I had not seen this lovely man in so very long, and determined that he have this one last moment in the spotlight.

The Times did well by Kilty, and I think that the reporter, Dennis Hevesi, was as charmed by Jerry, even in death, as I was in my youth several decades ago. I was so pleased to see this final remembrance, and both pleased and surprised when, on a Sunday morning in southern New Jersey, I saw it as well in the pages of The Philadelphia Inquirer, via the Times news wire. Perhaps it appeared in many other papers and websites (previously, Robert Simonson had written an even more thorough article for Playbill); perhaps it reached others long out of touch but who took a moment to commemorate Kilty privately when they learned of his passing.

I write this not out of pride in my role in this obituary, or to demonstrate that I can contact the right people at the Times. I know that the decision to write about Kilty was ultimately theirs, based on the merits of his life, his achievements. I write because I am lucky to have known Kilty, and never let him know I felt that. I write because I wonder how many theatre artists are forgotten – even before they pass away – and how many may never be given a final bow when they leave us? I am thinking, even now, of others who were kind and generous to me as I began my career, and how I don’t wish to only do them honor when they pass, but to reconnect with them while I, and they, are still able. I think about how, as I grow older, these opportunities will become fewer with every passing year, until I find myself hoping that I am, in some small way, remembered.

We know that theatre is an impermanent art form, as closed productions linger only in the pages and digital memories of journalism, and in the minds of those who saw them. The lives of theatre artists are fleeting as well, and we must honor not only the perpetually famous, but those who have committed their lives to this life, with dedication and talent but perhaps without fame, while they live, so their deaths don’t come as a surprise that triggers reveries and regrets, but as the finales of friends, remembered not from years past, but from our own recent present.

Making Not-For-Profits Beg For It

September 19th, 2012 § 5 comments § permalink

If you wanted to vote in Chase Community Giving, this shows what you had to give them for the privilege (click to enlarge).

This morning, my Twitter feed was filled with a series of almost repetitive messages from New York Theatre Workshop, the excellent Off-Broadway company that was the starting point for Rent, Once and Peter and the Starcatcher, to name but three. The messages were directed tweets to a number of people that they, and I, follow on Twitter, and the message was to ask for support through re-tweeting in NYTW’s quest for funding from the Chase Community Giving program on Facebook. The program deadline is today.

For those unfamiliar with the program, it is one of several corporate initiatives which enables the general public to vote for their favorite organizations, in this case a quest for a total of $5 million in funding. Populist? Sure. Using social media creatively? Yes. A terrific step in grant-making? Absolutely not.

This sort of funding mechanism forces companies to compete in the ugliest way; a couple of years ago, one NYC not-for-profit (which I won’t name, since they publicly apologized) actually tweeted about needing help to “beat” other organizations to the money. It also requires everyone who wishes to vote to “like” the sponsoring corporation, allowing them access to one’s Facebook timeline before one can express support. In the case of Chase, it gives a voting advantage to their own customers, so the process is already rigged, laying bare that this sort of funding is marketing in sheep’s clothing.

Last week I wrote about artistic directors who abdicate their responsibility when they allow audiences to vote on their program, and this mechanism shows how corporations are comparably willing to abdicate their responsibility for adjudicating and weighing where their philanthropic dollars can do the most good. Oh, wait, I’ve misspoken, since this isn’t philanthropy at all, it’s a contest, run by marketing. I keep forgetting. I bet most people do, in this era where we vote for idols on our cell phones.

No not-for-profit can afford to look a prize horse in the mouth, and so countless organizations do their best to rally their constituency in these Darwinian survivals of the fittest (or, really, most popular). But I worry that they cheapen themselves in their efforts to enrich themselves. And so many worthy causes have a truly uphill struggle: could the presence of The Ian Somerholder Foundation’s at Number 4 on the Chase “leaderboard” at the moment be due more to its founder’s youthful celebrity than its excellent focus?

Facebook giving contests have a strange corollary to politics, where so often people vote for the lesser of two evils, not someone they’re truly excited about. But here, most every candidate is probably worthy of our respect. It’s the process that is un-“like”-able.

Update, May 16, 2014: I read a blog post today from CreateEquity entitled, “Crowdsourced corporate philanthropy died a year and a half ago, and no one seems to have noticed.” It should surprise no one who read my post that I am delighted at the news. Whether this is a hiatus or true end remains to be seen.

 

False Equivalency: Broadway Is Not The American Theatre

September 17th, 2012 § 11 comments § permalink

“Broadway” is an industry that not only produces theatre events in mid-town New York City, but it’s also the primary engine and idea factory of American theatre, and arguably, theatre worldwide.”

I’m sorry, but I can’t read a statement like that and keep silent.

The above quote is taken from a blog by Jim McCarthy, CEO of Goldstar and one of three organizers of TEDx Broadway, which will take place this January for the second year. Jim organizes the event along with producer Ken Davenport and Damian Bazadona of Situation Interactive. I attended last year’s event and furiously live-blogged it; there was some very interesting conversation that day and what struck me about it was how little it spoke specifically to Broadway and how much of the content spoke to issues of theatre as a whole.  But as much as I’ve enjoyed meeting Jim and communicating with him subsequent to last year’s event, my response to his premise is at least dismay, if not outright offense.

I have spent my career in not-for-profit theatre organizations, the last of which, the American Theatre Wing, is inextricably linked with The Tony Awards, an honor for work in the Broadway theatre, clearly defined as 40 theatres on the island of Manhattan. The Wing gave me a ringside seat at the workings of Broadway, but never for a moment did I forget that I was running a not-for-profit organization, nor did I ever declare or think myself to have “gone Broadway,” despite the jokes of my friends and the assumptions of many in the broader theatre community. My love and dedication is to theatre, all of it, and Broadway is only one segment of a very wide-ranging art form. It is predominantly, but not exclusively, commercial. While its individual productions, running for years, playing in other countries and across the U.S. on tours and licensed productions, may reach the widest audience for individual shows, there are literally countless theatrical productions in this country every year far beyond Broadway’s annual average of perhaps 38.

That is why I take exception to falsely subsuming American Theatre under the banner of Broadway: because Jim has it backwards. Broadway is part of The American Theatre, but the majority of American Theatre is not Broadway.

There’s a second misleading statement in the quote from Jim, because Broadway simply is not “the idea factory of American theatre.” Very few productions reach Broadway without having first been developed and produced in not-for-profit theatre. This even holds true for British and Irish imports, which emerge from the subsidized sectors there onto platforms of ever-greater success. I’m not saying that Broadway never originates valuable new work, but I’d lay odds that more than half of the productions each year have achieved success after benefiting at some point from the efforts of not-for-profit companies.

Because I view Broadway as a part of the American Theatre, I neither love nor hate it as an entity; frankly, it’s a collection of theatres and productions, not a singular body. I have seen great work on Broadway, just as I have in small resident companies. Broadway is one model of producing, one that can yield great rewards for its investors and artists, but one which also benefits from the vestigial patina that remains from the days when it was indeed the primary source of theatre in America. Yet the coalescing and expansion of the resident theatre movement in the 1960s (there were regional theatres decades before that) fundamentally altered the balance of American theatre. While every aspect of theatre is perpetually challenged by economics, it is the not-for-profits, here and abroad, that now lead artistically; Broadway benefits from scale, from history and from its proximity to the majority of the country’s cultural media being so close by.

I don’t think I’m saying anything radical here, but it’s a message that bumps up against the tide of immutable conventional wisdom, because the mystique of Broadway is so powerful. Having worked alongside the Broadway League on The Tony Awards, in a mutually beneficial partnership, I have watched their increasingly strong efforts to brand Broadway, to make audiences internationally ever more aware of it, to unify its constituents, and to hone its image. They face a challenge, because “Broadway” is not a trademark, it cannot be controlled the way a corporate brand can, so they fight an uphill battle at times, while at others they reap the rewards of being the theatrical equivalent of Hollywood’s “dream factory.”

I learned last year that only official TED events can cover “topics,” while the offshoot TEDx conferences must be “geographic.” Indeed, the TEDx Broadway organizers told me of their challenges convincing the TED organization that Broadway is a locale, not a discipline, so they could hold their event; “TEDx Theatre” would not have passed muster. In that usage, I understand their rationale.

But they mislead their potential audience by using Broadway as a catch-all phrase; some of the NFP folks might stay away thinking it’s not for them, which is actually a shame. I support what Jim, Ken and Damian are doing with TEDx Broadway and if I haven’t made myself persona non grata with this piece, I hope to attend again this year. But let’s not confuse positioning and marketing with facts, especially since we’ve long been told how essential truth in marketing is to success. Let’s remember that Broadway actually prides itself on its exclusivity and grant them that, without judgment or rancor. But as for The American Theatre, there’s vastly more to it than just Broadway, and the theatrical idea factory is not restricted to 40 theatres in Manhattan by any stretch of the imagination. Period.

When Listening To The Audience Goes Too Far

September 10th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

Yes, Mr. Survey looks innocent enough, but does he belong in artistic programming?

“We choose our season largely in response to what our patrons tell us. Lately they are interested in seeing shows that they already know.”

The quote above, from the producing artistic director of a large not-for-profit theatre, appeared recently in a perfectly innocuous “season preview” round-up, the kind found in newspapers and online resources around the country at this time of year. Some of you may well be surprised by the sentiment, though it is one with which I’m familiar. My only surprise is to see it stated so baldly. I’m not naming the theatre, or the publication, because I have no desire to castigate or demonize the specific organization, since this practice is hardly unique. It is the issue that’s worth discussing.

For those who traffic in the language of grants, or for that matter the universe of arts blogs concerned with mission and marketing, it is quite common to read about the necessity of serving one’s community, one’s audience. I certainly support that sentiment, but serving does not mean servant. Not-for-profit arts organizations exist to serve by leading, offering work which connects with a community, local, regional or national, by finding the correct balance between being able to sell tickets and raise money on the one hand, and, on the other, advancing genuine artistic goals that support artists, craftspeople and technicians dedicated to creating good work.

In the recent economic climate, there has been a flight to safety in so many areas of society, making it harder for organizations to be progressive in their work. Some have been unable to negotiate the enormously difficult economic waters, and we daily read of the fallout, be it the diminution of New York’s City Opera, the suspension of production by Minneapolis’ Penumbra Theatre, or the labor struggles in orchestras just chronicled by Diane Ragsdale.

It would be glib to say that theatres which produce according to the express wishes of their patrons become de facto commercial producers, because that’s not fair to the commercial sector. While many decry the rise in Broadway musicals based on well-known movies, they are at least new works for the stage, and they do not represent the entirety of commercial product. Even commercial revivals don’t always play it safe, since many seek to reinvent material, even if they attempt to insure their venture with famous actors. And new work does still debut under commercial aegis, even if the majority of new work is now created in not-for-profit companies.

As I mentioned, the idea of doing what one’s audience requests is not new. Since I began in this business, I’ve heard about companies that survey their audiences and point blank ask them what they’d like to see the next year. I’m pleased to say that I’ve never worked for one. And there’s an essential flaw in this question of what people want to see, since audience members can only name shows which they’ve already seen; you can’t choose something which doesn’t yet exist. “Familiar” work is the inevitable and immutable result.  While a generic box for new play or new musical might appear on such survey, and might get checked now and again, if the risk of producing new work is taken at such a company, it’s very likely that the audience will only respond to work that feels very much like what they’ve seen before, and that experimentation and innovation – especially if it turns out to be unsuccessful artistically – will only reinforce the flight to the safety of the known.

Don’t let me give you the impression that I’m opposed to companies that specialize in classics, or revivals. Those are absolutely valid missions – so long as the productions are not trapped in amber, trooped out every five years because of their proven box office appeal. If the text is always approached as new, so long as there is a creative rather than replicative spark, I say go for it.

Once upon a time in theatre in America, there’s no question that the known dominated. Think of Eugene O’Neill’s father touring for decades as The Count of Monte Cristo or William Gillette’s sinecure as Sherlock Holmes; that was the norm.

But that’s not what not-for-profit arts organizations were created to do. It’s important to note that the old actor-manager model, in which a company was built around a singular star has given way to companies where artistic directors are charged with understanding, serving and leading the artistic appetites of her or his audience and supporting artists by creating homes for their work. If an artistic director opts to produce by survey, then they are certainly a producer, but they may have well abandoned the right to claim artistry. If they don’t explore work beyond the most standard repertoire, if they don’t bring exciting artists to bear, if they don’t feel strongly enough to decide for themselves what they believe should be on stage, then perhaps ‘artist’ shouldn’t be in their title.

Am I being harsh, judgmental, inflexible? Perhaps, and I know that reality is an endless series of gradations, of balances. But so long as organizations slavishly serve, rather than creatively embrace and advance, we run the risk that success in the former model will create ever greater pressure on the latter.  We have seen how opera companies and orchestras in particular struggle to incorporate modern work in their repertoire, risking creative stagnation. If we are not constantly creating opportunities and appetites for the new in every art form, then each will, at some point, collapse in on itself, like a TV channel that plays nothing but reruns. However much fun that may seem initially, at a certain point, the nostalgia burns out and if there’s nothing new, the form dies.

It is the responsibility of a not-for-profit artistic director to serve and lead and audience, a board, a staff, while at the same time serving and advancing the art form; I like to believe that most do. But if they outsource their most important responsibility to anyone else, even their audience; if they abdicate initiative in order to minimize risk; if that’s the only way an organization can survive, then they’re just staving off the inevitable and their audience, ultimately, will lose.

That’s A Very Good Question

September 7th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

My friend Frank Rizzo of The Hartford Courant apparently spends a good bit of time listening to NPR. On more than one occasion, it has caused him to have little eruptions on Twitter. His frustration is caused by the repeated refrain of, “That’s a very good question,” from a presumably wide variety of guests.

Now I have no idea which NPR station Frank listens to, or which programs, but I don’t doubt his characterization at all. I am quite certain that he hears this all the time, and not just on NPR. We all do, though we may not even realize it.

“That’s a very good question” is a ploy that media coaches teach interview subjects to use; I imagine a number of people have simply picked up the phrase for their own use, through the very repetition that has Frank riled. Following a question from a moderator, a fellow guest, or perhaps an audience member in a town hall setting, “That’s a very good question,” along with its cousins, “I’m so glad you asked me that” and “I’ve been giving that a great deal of thought,” does two things at once.

The first thing it does is buy time. Only the most verbally dexterous can immediately formulate a perfect answer to a complex inquiry, so “TAVGQ” is a reflexive placeholder, preventing dead air or the dreaded, drawn-out “ummm…,” while an answer, or perhaps a diversion to a less fraught topic, develops in some other portion of the brain. In confrontational situations, it prevents the moderator from scoring points by pressing the topic in an available gap before the guest even replies to the original question.

Secondly, The Phrase That Shall No Longer Be Spoken also flatters whomever has asked the question, because it praises their interrogatory skill and, even if it doesn’t fool them, it shows the listeners or viewers what a sympathetic, considerate person the interviewee can be.

And so, with decades of experience, I’d like to offer new conversational placeholders during media opportunities, to allow the gathering of wits, and which in many cases can serve to redirect a troublesome dialogue.

1. “You’re brave to broach that. Who among us hasn’t confronted that issue and been afraid to talk about it openly?”

2. “Before I answer that shrewd query, I’d like to make certain that you don’t need to put quarters in the meter.”

3. “I was just discussing that at home this morning and it’s amazing that you thought to bring it up on the very same day. Incredible. Psychic.”

4. “I’m so glad we’re going to get into that, but first, may I try on your gorgeous jacket?”

5. “That was such a concern of my late mother’s. I have her picture here somewhere.”

6. “Bill, George, Barack and I have been grappling with that for some time, but not one of us has managed to summarize it as clearly as you just did.”

7. “Before I go on, I have to tell you that your voice is mesmerizing. Do you sing?”

8. “I’m sorry, I was distracted by the image of us in the monitor. Looking at myself next to you makes me think I should stick to radio and print, don’t you think?”

9. “That really is one of the essential questions of modern life, but unfortunately I can’t elaborate on it due to national security.”

10. “Wait! What’s that over there? Oh, sorry, I thought I saw a bat. You were saying?”

Study these phrases and learn them well, and one day soon, you can speak to the media skillfully, taking control without ever lapsing into the predictable.

You’re welcome.

 

Fame, Celebrity, Stardom and Other Dirty Words

September 6th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

Every January, the media run features on how to lose those holiday pounds. As schools let out for the summer, the media share warnings about damage from the sun and showcase the newest sunscreens. In Thanksgiving, turkey tips abound.

For theatre, September reveals two variants of its seasonal press staple, either “Stars Bring Their Glamour To The Stage,” or, alternately, “Shortage of Star Names Spells Soft Season Start.” Indeed, the same theme may reappear for the spring season and, depending upon summer theatre programming, it may manage a third appearance. But whether stars are present or not, they’re the lede, and the headline.

The arrival of these perennial stories is invariably accompanied by grousing in the theatre community about the impact of stars on theatre, Broadway in particular, except from those who’ve managed to secure their services. But this isn’t solely a Broadway issue, because as theatres — commercial and not-for-profit, touring and resident — struggle for attention alongside movies, TV, music, and videogames, stardom is currency. Sadly, a great play, a remarkable actor or a promising playwright is often insufficient to draw the media’s gaze; in the culture of celebrity, fame is all.

But as celebrity culture has metastasized, with the Snookis and Kardashians of the world getting as much ink as Denzel and Meryl, and vastly more than Donna Murphy or Raul Esparza, to name but two, the theatre’s struggle with the stardom issue is ever more pronounced. Despite that, I do not have a reflexive opposition to stars from other performing fields working in theatre.

Before I go on, I’d like to make a distinction: in the current world of entertainment, I see three classifiers. They are “actor,” “celebrity,” and “star.” They are not mutually exclusive, nor are they fixed for life. George Clooney toiled for years as a minor actor in TV, before his role on ER made him actor, celebrity and star all in one. Kristin Chenoweth has been a talented actor and a star in theatre for years, but it took her television work to make her a multi-media star and a celebrity. The old studio system of Hollywood declared George Hamilton a star years ago, but he now lingers as a celebrity, though still drawing interest as he tours. Chris Cooper has an Oscar, but he remains an actor, not a star, seemingly by design. And so on.

So when an actor best known for film or TV does stage work, it’s not fair to be discounting their presence simply because of stardom. True stardom from acting is rarely achieved with an absence of talent, even if stardom is achieved via TV and movies. Many stars of TV or film have theatre backgrounds, either in schooling or at the beginning of their career: Bruce Willis appeared (as a replacement) in the original Off-Broadway run of Fool For Love before he did Moonlighting or Die Hard; I saw Bronson Pinchot play George in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? while he was a Yale undergraduate (the Nick was David Hyde Pierce); Marcia Cross may have been a crazed denizen of Melrose Place and a Desperate Housewife, but she’s a Juilliard grad who did Shakespeare before achieving fame. But when Henry Winkler is announced in a new play, three decades after his signature television show ended, despite his Yale School of Drama education and prior stage work, all we hear is that “The Fonz” will be on Broadway.

The trope of “stars bringing their luster to the theatre” is insulting all around: it implies that the person under discussion is more celebrity than actor and it also suggests that there is insufficient radiance in theatre when no one in the cast has ever been featured in People or Us. By the same token, there’s media that won’t cover theatre at all unless there’s a name performer involved, so ingrained is celebrity culture, so theatre sometimes has to look to stars if it wishes to achieve any broad-based awareness. But the presence of stars on stage is nothing new, be it Broadway or summer stock; we may regret that theatre alone can rarely create a star, as it could 50 years ago, but we must get over that, because the ship has sailed.

There’s certainly a healthy skepticism when a star comes to the theatre with no stage background, and it’s not unwarranted. But I think that there are very few directors, artistic directors or producers who intentionally cast someone obviously unable to play a role solely to capitalize upon their familiarity or fame. In a commercial setting, casting Julia Roberts proved to be box office gold, even if she was somewhat overmatched by the material, but she was not a ludicrous choice; at the not-for-profit Roundabout, also on Broadway, Anne Heche proved herself a superb stage comedienne with Twentieth Century, following her very credible turn in Proof, before which her prior stage experience was in high school. Perhaps they might have tested the waters in smaller venues, but once they’re stars, its almost impossible to escape media glare no matter where they go.

The spikier members of the media also like to suggest, or declare, that when a famous actor works on stage after a long hiatus, or for the first time, it’s an attempt at career rehabilitation. This is yet another insult. Ask any actor, famous or not, and they can attest to theatre being hard work; ask a stage novice, well-known or otherwise, and they are almost reverent when they talk about the skill and stamina required to tell a story from beginning to end night after night after night. Theatre is work, and what success onstage can do is reestablish the public’s – and the press’s –recognition of fundamental talent. Judith Light may have become a household name from the sitcom Who’s The Boss, but it’s Wit, Lombardi and Other Desert Cities that have shown people how fearless and versatile she is. That’s not rehabilitation, it’s affirmation.

I should note that there’s a chicken-and-egg issue here: are producers putting stars in shows in order to get press attention, or is the media writing about stars because that’s who producers are putting in shows? There’s no doubt that famous names help a show’s sales, particularly the pre-sale, so in the commercial world, they’re a form of (not entirely reliable) insurance. And Broadway is, with a few exceptions, meant to achieve a profit. But it’s also worth noting that star casting, which most associate with Broadway, has a trickle down effect: in New York, we certainly see stars, often younger, hipper ones, in Off-Broadway gigs, and it’s not so unusual for big names to appear regionally as well, cast for their skills, but helping the theatres who cast them to draw more attention. Star casting is now embedded in theatre – which is all the more reason why it shouldn’t be treated as something remarkable, even as we may regret its encroachment upon the not-for-profit portion of the field. But they have tickets to sell too.

Look, it’s not as if any star needs me to defend them. The proof is ultimately found onstage; it is the run-up to those appearances that I find so condescending and snide. It shouldn’t be news that famous people might wish to work on stage, nor should any such appearance be viewed as crass commercialism unless it enters the realm of the absurd, say Lady Gaga as St. Joan. If stars get on stage, they should be judged for their work, and reviewed however positively or negatively as their performance may warrant.

I’m not naive enough to think attention won’t be paid to famous people who tread the boards, and I wish it needn’t come at the expense of work for the extraordinary talents who haven’t, for one reason or another, achieved comparable fame. I don’t need a star to lure me to a show, but I’m not your average audience member. Perhaps if the media didn’t kowtow to the cult of celebrity, if they realized how theatre is a launch pad for many, a homecoming for others, and a career for vastly more, theatre might be valued more as both a springboard for fame and a home for those with the special gift of performing live. So when the famous appear in the theatre, let’s try to forget their celebrity or stardom, stop trying to parse their motives, and try, if only for a few hours, to appreciate them solely, for good or ill, as actors.

 

Taking Time in Times Square

August 27th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

How the denizens of Times Square have changed.

This past Saturday morning, I willingly went into Times Square. Why did I go? Because I had decided I wanted to see One Man, Two Guvnors again before it closes at the end of this week, and to avail myself of the discount seats at the TKTS booth. Why do I use the word “willingly”? Because, to be honest, I do my best to avoid Times Square if at all possible.

This certainly hasn’t always been the case. As a child on our family’s annual day trip into New York, seeing Times Square was a part of the ritual, as much for my parents as it was for myself and my siblings. That trip involved theatre only once; we were mostly sightseers, gazing in windows of stores in which we would never shop.

As a teen, traveling via train to Grand Central Station, entering Times Square was a sign that my goal, the theatres that lay on its far side, were very close. I am old enough to remember a billboard that puffed smoke to simulate a steaming hot cup of coffee; I am old enough to have seen Blade Runner in its initial release and marveled at the impossible vision of a future in which video images several stories high covered the exterior of buildings. But as someone who never understood the allure of standing in Times Square waiting for the ball to drop in New Year’s Eve, for whom colored signs took a backseat to the colored marquees on the side streets, Times Square was an eternal guidepost, never a true destination. As an adult, who in my 40s worked one block south of Times Square and had to traverse it at all hours of the day and night, Times Square became an unpleasant, tourist-clogged obstacle for which I had increasingly less patience.

However, the TKTS booth, at the northern end of the area, has always been a gateway for me, as it was this weekend. Going back almost to its debut, the booth has been an essential part of my theatergoing and, this past Saturday, after acquiring tickets with exceptional speed, I decided to play tourist for a bit, trying to take in Times Square as I might have once upon a time.

The video screens everywhere still do amaze me, since, as a Blade Runner aficionado, I continue to feel that Times Square is the future come to life, ahead of schedule. That some of these screens have become interactive, which was initially enthralling, has lost its allure for me, especially since they mean pushing through or going around the gaggles of sightseers, standing still, who seem endlessly fascinated to be able to wave at themselves on a giant screen. Yet I imagine that seeing these screens for the first time, or as the parent of a child taking in this experience, they remain a marvel.

A vestige of the past, at the Times Square Visitors Center

I wandered into the Times Square Visitors Center, which has been in place for years, but seemingly uncertain of its purpose, except as an acceptable public restroom. Though it now serves as a souvenir shop and ticket vending location, it also features some theatrical displays (costumes “in the style” of ones worn in famous shows), and small dioramas and video screens with Broadway history. Since New York has no theatre museum, even these small displays appeal, less for myself to whom they are nothing new, but for those who may wander in and get a bit of insight into how theatre gets on stage. The Visitors Center more successfully turned me tourist with the opportunity to gaze, from only a few feet’s distance, at one of the Swarovski crystal-laden “balls” that descend annually to welcome the new year; TV has never conveyed its size or intricacy fully; it reminded me of a long-ago visit to see the Tournament of Roses floats from a similar distance. I particularly loved the Visitors Center tribute to the scuzzy Times Square I remembered, where walking from 7th to 8th Avenues on 42nd Street was to be avoided at all costs. Its method: three peep show booths showing video loops of that bygone era, with a giant neon “Peep Show” glowing above them. I applaud whoever conceived of this reminder, insuring that amidst the retails outlets, the true past of Times Square was not completely whitewashed away.

Back into the light, I crossed back to the environs of the TKTS booth, curious about the blue-shirted, self-proclaimed “Your Broadway Genius”-es who hovered just off the curb of Duffy Square, in contrast to the red shirted TDF employees who helped those figuring out the intricacies of the booth. I sensed a color war.

I approached one of the geniuses to see what insight he was dispensing, with his iPad in hand. Learning that he too was selling theatre tickets, I noticed the telltale Square attachment on his iPad and asked whether he could actually sell theatre tickets right there, and was told he could; certainly wandering ticket outlets from any location is the wave of the future for those untethered to a computer. What Broadway shows did he have on offer? As it turned out, the answer was none. The Broadway Geniuses offered only three shows – Voca People, Rent and Avenue Q, Off-Broadway attractions all. The same shows were available only feet away at the booth, so it would appear that the Geniuses were attempting to siphon off business that might otherwise go through the long-established, not-for-profit official venue. As I am not a tourist, I was not fooled, but I do wonder how many people are taken in by these misleading, opportunistic off-brand vendors, who I later saw accosting people merely sightseeing, not unlike the ever-present touts asking, “Do you like comedy?,” in an effort to lure in new patrons for a nearby comedy show. While I admired the technology, their aggressive pitch and inaccurate branding put me off.

The blue-shirted geniuses are hardly the only commercial opportunists wandering Times Square. In less than an hour I saw the following characters ambling along, taking money in order to be photographed with and by visitors: Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Elmo (red), Elmo (blue?), SpongeBob SquarePants, Toy Story’s Woody, The Naked Indian, a stumpy Elvis impersonator, Hello Kitty, Alvin the Chipmunk, a Smurf (I can’t tell them apart), the Statue of Liberty, and an elderly man in a psychedelic bikini. I know these figures to be entirely unauthorized and I frankly worry about who is inside them, freely embracing unsuspecting tourists for a price; I also worry about turf wars, since it wasn’t uncommon to see several Elmos of varying hues in a single block. To those who say Times Square now feels like a theme park, these plush figures add to the perception, ever if they are an infestation, rather than an enhancement.  Curiously, I did not see the now legendary, more “authentic” Naked Cowboy; perhaps he was on vacation.

Three-ball juggling has replaced three-card monte in today’s Times Square.

There were yet more characters traversing Times Square in endless loops, with a different and more official purposes: young men and women “flyering” for Broadway shows. Dressed in costumes appropriate to the productions they represent, I saw a cheerleading duo from Bring It On, a red-stockinged, exuberant faux Fosse dancer for Chicago, several very polite rock dudes for Rock of Ages, umbrella skirted jugglers for Zarkana and a sole lackadaisical pirate for Peter and the Starcatcher. The cheerleaders in particular were happily posing, and jumping, for pictures with tourists; I admired the energy that they and the Chicago chorine brought to their task and wondered whether Times Square might be even more engaging if the plushies were banished and motivated representatives from Broadway shows both present and past peopled the territory, as Broadway branding and show marketing. I must confess, I would love to see faux Marthas and fake Georges drunkenly accosting tourists to hand them flyers for the upcoming Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? revival, but that’s my own improbably fantasy.

Another loop up back to the TKTS booth revealed a claque of uncostumed flyer distributors, taking a rest, it seemed, but graciously offering to help visitors regardless of what they were apparently paid to promote. A young man holding a fan of flyers for Newsical was counseling a woman on the best show for a six-year-old while the other flyer guys were making up song titles for an imagined Brokeback Mountain musical. They were a scruffy but gentle lot, with a noticeably collegial spirit among them all; no doubt they saw each other often.

Just off Times Square, in Shubert Alley, a youthful marketing team was hawking the attractions of a Cadillac and offering a free Playbill t-shirt for anyone who filled out an information form (think of them as the Glengarry leads). On that day, placed between two theatres without tenants (the Shubert and the Booth), they seemed a bit overeager and undervisited; I was effusively urged to fill out a form and take a t-shirt even though I assured them I had no need of a car. Clearly they were trying to meet goals that their location didn’t appear to support.

As showtime approached, a small brass band set up at the corner of 45th Street, launching into “When The Saints Go Marching In.” Moments later, a couple walked past me, the woman singing and bopping her head along to the tune, clearly talking on a party spirit that was at odds with my usual grumbling about a crowded Times Square.

By the end of my visit, I saw that hustlers had not been vanquished from Times Square, they had merely been transformed from three-card monte experts to ratty-looking comic figures, but I also saw genuine entertainment and the potential for so much more. While I may not rush to walk through, let alone spend time in, Times Square again so soon, I saw opportunity for true brand-building for theatre and for New York amidst the haphazard assemblage of diversions.

The Theatre Development Fund’s TKTS booth in Times Square.

But nothing impressed me so much as the very first thing I had seen that morning. As I waited in a very short line to acquire theatre tickets at TKTS, I began talking with one of the line attendants, a chatty man, maybe my age, named Daryl, who spoke enthusiastically of shows and asked me about ones I had seen. We were interrupted when a family of three – father, mother and son of perhaps 10 years of age – left the sales window and the son, who appeared to have been born with Down Syndrome, walked up to Daryl, threw his arms as far around him as possible, and squeezed him with a hug, which Daryl reciprocated. Then, the mother approached and kissed Daryl on the cheek, and finally the father shook Daryl’s hand, before the wandered off.

I do not know what interaction I had missed, I saw only the genuine and moving results. Can that happen for each and every person who passes through Times Square? Of course not. But as the businesses, the theatres and the city seek to attract ever more visitors, perhaps they need to learn more about what Daryl offered, sans costumes, sans flyers, sans displays, sans script. Because I feel quite certain that for that family, and for me, Daryl was the star attraction of Times Square that day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Broadway Scorecard: Two Decades of Drama

August 21st, 2012 § 2 comments § permalink

A map that includes most of the Broadway theaters, but it isn’t quite large enough and not completely up to date.

Having previously taken a quantitative look at new Broadway musicals and musical revivals, it was inevitable that I would look at play production on Broadway as well. So as not to bury my lede, let me begin with the list of playwrights who have had five or more productions on Broadway in the last 20 years, new or revival.

William Shakespeare (13)

Arthur Miller (12)

Tennessee Williams (11)

Eugene O’Neill (9)

Noel Coward, David Mamet, Neil Simon, Tom Stoppard (8)

August Wilson (7)

Anton Chekhov, David Hare, Terrence McNally, George Bernard Shaw (6)

Brian Friel, Richard Greenberg, Donald Margulies, Martin McDonagh (5)

What is immediately noticeable among these 17 playwrights? They’re all male. There is but a single playwright of color. Eight are not American. Six were dead during the 20 years examined. If anyone is looking for hard and fast data about the lack of diversity among the playwrights getting work on Broadway, this would be Exhibit A.

Now let’s get detailed. As indicated, I studied the past 20 years on Broadway, from the 1992-93 season through the just completed 2011-12 season; my study of musicals had covered 37 seasons, going back to the year that Chicago and A Chorus Line debuted. The 20 year mark for plays begins with the season that saw Tony Kushner’s Angels in America: Millennium Approaches premiere, arguably a work as significant a landmark in playwriting as A Chorus Line was to musicals.

The 20 year mark also encompasses significant shifts in production by not-for-profits on Broadway: Roundabout started out at the Criterion Center and by last year had three Broadway venues (American Airlines, Stephen Sondheim, Studio 54); Manhattan Theatre Club rehabilitated the Biltmore and began using it as their mainstage (later renaming it the Samuel G. Friedman); and Tony Randall’s National Actors Theatre grew and withered, as the more firmly established Circle in the Square evolved from producing company to commercial venue. Throughout, Lincoln Center Theatre produced in the Vivian Beaumont, considered a Broadway theatre virtually since it opened in the 60s, and continued its practice of renting commercial houses when a big hit monopolized the Beaumont. Commercial productions continued throughout this time in more than 30 other theatres, as did some productions by other not-for-profit producers without a regular home or policy of producing on Broadway.

So what is the scorecard of play production, both commercial and not for profit on Broadway over these last 20 years? 397 productions by 228 playwrights, with more than a quarter of the plays produced written by the 17 men listed above.

What of women? There were 43 women whose work appeared on Broadway in these two decades, but none saw more than three plays produced. The two women with three plays were Yasmina Reza and Elaine May (the latter’s count includes a one-act); four women each had two plays on the boards (Edna Ferber, Pam Gems, Theresa Rebeck and Wendy Wasserstein). Collectively, they make up slightly under 1/5 of the playwrights produced.

Because I have often been party to debates about whether or not not-for-profit companies should be considered part of Broadway, I ran the numbers without the productions of the five companies singled out above (RTC, MTC, LCT, NAT and CITS). Had they not been producing, and had no one taken their place, Broadway would have seen only 253 plays produced in those 20 years, nearly 1/3 less than the actual number, a significant reduction in activity.

And what of the balance between new plays and revivals? The 20 year breakdown of all productions showed 179 new plays and 218 revivals, but with the five not-for-profits are removed, it’s 140 new plays and 113 revivals. That shift is quite notable: the not-for-profit theatres on Broadway have only been responsible for 39 new works on Broadway over 20 years, but they’re the source of 105 revivals. That’s not so shocking, when you consider that NAT and CITS were focused on classics and that Roundabout’s original mission was solely classical work as well. But it certainly shows that without the not-for-profits, fewer vintage shows, whether from the recent or distant past, would have worn the banner of Broadway.

Now let’s go back to the list of playwrights with five or more plays on Broadway in the past 20 years, taking out the not-for-profit work. The results are:

David Mamet, Arthur Miller, William Shakespeare (8)

Neil Simon (7)

August Wilson (6)

Noel Coward, Martin McDonagh, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams (5)

We drop from 17 playwrights making the cut to only 9, but its interesting to note that playwrights like Miller, O’Neill, Shakespeare, Williams and Wilson remain well represented, even in my theoretical scenario. As for women, the number produced drops to 31, roughly a quarter of the full count.

So what does this tell us, besides being fodder for trivia quizzes and feeding the current affinity for facts via list? It shows us that commercial producers are not all trendy money grubbers without interest in our theatrical past, since a number of classic works were produced under their aegis. That said, without the not-for-profits, the number of revivals overall would have been cut in half, showing how essential they are in maintaining Broadway’s heritage. For new work, the not-for-profits of Broadway play a smaller role to be sure, but its worth noting that a number of major playwrights wouldn’t have had any plays on Broadway in the past two decades without the not for profits, including Philip Barry, Caryl Churchill, William Inge, Warren Leight, Craig Lucas, Moliere, Sarah Ruhl, George Bernard Shaw, Regina Taylor and Wendy Wasserstein. In a startling irony, Sophocles and Euripides both were produced only commercially.

By its methodology, this glimpse at the past two decades inevitably shortchanges the influence of the not-for-profit theatre. It does not consider how many of the plays were commissioned by, developed by and first produced in not-for-profit companies in New York, nationally, or abroad, but many of the new plays in this period have those roots (and unlike musicals, plays are more typically produced without commercial enhancement in not-for-profits, with producers coming in later once a show has begun to achieve recognition). Because I didn’t have reliable resources to parse the partnership and capitalization of each Broadway production, shows from theatres like The Atlantic, New York Theatre Workshop and The Public, or even MTC pre-Biltmore, haven’t been categorized under not-for-profit, though they rightly might be; I believe based on anecdotal observance that (with sufficient time resources and manpower) we would see not-for-profits directly responsible for originating even more new plays.

It would be easy to argue that this study is at best intriguing but limited. After all, on a financial level, plays account for a marginal percentage of Broadway revenues, with musicals yielding the lion’s share of the grosses. One can also argue that Broadway, particularly when it comes to plays, is hardly representative of the full quantity and variety of new work being done in America, an opinion I hold myself.

But so long as Broadway remains a beacon for tourists, for theatre buffs and for the mainstream media, so long as it holds a fabled spot in the national and international imagination, plays on Broadway remain important, even if they are marginalized or unrepresentative. With all of the challenges that face producers, commercial or not-for-profit, who wish to mount plays, the public perception of American drama is still weighted towards Broadway, even if its mix of new plays and classics is but the tip of the iceberg, financially and creatively.  We can debate whether Broadway is deserving of its still-iconic status, but so long as it exists, understanding exactly where plays fit in the equation can only serve to help them hold their ground, in the best interest of shows which don’t sing or dance, and the writers who are so committed to them.

*   *   *

Notes on methodology, beyond what’s explained in the text:

1. Although I have not provided the spreadsheets I constructed in order to work out my statistics, which list every play and playwright produced in the past 20 years, I feel it is incumbent upon me to name the female writers who have been produced on Broadway, with the hope that in the next 20 years, this list will make up a much greater percentage of writers produced: Jane Bowles, Carol Burnett, Caryl Churchill, Lydia R. Diamond, Joan Didion, Helen Edmundson, Margaret Edson, Eve Ensler, Nora Ephron, Edna Ferber, Pam Gems, Alexandra Gersten, Ruth Goetz, Frances Goodrich, Katori Hall, Carrie Hamilton, Lorraine Hansberry, Lillian Hellman, Marie Jones, Sarah Jones, Lisa Kron, Bryony Lavory, Michele Lowe, Clare Booth Luce, Emily Mann, Elaine May, Heather McDonald, Joanna Murray-Smith, Marsha Norman, Suzan-Lori Parks, Lucy Prebble, Theresa Rebeck, Yasmina Reza, Joan Rivers, Sarah Ruhl, Diane Shaffer, Claudia Shear, Anna Deavere Smith, Regina Taylor, Trish Vradenburg, Jane Wagner, Wendy Wasserstein, and Mary Zimmerman.

2. In the case of shows with multiple parts (Angels In America, The Norman Conquests, The Coast of Utopia), I have classified each as a single work.

3. Translations, adaptations, new versions – these are a particular challenge, since the contribution of the translator or adapter requires a value judgment on each and every effort. Consequently, I have chosen consistency, not artistry; for this study, only the original author received credit. Consequently, while David Ives is credited as the author of Venus in Fur, which is adapted from a book, only Mark Twain gets credit for Is He Dead?, even though I happen to know David’s contributions were significant on making the latter play stageworthy. Christopher Hampton is not recognized for his translations of Yasmina Reza’s plays, however elegant they may be, and I have ceded The Blue Room to Schnitzler, since it is firmly rooted in La Ronde. And so on.

4. Special events and one-person shows were judged according to whether, in my subjective opinion, they could reasonably and sensibly be performed by someone other than the author/performer. As a result, Billy Crystal’s 700 Sundays is not included in my figures, while Chazz Palmintieri’s A Bronx Tale makes the cut.

5. The number of plays produced annually on Broadway consistently outnumbers the  musicals, despite, as already noted, musicals accounting for the lion’s share of Broadway revenues. I suspect, but haven’t the resources to confirm, that the number of overall performances of plays is also vastly less than the number of musical performances in a given year; numerous limited runs of 14 to 16 weeks for plays, even if there are more of them, are surely overwhelmed by the ongoing juggernauts of The Book of Mormon, Wicked, and others.

6. A handful of plays were written by writing teams: Kaufman and Ferber, Lawrence and Lee, etc. Each playwright was recognized in their own right. The same was true for the rare omnibus productions by separate authors, such as Relatively Speaking from Ethan Coen, Elaine May and Woody Allen.

7. I would have liked to break out the racial diversity of Broadway playwrights over the past two decades, but I had no reliable source for determining the heritage of every author, or how they may self-identify, therefore I felt it best not to guess.

8. It should go without saying that there are a number of playwrights who also work on musicals; if there is any barrier between the forms, it is highly permeable. My studies have by their nature been bifurcated between plays and musicals, but there is more fluidity than these articles might suggest.

9. When classifying plays as new or revival, in cases where they play had not been previously produced on Broadway but had prior life from years or decades earlier, I opted for the Tony Awards’ guidelines of new work being that which has not entered the standard repertory. So Donald Margulies’ Sight Unseen, produced with great success Off-Broadway and regionally over much of the period studied, was considered a revival.

10. I have drawn my data from the well-organized Playbill Vault, which expedited my research immeasurably. My thanks to those who assembled it.

 

 

 

 

 

My Inadvertent, Failed Social Media Experiment

August 13th, 2012 § 4 comments § permalink

Sherman, the boy adopted by the dog Mr. Peabody, and my failed avatar.

It began, I believe, Friday afternoon, on a whim. Although I tend to the pedantic in my blogging, I can be taken by whimsy. Any of my Twitter followers can tell you how enamored I am of hashtag games.

The inciting event, such as it was, was spurred by the fact that I’ve been on Twitter for some three and half years now, and the same photo has been my identifier, my avatar, throughout that time. I thought I’d change things up a little, and so I swapped in a cartoon character. If, as I wrote in a tweet, a prestigious playwright like David Lindsay Abaire could have Barney Rubble as an avatar, I could have fun too. And that’s where I went wrong.

My first mistake was to choose a cartoon character who is not terribly well remembered by many, a minor supporting character on a now-cult TV show that debuted before I was born. That said, the rationale behind my selection would be immediately clear to those who know the show and indeed, messages of charmed approval were the first comments.

But the tone shifted. “When did you make the change,” came one inquiry, impartial, but not at all supportive. My follower count began to slide, albeit slightly. “That doesn’t look like you,” commented another. So after firing off some 100 tweets last night during the Olympic closing ceremony under my new persona, I awoke this morning and asked my followers their opinion. There were a handful who recognized the character, and made the connection (although my college roommate, a fellow trivia buff, didn’t get it). A few people said that without the old photo, they didn’t register that tweets were mine, because they were used to the old avatar. My comments wouldn’t be noticed when quickly scanning a feed.

So as quickly as I became I cartoon, I reverted to myself. There were a few farewells, but a rather passionate response from Robert Falls, artistic director of The Goodman Theatre, convinced me that reversion was the right thing to do. “Thank GOD you’re back!,” tweeted Bob. “Can’t explain why other image was disturbing – just didn’t match your Twitter voice. Seriously.”

And so my whimsical avatar, who was, incidentally, Sherman, the boy adopted by the dog Mr. Peabody on Jay Ward’s Rocky and His Friends (often referred to as The Bullwinkle Show) is banished from my tweets. Privately, I remain in possession of assorted Sherman memorabilia, as friends invariably enjoy giving me hats and plush dolls emblazoned with his image. I have that to amuse me.

Of course what had happened here was that, over the course of several years, I had established a brand on Twitter, and I had arbitrarily violated the expectations of that brand. The cartoon character didn’t represent the online persona I’d cultivated over time. Had I started with it, it may not have been an issue (although a cartoon is hardly the best persona for the range of theatrical content I curate daily). Since I don’t actually know most of my followers, nor they me, it was as if I’d had plastic surgery, badly, in order to enter witness protection.

So my inadvertent experiment this weekend turned in clear (albeit anecdotal) results in record time. Once you establish your personal brand in social media, stick with it. If you’re just playing around with friends, knock yourself out – use a funny avatar. But if you want to be heard, if you want to be recognized, pick an image and stick with it. If you’re an arts organization, don’t change your avatar show by show: stick with your company logo. If you want to be taken seriously, or use social media professionally, be yourself. And to thine own self be true, as some old guy once said, even in this brave new world of social media interaction.

In my case, I don’t think there’s been lasting damage, but if I’d gone on, there might have been. And unlike Mr. Peabody and Sherman, I don’t have a WABAC machine that would have allowed me to set things straight. And if you don’t get that last reference, look it up.

 

 

Do You Believe In (Movie) Magic?

August 9th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

Though I’ve made my career in theatre, I love film just as much, albeit for different reasons. And while the death of theatre has been predicted seemingly since it began (“He sleeps with his mother and tears out his eyes? Who would pay to see that?!”), I am actually more worried about the future direction of movies.

Commercial movie exhibition dates back about 120 years. Film was, in many ways, a technologically-driven adaptation of theatre, since previously performances could not be recorded and shared. It took time for film to develop its own language and take advantage of its technical opportunities; many early movies look not unlike stage plays, and suffer for it today. But certainly over the past century, film has become its own vehicle of expression, distinct from theatre, its rise roughly concurrent with that of radio and recorded music, with television entering the picture near the mid-point of the last century and video games expanding new forms of immersive narrative in the 1980s. As Seth Godin noted in an address at the 2012 Theatre Communications Group conference, people used to go to the theatre because they didn’t have other choices; that all changed, rapidly, in the 1900s.

While outsiders predict the demise of theatre, the movie industry has at times warned of its own incipient doom: the advent of TV and the invention of home video recording are but two significant examples that the film industry feared and survived. It has twice battled such incursions with 3D, briefly in the 50s and more pervasively now, and has tried to build ever bigger blockbusters to keep luring in the rubes since Jaws and Star Wars rewrote the exhibition rules in the 1970s.

Perhaps the most significant technological innovation is one that is already more than 20 years old: computer-generated imagery (CGI). Though it looks prehistoric as displayed in the forgettable The Last Starfighter (one of the very first films to make use of CGI), dinosaurs marked its breakthrough, with Spielberg’s Jurassic Park. Though the technology has evolved and improved year after year, Jurassic (and some key effects in Terminator 2) marked the point at which, through CGI, massive hit movies started on a dangerous path (with films about the dangers of technology gone awry, no less).

Once, a film of a railroad train was enough to enthrall moviegoers, but very quickly the magical films of an artist like George Melies expanded the possibilities of the form. Yes, stories were at the core of films, but effects were often vivid and vital, whether it was Gish on an ice floe or Kong climbing the Empire State. Those effects were state of the art in their times, but I suspect that audiences understood that these were false images, man-made rather than natural. I also think that people grew to enjoy to improvements in effects, as we flash-forward from the time lapse photography of The Wolf Man’s transformation to the skin-splitting intricacy of David Naughton becoming an American Werewolf (in London). But now, everything is possible.

We read accounts of actors playing scenes to dangling tennis balls, so their eye line will be correct when a beast is later CGI’d in, acting against empty green backgrounds that will be filled later by digitally rendered settings, or acting in form-fitting motion capture suits so that they themselves can be altered. They are united only onscreen, with perpetual but incremental advances. In point of fact, many of our biggest films are computer animated (though filmmakers would decry that specific nomenclature). How much time did we spend with actual humans in Avatar?  To me (and I risk my life by saying so) some of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings landscapes look to me like Thomas Kinkade paintings. If it’s not real, let it be elegantly fake; I’ll take Peter Ellenshaw’s matte paintings of the London skyline in Mary Poppins over any element of The 300 any day, while Alien and Aliens feature creatures vastly more frightening than there digitally rendered brethren in later chapters.

The irony is that once everything is possible, the novelty and the attraction departs. Because many studio execs and filmmakers believe that improved technology is an end unto itself, 3D has come roaring back to distract us (and pick our pockets) and god help us there’s talk of 4D, a foolish “improvement” found in  museum exhibits and theme parks, which primarily consists of wind machines and moving chairs. That this is happening even as forecasting gurus predict that we will become ever more reliant on mobile media, and that more films will be seen on portable, tiny screens, is even more ironic.

Mainstream film, enslaved to the imagined audience desire for bigger and louder, moves ever farther from meaningful and even coherent stories as it exhibits ever flashier wares. Smaller films and independent cinema remain, but I daresay that hit Broadway shows surpass them for in-theatre audiences.  But they may rise again, and the studios may come to recognize the fundamental importance of story again, since now that magic is commonplace, the magicians can’t thrill us.

As for effects, I believe theatre, always rooted in story, will recognized for its human-scaled, man-made efforts there as well. For an almost absurd example, look at the stage and screen Spider-Man versions: the reboot struck some as rehash, while audiences continue to flock to the stage version, even with wires and pulleys in full view. More to the point, the handmade quality of Joey in War Horse or the prehistoric man in Complicite’s Mnemonic, the physical skills of Cirque du Soleil and Les 7 Doigts de la Main, the “horrific” Elephant Man as seen in Bernard Pomerance’s play, the physical and uninterrupted presence of actors in the same room with their audience – they remain magic. And if the people who make movies come to their senses, they’ll worry less about effects and focus on the basics: a good story, well-told.

P.S. I have said it before, but it bears repeating: until science perfects the holodeck, as seen in several of the Star Trek series, theatre will be just fine.

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