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If you are an inveterate consumer of theatre news, scanner of theatrical advertising in any U.S. market other than New York, or theatrical journalist bombarded by press releases, you have invariably run across the phrase “prior to Broadway,” probably many times. Indeed, I nominate the phrase “prior to Broadway” as perhaps the most flagrantly and falsely used – and accepted – promotional phrase in theatre hucksterism. I would also say it is perhaps the most damaging. Now I am not suggesting that every invocation of the phrase is intrinsically false. It originated in the days when engagements in cities like Boston, New Haven, Philadelphia and Washington DC were frequent and true out of town tryouts, productions that were on a direct path to New York, and it has many modern analogues: The Producers’ pre-New York run in Chicago or The Scottsboro Boys’ sojourn at The Guthrie Theatre are two recent, truthful examples. In these cases, if the shows were promoted as playing prior to Broadway, they were stating a fact, as they indeed had all of the necessary arrangements made in order to move them into Manhattan after their out of town runs. What bothers me are the countless shows that announce themselves as prior to Broadway without having raised a dime or having received a commitment from a Broadway landlord to rent the production a theatre. Yet it happens all the time and is, I fear, swallowed whole by press and audiences. On a purely semantic level, one could claim that any literary material that has not previously been presented on Broadway is therefore “prior to Broadway,” since the Great White Way might be in its future. That is why you can express all due skepticism at the title of this piece (and please, feel free), but the claim is not ever absolutely impossible, no matter how improbable it may be (and composing teams are welcome to call me). Let me posit some of the dangers of the “prior to Broadway” (from here on, “PTB”) gambit: 1. Declaring a show from the outset as being PTB may be nothing more than a fishing expedition. In my days as a press agent, the most desirable place to announce a forthcoming show was in “the Friday column” (it had various names) on page two of the Friday arts section of The New York Times. Most weeks in those pre-Internet days, The Column would carry at least one such announcement. Some came to pass, but others were, according to one of my former bosses, placed by producers who he considered to be “producing in The Column.” That is to say, they would float an idea in the paper and if their phone rang enough in the ensuing days, then they might begin work on such a project in earnest. Today, when a press release can be instantly rendered fact by multiple news sites and subsequent propagation by Facebook, Twitter and the like, the column is no longer required, just a reasonably reliable publicist with an e-mail account. But PTB (or its cousin, “Broadway-bound”), lives on and on. The Apprentice, The Musical, anyone? 2. PTB creates expectations that may not be fair to the play or musical to which it is applied. The moment a show declares its Broadway destination (or aspiration) it is looked at through a new lens. Critics and audiences alike become show doctors, dramaturges, prospective investors and commercial soothsayers, viewing any such production not simply for its inherent qualities in the current incarnation, but prognosticating as to its future chances and pondering what elements should or should not make the trip to Manhattan. Such pressure is ultimately antithetical to artistic development, since the project is thereafter seen only through eyes looking for commercial feasibility. 3. Theatres that regularly trumpet shows as PTB and have some successfully play there create false expectations for all of their shows. If your audiences and local media become accustomed to Broadway transfers that you repeatedly trumpet, at some point they imagine that PTB is the goal of every show you do, and the expectations are there regardless of whether they are intended or claimed. To be sure, there are a number of not-for-profits that have achieved popular recognition and financial remuneration from their transfers, but that only serves to make shows which don’t equally succeed to be perceived, even tacitly, as somehow less than worthy than the others, even when the audience has a great time. Broadway should be a bonus, not a raison d’etre. 4. Some producers come to believe that all not-for-profit organizations hunger for PTB product. Frankly, there are plenty of theatres that would love to be the home to an out-of-town commercial tryout, to raise their profile and perhaps their coffers. But I suspect that these days, it is the promise of enhancement money and star talents that lead to commercial projects landing on not-for-profit stages, diminishing and demeaning the mission and perception of the not-for-profits. The days when a show like The Great White Hope or ‘night, Mother were produced by not-for-profit theatres and discovered by the commercial theatre are in the minority. I will never forget a cold call I received from a producer offering their show to Geva Theatre in Rochester, immediately stating the amount of money they could offer to support the production. The call was surreal on many levels, among them a) that the call was made not to the artistic director (who chose our productions) but to me, the managing director, under the assumption that the offer of funding would make me an ally in advocating the project to the a.d. and b) that it came from someone I had dated very briefly a few years earlier, who made no connection between our dinners and the name on her call list of regional theatres until I reminded her (but perhaps the latter issue results from other factors as well). But not-for-profits are hardly naïve. Indeed, I have heard of theatres so eager for PTB engagements that they all but have rate cards at the ready, in order to quote their required enhancement price when producers come calling, regardless of actual need. 5. A show that garners PTB attention, albeit naturally, during an out of town run can place stresses on both the theatre and the show. The moment Broadway buzz begins, expectations change, and the concerns raised in Item 2 come into play. In extreme examples, situations can arise where artists are removed from creative teams while the show is still in a not-for-profit setting, on a show that is open and running, which may be antithetical to the credo of the producing company. I worked a regional show where commercial producers, unnecessarily, informed one member of a five member acting company that the show would be traveling to New York, but that he would not be going with it, yet the actor had to continuing performing for two weeks in the role, knowing that he had been judged commercially less than worthy. 6. Promoting PTB reinforces the notion that theatrical success can only be achieved on Broadway. There are only 40 theatres that are designated as Broadway houses and they are controlled by a handful of individuals or companies. On an annual basis, there are perhaps 35 to 40 new shows in total, in contrast with some 500 to 600 film releases and untold music and book releases. Broadway is a fabled place where great things can happen, and money can be made, but in order to play a Broadway house, a show must jump over countless hurdles, and very few ever will. Theatre as an art form benefits from having a wider horizon for and definition of success. I cannot deny the allure of reaching Broadway, not simply because the American Theatre Wing’s Tony Awards are a widely recognized symbol of success in that iconic arena. I have also been a part of productions that have gone to Broadway and have felt the thrill of being in that heady maelstrom, even though none of the shows succeeded commercially. But for the sake of artists, I urge producers, commercial and not-for-profit alike, to wield the claim of prior to Broadway very carefully, lest it backfire on them and the artists involved. I urge journalists to get more detail before repeating such a claim, as a protection of your own integrity. And I urge audiences to watch any show thusly labeled as if it were just another night at the theatre, and enjoy it not as a result of its marketing and prospects, but for its own sake, and for your own. P.S. While I’m harping on shopworn promotional phrases, let me offer another tip. If you ever read publicity materials which summarize a show as being “about the human condition,” you should immediately assume that the project comes off as confusing, at least to the people promoting it, or has content that they are worried will turn off potential audiences, and they’re hiding it. After all, every piece of theatre is about the human condition. Even Cats.
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website.
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This Blog is Prior To Broadway
November 15th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
My Problem With “Glee”
November 8th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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Before I am beset by rampaging hordes of “gleeks” incensed by the title of this entry, let me state for the record that I am in fact a fan of the television series Glee. I have seen every episode to date, save one (due to an unfortunate DVR mishap). While I don’t place it in my TV pantheon along with The Sopranos (1st season only),Hill Street Blues (yes, I’m old), the first ten years or so of The Simpsons, and the glorious Slings and Arrows (if you’ve never seen it, you must), I enjoy and applaud Glee for its championing of artistic expression, of the importance of pursuing what you love even when others would belittle you for that love. Frankly, even if the series were little more than musical numbers interspersed with the inspiring and heart-breaking scenes between Chris Colfer and Mike O’Malley, I would enthusiastically endorse it. But as with members of our family, we can care for them and still have issues with them. So it is with me and Glee. Glee disappoints me because I feel that it stints in one area. I am willing to admit that perhaps I am setting the bar too high, or asking something which is beyond the range that the show’s creators wish to tackle, and I am a strong advocate for judging the work of creative artists based on their parameters, not my own. I should also share with you that when I once ventured to discuss this issue with the arts editors at a major U.S. daily newspaper, I received the verbal equivalent of a “slushie attack,” the form of ridicule so thoughtfully re-popularized by Glee‘s writers and producers. So now that I’ve built it up, let me simply state my problem: when do these kids actually rehearse? Think about it. We see the students in the show choir rehearsal room on every episode, where they discuss song choice – but then they either break right into that song, fully arranged (with musicians who magically and disappear as necessary) and note perfect (except when dramatic effect requires something less than perfection and they turn off the auto-tuner), or they are whisked into a flight of fantasy in which they are costumed, made-up, choreographed, coiffed, lit, and edited within an inch of their life in settings that even Sue Sylvester’s cheering budget couldn’t afford. The vague bows in the direction of rehearsal always seem to take place in someone’s bedroom, involving both lip-syncing and lip-locking in most every instance, or if they’re actually on a stage, the rehearsal usually ends suddenly due to someone’s personal crisis. Obviously you could look at this in many ways. The show is, like all scripted television (and in fact most “reality” television), a gloss on life and why should we expect fidelity to accuracy? Or perhaps Glee is something more than that, a descendent of Dennis Potter’s Pennies from Heaven and The Singing Detective, in which every musical moment is a fantasy counterpoint to the harsh realities of life? Maybe the entire show is an obscure metaphor, and in its final episode we will discover everything took place in the mind of an autistic child? All that aside, Glee is squandering what could be its most valuable and longest lasting asset. Let’s face it, in less than a season and half Glee has become America’s leading public advocate for arts education in our schools. It weekly champions the glory and beauty of musical performance, and packages it in a manner which is drawing audiences presumably beyond just the high school students it portrays. It is wise enough to show teachers who get carried away by sublimating their own ambitions through the achievements of their students, but doesn’t have the courage to show that performance is actually hard work, not an endless series of divine musical inspirations that have singers knocking everything out of the park at the very first mention. The football team and cheerleaders practice, and are coached. But when did Mr. Schuester last say, “Let’s take it again from the bridge,” or “Someone was flat in there. Was it you, Rachel?” As a former high school chorus member (though the show choir concept was alien to me when the series began, and thank god I never encountered it, as I can sing but not even “move” well), I recall being drilled over and over in material we were to perform, working from something quaintly known as “sheet music,” which you can now download illegally from the internet (but that’s another blog entirely, already written by Jason Robert Brown). Accepting the fictional construct behind the show, I can liken Glee most closely to sports movies, like The Rookie and even Major League, in which an underdog or group of misfits fight their way from the very bottom to the very top. But part of what makes those films so emotionally stirring is that we see how hard the athletes have to work to achieve their goal and as we watch them do so, we become part of their struggle to defeat the odds and triumph when no one had any belief that they could ever do so. Would Rocky have been half so effective had we not seen Stallone punching sides of beef, drinking raw eggs and running up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum? Young people (and their parents, who can effect arts funding) would surely benefit from the occasional scene of rehearsal struggles, which show the rigor of true performance, show that kids need the arts and the arts need support, that we don’t just open our throats and sound like Barbra, but have to work at it. And even for those tens of thousands who will never achieve the perfection put forth by Glee and the recording stars who both the characters and their viewers idolize, isn’t it important that we see the efforts to achieve if indeed show choir is a competitive event, and that even those who don’t make the cut, or don’t pursue it professionally, will make the audiences – and understanding parents – of tomorrow? One does not magically become great, let alone a star, without work and sacrifice. Glee has ratings and buzz, which in the world of television, means that Glee has power. But as Peter Parker’s Uncle Ben taught us, with great power, comes great responsibility. Do you hear me Ryan Murphy? You’ve done a lot, but there’s more to be done. The great work begins. 1. Who is the guy with the beard at the piano, and why is his presence never really acknowledged? Is he Matt Groening? Is he invisible?
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website. |
Defender
November 1st, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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This may well be the longest blog piece I’ll ever write, and that’s precisely because it wasn’t written as a blog. What follows is an essay I wrote 17 years ago, as I was trying to work out my feelings regarding a production of The Merchant of Venice for which I was doing publicity. I felt that, at the time, I had no one with whom I could share my internal conflict, and this was my only outlet. It has remained on the multiple computers I have owned since that time. The new Broadway production of Merchant is on my theatergoing agenda this week. Spurred by a few comments from a regular Twitter correspondent about his feelings while watching the current production, which even in their brevity reminded me of this outpouring, I reopened my essay, long unread by me and never read by anyone else. So much has gone on in my life in the ensuing 17 years, that I could pepper the piece with emendations and new perspective. Instead, with only a few edits, I share with you the words of a much younger man, at something less than a crisis, but something more than a professional challenge. While it recounts my particular personal experiences, I hope it illustrates how much we bring of ourselves to theatre, far beyond what may exist in a given script or production, whether we work on or in or simply attend it. Another anecdote: when I was in the seventh grade, somewhat unwillingly attending Monday night confirmation classes at synagogue, our class was told something by the teacher that compelled me to walk out of the schoolroom and sit outside until my car pool arrived perhaps an hour later. Though I have forgotten the context of the comment, made by a man who during the day was the principal of a local public school, the remark itself remains etched in my mind: “You can’t really trust your non-Jewish friends, because if there were to be another Holocaust, you’d learn it’s only your Jewish friends who can be trusted.” Though I eventually met with my rabbi, who tried to explain the origins of such a comment while assuring me I was right to be upset by it, it’s funny that I remember only the private apology of the rabbi. I cannot recall if the rest of the class ever heard it as well. And another: Five years ago, I visited the former Soviet Union on a business trip that included a good deal of sightseeing. As my group toured the Hermitage in Leningrad, I suddenly stopped on one of the grand staircases of the enormous, ornate building. Another in our group, noticing that I’d fallen behind, came to where I stood to ask if anything was wrong. “When my grandparents fled this country 80 years ago or so,” I replied, “I’m sure they never believed that anyone from their family would ever be allowed back in, or would even want to go. They certainly never could have dreamed that their grandson would be a guest in the Tsar’s Winter Palace. I just realized that.” One more: when I was in the fifth or sixth grade, I found myself fairly close to our congregation’s cantor, a man probably the age I am now, who took the time to spend an occasional afternoon taking the rather awkward me to museums, which I remember most specifically, and involving me in the theatrical presentations he produced at the our synagogue. Though an adult’s memory of childhood events often seems magnified by time (since we probably only took our outings a few times), they do loom large in recollection — I remember this as the period when I felt closest to my given faith, even though I don’t recall a single moment with Cantor Epstein that we spent discussing religion. Yet I know that the career I’ve pursued for some 10 years is a direct result of his interest, his care and his opening my eyes to a world I had not seen in school, at home or in synagogue. Over the past few months, I’ve found myself continually thinking about the title of an old Philip Roth story, one I’ve actually read a few times over the years, though not recently. The story, from his Goodbye Columbus collection, is called “The Defender of the Faith.”You may have noticed I’ve mentioned that it’s the title that keeps popping into my head, not the story itself necessarily. The story, in short, as I recall it, is about a Jewish army sergeant who is manipulated by a Jewish private through a calculated play on the sergeant’s largely dormant Jewish identity. The private cadges time off from his duties through what is clearly only a feigned interest in the Jewish customs which he purports to be trying to observe in his newly acquired free time. I may be confusing the men’s ranks, but that’s the gist of the plot. So why do I keep thinking about the title, “The Defender of the Faith?” Because I am a Jewish man whose job for the past couple of months has been to promote a production of The Merchant of Venice, a play reviled by many of my heritage for its portrayal of Shylock, a vengeful Jewish usurer. And as a result, I have been forced to examine my allegiances: to my race, to my religion, to a job I have devoted myself to for more than eight years. Notice I separated race and religion. Like many of my generation, much to the consternation of my parents’ generation and the generation that preceded them, I unwaveringly identify myself as Jewish, but I cannot call myself a faithful follower of Judaism. I am Jewish the way others are Italian or French. Though I’m often told the two are inextricable, I long ago bought into something I was told often in Hebrew school, which is that the Jewish faith is not dogmatic (usually this was held up in contrast to other faiths). I therefore forged my own identity as a Jew, subject to no dogma but the inner self which steered me. I frankly long for faith. I envy those I know who have true faith in their religions, but at this point in my life, I’m highly skeptical. I often wish I did believe, especially when someone I love dies, but that is longing and loss I’m feeling, not belief. However, when a childhood friend who is now a Protestant missionary, in a discussion of my feelings about faith, tentatively floated the suggestion that Jesus might be my answer, I recoiled — I knew immediately that if I was to find faith, I knew that it had to be through Judaism. But I’m digressing. Defender of the Faith. For eight years, I have very proudly been responsible for sharing the work of a theater company and an artistic director with a community through its media. It is work that I admire, generated by the sensibilities of a artist I have grown to love. Though my opinions on the plays we do are heard internally, I can neither get a play included in our season nor blackball one. I’ve often joked, though in my humor there is truth, that while a play is on our stage, I’m paid to like it, and so I do. As a result, I have successfully promoted plays I’ve loved, a few I’ve hated, and on several occasions ones I thought I’d loathe to find they moved me unexpectedly. So whenMerchant was chosen, I never even suggested it shouldn’t be done. Yet, as one of the theater’s very few Jewish staffers, I suddenly began to find myself in the position of being, in the phrase that kept coming to mind, a defender of the faith. I should say that I have no problem with Merchant being produced if the artists involved are using it to reinforce humanity, not fracture it — I do not believe that Shylock should be taken as an emblem of his people any more than Superfly or Fu Manchu represent theirs as a whole. They are all characters, created at a certain time in the history of the human race, which allow certain stories to be told. We lock these characters away at our own peril, for they must be exhumed periodically in an environment of enlightened debate — we must never forget them, we must be forced to grapple with them, if only to be reminded of the ignorance which led to their creation. That’s not even fair to Shylock, since I think Shakespeare gave his character great complexity and variety, though I know that a certain ignorance indeed informed some aspects of his character. But knowing our theater’s director as I do, and knowing how he approached the play when he had directed it once before, I believed that Merchantcould be performed as a condemnation of prejudice, not a perpetuation of it. Once the play took the stage, my faith in the director, my boss, was borne out in a complex and provocative production. Yet… I cannot discount the concerns of my Jewish brethren, even though I do not personally share them. Just as I respect and defend my theater’s right to produce the play, I absolutely understand where the animosity towards the play is coming from, and I respect it, even though I can’t help feeling that Merchant has become for many a Rorschach test, where each person projects themselves, and perhaps their own fears about others’ perceptions of the same ink blot, onto the images placed before them. There are people in our community who are deeply pained to see Shylock on our stage, who see only his ugliness. There is nothing I can do or say to them or for them that would lessen their distress, though I understand its source, or alter their perceptions, which they have an absolute right to hold. I have tried to represent their reactions and their positions, which I anticipated from the moment the play was chosen, and will continue to, as a voice inside the institution. And in any job I ever have, when questions and concerns about Jewish identity come up, I will represent our common heritage, even though I may not wish to take up their distress as my very own. I defend the race and the religion we hold in common even as I despair of not wholly sharing it. In doing so, I hope it brings me closer to the kind of God I so desperately want to believe in — the God who saw to it that a member of the Jewish clergy exposed a young Jewish boy to the decidedly Christian images which adorn many museum walls, a God who brought a Jewish man into the Tsar’s palace two generations after his ancestors fled from tyranny and poverty, not a God who would allow a Holocaust to happen only to find it used as a tool which would forever keep people wary of each other’s natures. But just as I defend my heritage in hopes of finding God — I defend The Merchant of Venice that is disturbingly alive on our stage, in the hope that it will bring everyone who sees it closer to eradicating the anti-Semitism, the anti-racism, it portrays – and I believe condemns. (October 1993)
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website. |
Tear It Up or Tear It Down
October 25th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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Of late, I begin most of my days trawling the Internet, searching for intriguing theatre stories that largely escape the glare of the usual purveyors of stage news. I am, in this chore, curating the American Theatre Wing’s Twitter feed, as a supplement to the company’s work, looking for stories that complement our interests; when I find a story that’s a bit offbeat, off-topic or which seems to call out for a prefatory opinion, I tweet it as myself. My highly unstructured survey of each day’s theatre journalism is driven almost entirely by the relatively indiscriminate Google News. As a result, I am rapidly surveying screen after screen of headlines assembled because they include, or are attached to articles which contain, the word “theater” or “theatre,” depending upon the stylebook of the individual publication. On the average day, I’m scanning about 500 headlines and making snap judgments about whether to read an article, and then again whether to share it more broadly. This gives me a particular and perhaps peculiar overview of what’s “making news” in theatre, yet it has consistently yielded a type of story, and therefore a type of theatre activity, which seems to be happening on a daily basis: theatres are either being demolished, slated for demolition, or saved from demolition and restored by either government agencies or community action. Having realized that these stories are so commonplace, in cities and towns both large and small, they rarely appear in either The Wing tweets or my own, since the net effect would be as repetitive as finding the stories about them has turned out to be. If you’re at all familiar with my writing, you might well expect me to have a knee jerk reaction: elated at restorations, heartened by stays of execution, worried about potential razings and despondent over losses. But in point of fact, that’s not the case. I am pleased that each and every venue written about has seemingly provoked such passion within the community where it exists. People seem to genuinely treasure theatres, the older the better, even long-shuttered ones, be they legit houses or movie palaces. Whatever the circumstances, they provoke wistful editorials of bygone glory days as well as hopeful declarations about how a revitalized theatre can in turn reenergize the real estate and community around it. Indeed, the mantra of a theatre as a center for economic development seems to have infiltrated the general consciousness. Those stories that I stop to read are replete with tales of other communities that preserved their heritage and their economic base by causing theatres to rise up to their past vitality, as the basis for rallying the troops to save the venue in question. And that’s where my skepticism sets in. Can it be true that in each and every case where a theatre was saved from the wrecking ball and lovingly brought not simply up to code, but back to its architects’ original intent, downtowns have truly been saved? Is there really enough quality entertainment on tour or being produced in each of these locales to motivate the populace to once again fill the theatres as they did in the heydays when they were built three-quarters of a century ago, 100 years past, or even earlier? Does every feasibility study generated miraculously discover hordes of people ready to abandon their LCD TVs, their Wiis, and their generally busy schedules to gather together as in halcyon days for the marvel that is live performance? No question, it would certainly be nice to think so. And no question, it has worked in many places. But I worry. I worry that theatres built for another era, when population, demographics and entertainment options were different, are being saddled with at times unreasonable expectations; that after the opening celebrations fade, they will once again decline in popularity and vitality. I worry that theatre companies will be persuaded to participate in the dreams of a municipality or developer that don’t really suit their needs creatively. I worry that if you rebuild it, they will not come. This pessimism is infused not by a dark cloud that has suddenly hijacked my love for and faith in the power of theatre. It comes from article after article in which the sole focus is the building itself, not the art or entertainment necessary to make it viable. Articles that have heralded the rebuilt and expanded Arena Stage are not the examples of which I speak, because that project was undertaken by a vibrant and ongoing artistic institution that was expanding to meet its needs. It’s the projects in small, out of the way towns, and those disconnected from clear creative impulse and need which I fear may one day tip the scales of economic development away from restoring theatres, because one too many has failed to measure up. At this point, I should interject that I love old theatres, and could spend hours exploring their nooks and crannies. As The Tony Awards have surveyed most every venue in New York of late, I have marveled at how theatres have been shoehorned into unusual physical configurations, and I have been as thrilled at finding vintage lighting panels which (reportedly) still function as I have been at seeing ceilings stripped of grime to reveal painted constellations, or freshly imagined in the spirit of vintage artwork. I love the trip back in time I take whenever I visit Goodspeed, restored some 45 years ago in the spirit in which it was built in the 1870s; harbor deep emotion for the unsightly food terminal that is home to Long Wharf, where I did some of my earliest theatergoing; and I am eager to see what the renovations at Hartford Stage have meant to a building in which I learned my trade. My emotional investment is considerable. But it’s another Connecticut venue that fuels my concern for the daily litany I survey of projects completed, underway or proposed nationally: the Connecticut Shakespeare Theatre. This 1200 seat structure, perched where the Housatonic River meets Long Island Sound, was, for a time from the 50s through the 70s, a serious attempt to rival theatres in other Stratfords — those in Canada and England. For theatergoers of a certain age in southern New England, the mere mention of the spot brings memories of shows starring Morris Carnovsky and Katharine Hepburn, of school trips that were first encounters with Shakespeare. But the Connecticut theatre reportedly operated for many years reliant on the largesse of a few wealthy patrons who kept it going even as audiences shifted their allegiance to upstart regional theatres in Stamford (The Hartman, itself now gone), New Haven and elsewhere; when those patrons passed away, so did the theatre, leaving bars, motels and shops named for a Bard who had fled. I wish the Stratford CT effort well, just as I wish every theatrical endeavor well. But I fear that at least some of the theatre revivals I read about every day are not truly theatrical endeavors, but are instead real estate deals. You can take any room, most any building, and make theatre in it, but when you restore “A Theatre,” only live performance can take place in it. I hope that anyone involved in preserving and restoring theatres, or pleading for their renewal or survival, remembers that to keep a theatre alive, there must be the act of theatre to fill it. Because if there aren’t performers to “tear up the stage,” as we sometimes read about performances, then perhaps it might just be time to tear that theatre down, rather than let it serve, as too many do, as boarded up eyesores, or as the imagined, reinvigorated home of unidentified plays and players. Sometimes, it’s best to let the past give way to the present and future, and instead of clinging to buildings filled with memories and ghosts, build wholly anew, for today’s theatre groups, so that they may flourish.
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website. |
Long Enough To Reach
October 18th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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To the question, “How long should a man’s legs be?,” President Abraham Lincoln is credited with responding, “Long enough to reach the ground.” The quote may or may not be accurately ascribed to Lincoln, but it has been on my mind a lot of late, although not in regard to physical stature. If you are a regular theatergoer, you are undoubtedly in the habit of ascertaining, before you see a production, what the running time will be. Your motivation may be practical: notifying the babysitter, figuring out what train to catch, making post-theatre dining reservations. But undoubtedly you have found yourself cheered, more than once, when your inquiry results in the answer, “90 minute, no intermission.” It is the cheerfulness which concerns me. I am not entirely certain when the tide turned towards the single-act play (and in some cases musicals), but they seem much more prevalent of late. Perhaps this is simply evolutionary, as we’ve watched theatre go from five acts to three acts to two, and the standard is turning once again. But unlike other devolutions in theatrical scope, which have been economically driven (playwrights say they can’t get large cast plays produced, and therefore write more “practically,” to name one troublesome example), the “full-length” one-act play is actually counter to theatrical economics, as it wreaks havoc on intermission concessions sales, to the dismay of many managers and producers. Years ago, in my press agent days in Hartford, I would regularly get a call from the major local critic, on a Wednesday or Thursday, asking about the length of the production that would open on a Friday night. His query was practical; he would leave the theatre immediately at the end of the production and go back to the paper to write for the next day’s edition, a schedule that even the New York papers had abandoned (and because we had only five previews, we were loathe to invite him sooner). As we came to know each other better, I would try to call him preemptively, and if I forgot, and received a Thursday call, I would pick up my phone and announce the number of acts and running time before I even said hello. After we had presented a few shows that were single act, intermissionless plays, for which the critic voiced his enthusiasm, I brashly asked, “Look, if all our plays were one act without an intermission, would we be assured of better reviews?” I was met with the only half-joking response, “It wouldn’t hurt.” In recent weeks, I have noted an articulate and enthusiastic theatre tweeter lobbying for exactly that – that all plays should be unbroken and brief. We have debated the issue as effectively as one can do in 140-character snippets, but his advocacy of this position, and my prior experience with such opinions, moved me to say more on the topic. Yes, I will confess that on occasion, I am heartened to know that I can make it home with enough time to brush my teeth and settle into bed before the start of “The Daily Show” at 11 pm. But it has never occurred to me to hope that playwrights would simply write shorter, which is in fact code for “less.” I am, however, an enthusiastic advocate of 7 o’clock or 7:30 p.m. weeknight curtains, which we had instituted in 1986 at Hartford Stage when audience surveys revealed a 2 to 1 preference in the audience for earlier start times – among an audience that snapped up tickets for the decidedly wordy works of Shakespeare and Ibsen. I like getting home early, but not at the expense of theatrical complexity. I want to say to playwrights, already hobbled by the number of sets and number of actors they can utilize, please don’t restrict yourself by word or page count. Write the stories you want to tell, and take the time you need to tell them. As a notoriously discursive essayist myself, I also urge you not to be afraid of digressions if they illuminate your story, your characters, your themes. We cannot afford to have you put in a position where you must sacrifice texture and subtext in favor of train schedules or simple impatience. I am not naïve, and marathon events like Angels in America andThe Norman Conquests have their economic and logistical challenges, but they are in fact the exception, not the rule (yet often all the more recognized precisely because of that fact). The issue of play length is perhaps most on my mind because of two plays I’ve seen in the past fortnight: Caryl Churchill’s A Number and Elevator Repair Service’s Gatz. The former I saw recently in London, having been enthralled by its New York premiere several years back. The latter I saw for the first time less than 24 hours ago, after reading about it for years. Both (even the second viewing of A Number, in a wholly new production), were profoundly memorable events for me. The former, with only two actors, four characters and a chair, manages to encompass a vast array of themes: familial love and loss, the nature of identity, the ethics of cloning, the slipperiness of truth. The latter transcends the dingy office in which it’s set and lifts the act of reading a classic book into rarified realms while illuminating an extremely familiar (to me), brilliant text, in a way that made me examine it as if new. Both experiences could only take place live, in a theatre; they would make no sense and lose their impact on film, radio or television. The former runs perhaps 50 minutes and says all that needs to be said, the latter requires some eight hours altogether, including a dinner break, and its very completeness is part of its impact. I will never seek to silence anyone’s opinion about theatre, but I will ask those who advocate or agitate for more compact works to, similarly, try not to direct the playwright’s voice. Let’s not create a producing and theatergoing environment in which only the brief can survive. We need plays of every shape, size, subject and length if the theatre is to remain alive and vital. And so I return to my opening epigram, but only to transform it. How long should a play be? Long enough to reach its audience.
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website. |
Theatre Family
October 4th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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My friend Cassandra Kubinski stopped by the Wing office the other day. I was very surprised to find, as we chatted, that I hadn’t seen her in well over a year. It turns out she’d spent much of that time living in Nashville pursuing her singing and songwriting career, opening a music venue there with a friend for a short time. Cassie and I aren’t close friends, but I’m very fond of her. She has been very good about staying in touch overall, so this gap was anomalous. We first met about 13 years ago when she was in two productions at Goodspeed Musicals, while I was general manager there. I calculate that Cassie is about 27 or so now. Do the math. Or let me help you: she played the title role in Annie. * * * Theatre is a transitory field, albeit less so for those of us in administration, or on a resident theatre’s permanent staff. But for actors, directors, designers, authors and so many others, theatre is, among many other things, a constant go-round of meeting, bonding, working together, then breaking apart, only to start all over again with yet another group. As a result, friendships can operate somewhat differently than what you might be used to. Because everyone is constantly moving on to another project, it’s hardly unusual to go for a long period of time without seeing someone you consider a friend, then picking up right where you left off. One benefit of the proliferation of cell phones, e-mail, Facebook, Twitter and the like is that they actually allow theatre folk to stay in touch much more easily than when I entered the field. If you really want to find someone, you don’t end up in endless phone tag with a home answering machine, or, to date myself, their service. At the same time, I have found theatre to be remarkably constant, perhaps because I spent much of my career in institutional theatre, which affords more continuity. The people I met when I worked at Hartford Stage are still an important part of my life, and rarely a day goes by one when I’m not in communication with at least one person who I know from my tenure there. But as a result, we have grown up together, aged together, shared losses and successes together. Yet on some level, I will always be the impetuous, abrasive boy press agent. Pete Gurney will always be my adoptive W.A.S.P. uncle, who was so proud of me when I got the job at the Wing, and told me so; Richard Thomas will always be my energetic, mischievous older theatre brother who egged me on to my first (and only) shot of tequila; Kate Burton remains my warm-hearted, “everybody’s favorite” older sister, who once laced into me for not sharing a secret with her; David Hawkanson and Mark Lamos will always be my thrilling, aggravating, wisdom-imparting older cousins who teased me, taunted me, and taught me the ways of the world. Because these relationships remained in place, and still do, for more than half my life, for a long time I never had any sense of growing up. Just as with my blood relatives, or with my high school friends, the interactions between me and members of my theatre family revert to old patterns the moment I see them – often shocking outsiders when I lapse into the casual profanity that was the lingua franca of Hartford Stage in the mid-80s. So it is only recently that I have begun to understand that I may now be the uncle, the cousin, to young people who entered my circle at one point or another during my career. As Cassie sat in my office, I looked at this extraordinarily self-possessed, determined young woman (which she has been since I first met her) and felt proud of her as she talked of her career, her changing perspectives, and her achievements. I sensed there were some disappointments along the way too, but hey, who tells their uncle or older cousin about those? I realize there is a younger generation to my theatrical family, and though I cannot claim to have mentored them in the ways that Hawkanson and Lamos, and Michael Price of Goodspeed (another uncle), mentored me, I am extraordinarily happy each time I see them, and so thrilled with their successes. Howard Fishman, once a high school intern at Hartford Stage, is a successful recording artist with numerous albums and a flourishing concert and club performing career; Kate MacCluggage, who would answer phones on weekends at The O’Neill Center and is now the leading lady of The 39 Steps here in New York; John Barlow, once an intern at the American Shakespeare Theatre in CT, who used to do errands for me in NYC while I remained in CT, established one of Broadway’s top p.r. firms, and now contemplates his next career move; Lex Leifheit, who did p.r. at The O’Neill Center, now runs SOMArts in San Francisco; Chris Jahnke, who came to Goodspeed fresh out of college, is now a top-flight orchestrator and music director. Though their successes and increasing authority are reminders that I am indeed aging, since they are all now adults and have become my peers, I harbor great pride in their achievements. Just as Kate Burton is fond of saying about her and me, “The kids have grown up, and are in charge.” A week or so ago, I noticed that I was being followed on Twitter by a young man named Christopher Kauffmann. With a few quick clicks, I determined that he was the same Chris who, along with his younger sister, had appeared at Goodspeed in Finian’s Rainbow. I didn’t know him as well as I knew Cassie, and I haven’t seen him once in the ensuing years. He’s living in New York, acting. We’re going to meet for coffee soon. And I’m going to be very proud of him, too. * * * A final thought: there a countless young people who I’ve encountered over the years, and regret that I don’t know better. Every year at the Wing, some three dozen kids spend two weeks in our SpringboardNYC program, while several hundred participate in our Theatre Intern Group. I wish I had more time to mentor them, to become their theatre family, and I feel the same way about the six classes of the National Theatre Institute that were at The O’Neill during my tenure (one kid I remember a bit from those years, because he was so tall, was named John Krasinski, and he’s done pretty well with no help from me). Someday, I hope we all meet again, as peers.
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website |
Return of the Vast Wasteland?
September 27th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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I keep reading articles about how people are getting excellent response to customer service complaints by starting websites, posting public Facebook messages and kvetching on Twitter. The reports say that major companies are monitoring the internet and proactively addressing issues with customers based on what they see online, lest public opinion take off in the wrong direction. Consequently, when I saw two affronts to, well, everyone who works in or loves theatre, I decided to test this theory. Since I couldn’t start a website to save my life, and reserve Facebook solely for friends I’ve known since college or earlier, I turned to my social media tool of choice, Twitter. The first affront, which I became aware of via pro-theatre agitator Leonard Jacobs (@clydefitch), came from the USA Network (@USA_Network). I happen to be a great fan of USA programming, in particular their In Plain Sight with Mary McCormack and Frederick Weller, both actors with solid stage credits. So when Leonard’s brief tweet, leading to his blog, pointed out that USA’s new “Character Blog” had launched in 10 categories, but without theatre as a topic, I was incensed. After all, theatre has had characters (and character) since long before TV was invented. Did USA Network really feel that theatrical characters weren’t worthy of their attention? So I sent out a spate of tweets chastising USA for their shortsightedness, to accompany Leonard’s own drumbeat, and what do you know? By late afternoon that day, USA Network was tweeting directly back to us, saying they had enormous respect for theatre and saying that they planned to add theatre to their repertory of blogs soon, asking us to give them time. I didn’t know exactly what they needed time for, since there are countless passionate, well-informed theatre bloggers who would jump at the opportunity for the promotional platform of a cable-network blog. But I decided I had rattled their cage enough, and took them at their word. The second affront was more recent. Ovation TV, an arts dedicated channel, also launched a quartet of blogs under the banner CulturePop (@CulturePOPcom), and incredibly theatre wasn’t among them — nor was dance, opera, music or independent film, all aspects of Ovation’s programming. Instead, they offered a Bravo-like selection of Style, Art & Design, Food and “deals.” Consequently, I began tweeting my dismay. I had already seen the Arts & Entertainment Network devolve into A&E and don’t even get me started on where Bravo began and where they stand today. I’m even concerned when I see doo-wop acts on PBS during pledge drives. I will hand it to Ovation – their response to my tweets was almost immediate, and while they actually seemed a bit peeved when I suggested they were relegating theatre to second-class status, a few back and forth messages established that they plan to add theatre to their blog mix. I have to give credit to whoever does their tweeting for their rapid response and genuine human voice. So, you may well ask, what has been the result of all of this “lobbying by tweet” to date? Zilch. More than two months after USA Network promised they’d be adding theatre, their blog selections are unchanged. My recent tweets have gone unanswered. It’s been several weeks for Ovation TV, and while as I write I can get 20% off at something called Poketo, America’s only arts dedicated network is running a website and blog series that barely touches upon the arts. I am not naive. I understand that, to most TV networks, theatre is a niche, though frankly there are an awful lot of people filling theatres around the country every night. It appears that television, by and large, wants theatre, and indeed the arts overall, to remain a niche. Save for our friends at CBS, who continue to provide broadcast platforms for the Tonys and the Kennedy Center Honors, the evidence of commitment to the performing and fine arts on the television spectrum, which has multiplied far beyond Bruce Springsteen’s “57 Channels,” is minimal. Television rarely uses its vast reach and influence to inform Americans of the remarkable artistic work that cannot be seen via co-ax cable or satellite. While I am quite certain that the prior paragraph particularly incenses Ovation TV, which does in fact offer a broad array of arts programming, their sudden investment in CulturePop online suggests that they may yet go the way of prior arts networks. If indeed they want an audience of arts lovers tuning in to them, they have to stand up strong and in a loud voice (known as marketing and public relations) stand with the arts community and promote not just their own television programming, but the artistic work available in theatres, concert halls and museums. As for USA Network, their mission is not arts-oriented, but when they create character oriented blogs and leave out the very art form which first invented dramatic characters, they insult everyone who loves theatre. And that’s a shame. These particular examples are perhaps petty, but they can be solved with minimal expense and some HTML code. Maybe if the leaders in the entertainment community truly stood behind the arts at every possible turn, we’d make the headway that’s necessary with our city, state and federal governments to insure that the arts are seen and supported for what they should be: an essential part of education and daily life, not some vestigial form catering only to the elites. So make yourself heard. Blog, Facebook, Tweet to USA Network and Ovation TV and tell them not to take you – and all of us – for granted. It’s a step. After all, there’s plenty of pop available, but never enough culture.
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website. |
Matinee Idol
September 20th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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When I was a senior in college, I was sent to meet some relatively recent alumni of my school who had already begun to forge careers in the theatre. I remember the day quite vividly, and can still quote from it freely, even though of the two people with whom I met, one doesn’t recall it at all and the other remembers the meeting, but not the gist of the conversation. At a distance of 26 years, one of the more salient bits of advice I received that day was as follows: “You know, if you’re any good at what you do, and you stay in this business long enough, you’re going to do just fine – because so many people drop out along the way.” Not exactly inspiring, but practical, grounded and, as I have learned, true. Now I could easily spend a number of paragraphs parsing this advice and the factors that contribute to it, but I’ll leave that to you, because I’m more interested in a corollary to that advice, which I learned for myself: “If you stay in this business long enough, you’re going to meet your idols.” Much is written, and said, no matter where you work in theatre, about “the theatrical community.” In my experience, the theatrical community is neither singular nor exceptionally small, though I daresay the number of people working in the professional theatre in the U.S. is probably smaller than the number of people working in the legal profession, or the medical profession, and it’s certainly dwarfed by any number of categories of public service employees. But the fact is that theatre is small enough, fluid enough and interconnected enough that, over time, one builds up an enormous network of friends, associates and acquaintances, all of which Facebook, LinkedIn and the like would be all too happy to track and chart for you, were everyone you’ve ever encountered to subscribe to any one such service. I strongly suspect that in the field where John Guare popularized the notion of “six degrees of separation,” everyone in the theatre is likely separated by not more than three degrees. Obviously the effect is intensified by a number of factors: how many theatres you work at or productions you work on, whether you move among different cities as you pursue your career, whether you change your area(s) of expertise as your career develops. In my case, I have had eight employers and five job titles, working in only three states; I have had some association with approximately 121 full professional productions, not counting workshops and readings. But this is all prologue to the knowledge I declared above. And I will now launch into a seeming non-sequitur. Last Saturday afternoon, I went to see a movie that, at that moment, was playing on precisely one screen in the country. In fact, I have this sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t even a movie, but a DVD projected onto a movie screen. It was a documentary about a once popular, now largely forgotten pop singer and songwriter named Harry Nilsson. I expected to be the only person there, and was heartened when I walked into the theatre to see three other people. After settling down, I was aware of other people trickling in and settling as well, and of a couple who took their places in aisle seats across from me, just one row back. I didn’t not turn to look at them, but merely registered their presence, as one does. Then they began to speak to each other. ‘Wait a minute,’ I thought, when I heard a man’s voice. ‘That voice is awfully familiar.’ And so I turned and found myself perhaps five feet from Harold Prince. I immediately got up, took two steps, and politely interrupted, saying, “Hi, Hal.” “Well look who’s here,” responded the legendary director and producer, who then introduced me to his wife Judy. He then asked why I was there, saying that they, too, had expected to be the only ones in the theatre. The chat continued, on various subjects, including a close mutual friend, until I excused myself just before the film was to begin. I sat there in the half-light of the theatre, overjoyed. Because more concretely than ever before, I understood that Hal Prince knew who I was, remembered who I was, and was perfectly happy to have me accost him and start a conversation. All based primarily on his having done the American Theatre Wing’s podcast “Downstage Center” some two and a half years earlier – and his admission at that time that he watched our “Working in the Theatre” TV program, too. (“I have no idea when it’s on,” I recall him telling me. “My wife finds it.”) Now I can imagine your thoughts as you read this. ‘He runs the American Theatre Wing. They do the Tony Awards. So he knows Hal Prince. Not a surprise.’ But what you don’t know is that, Sweeney Todd is my favorite musical of all time. It was by seeing the original production of Evita that I began to understand what a director actually does. A key factor that had influenced my decision to attend the University of Pennsylvania was that Hal had gone there, that at Penn I allied myself with the same theatre group he had once been a part of, and I worked on shows in the Harold Prince Theatre. When I was graduating, I wrote to him asking for a meeting, and though I never got a reply, my hero-worship was undiminished. On a trip to Las Vegas only weeks ago, I saw his revised version of Phantom. We even share the same birthday. But, I hear you say, it’s not like this was your first meeting. No, it wasn’t. But it was the first time we’d merely run into each other, and he treated me as a familiar, a peer. There in Theatre 1 of Cinema Village, by sheer coincidence and a shared, obscure interest, I felt I had truly arrived, at the age of 48. Yes, I have met many famous people. But knowing them is what’s important to me. I think that all of us who work in theatre are fans and no matter how long we do it, we remain fans. My frisson of excitement at running into Hal Prince last Saturday was a reminder of how much of a fan I still am, even though I needn’t stand at a stage door. And for those thinking about their career, I can think of no better encouragement: “Do theatre. You’ll get to meet your idols.”
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website. |
Nine Years and a Day
September 10th, 2010 § 0 comments § permalink
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Nine years ago today, I was about 125 miles east northeast of Manhattan, on the grounds of the Eugene O’Neill Theatre Center, where I was just about a year into my tenure as Executive Director. The O’Neill, for those who’ve never had the opportunity to work or visit there, is a bucolic spot on the Connecticut shoreline at the junction of Long Island Sound and the Thames River, quite close to all major amenities, but (at least then) still blessedly a seemingly isolated retreat. It was, supposedly, on that very plot of land that Josie Hogan attempted to soothe and perhaps save the tortured James Tyrone, Jr. When news of the first plane striking a tower reached us, shortly after 9 am, it was not because we had a TV on. In fact, there wasn’t a working TV in the building. One of the staff either had read it on the internet or heard it on the radio; I don’t really recall. All that got to me was that a plane had hit one of the towers. I assumed it was an unfortunate accident and went about business as usual. When the news emerged about the second plane strike, it was clear that this was no accident. I have no memory of when I learned about the crash of the plane that we ultimately learned had been Pentagon bound. When the towers fell, we received the news, as if in some earlier age, only via radio. It was for me, and I mean this in the literal sense, incomprehensible. I truly couldn’t imagine the towers burning and collapsing. I had no visuals to provide me with proof. By this point, of course, staff was glued to the radio and it was quite apparent that no work would be done that day. Reports began to come in of school closings, of business closings, of the State of Connecticut closing all offices. Since I didn’t need to gather the staff, who were huddled around the best radio, I then made a snap decision. I told them that unless they had children who were being released from school which they had to attend to, we were not closing, like seemingly everyplace else. Radios would be turned off, discussion of the tragedy needed to stop, and we would face the day as normally as possible. We needed to do this, I said, because of the kids. The kids had nowhere to go, and what message would we send if we fled the campus while they stayed, but for a skeletal staff? ‘The kids’ to which I referred were the students of The O’Neill’s National Theatre Institute (NTI), a semester long-theatre intensive which drew some thirty students from colleges around the country to live and learn on The O’Neill campus. The kids had arrived for the semester but two days earlier, and here they were in new territory, with peers and teachers they barely knew, as a national tragedy of untold proportion and impending threat unfolded. And I was scheduled, as I was each semester, to greet and speak with them at 11 am. My primary goal was to make sure the kids felt safe. By the time we gathered, the news had spread, not through staff gossip, but because of parents calling kids to check on them and, in doing so, to tell them the news, and in turn, students calling parents to check on them. So when the kids, and the full staff, gathered in the cafeteria, I, not yet 40, with no spouse, partner or children of my own, had to be the wise and calm adult – indeed, the father. Churning in my trivia-laden mind was a fact that I had learned in college: that southeastern Connecticut, home to the U.S. Coast Guard Academy and the defense contractor euphemistically named Electric Boat, which was in fact one of only two manufacturers of U.S. nuclear submarines, was strategically considered to be first strike territory in the event of a major foreign incursion. What horrible knowledge to have at such a time. For once in my life, I kept trivia to myself. I can only paraphrase what I remember saying to the students that morning, since I had neither the time nor the concentration to commit thoughts to paper in advance. But I faced a room filled with anxious 20-year-olds, other people’s children, children who I did not know and who did not know me. There was no buzz, no boisterousness; there was no need to quiet them down. David, the director of the NTI program, introduced me and I asked each staffer to introduce themselves with their name and their title, as we always did. Then it was my turn to say something. I acknowledged that there had been a tragedy that morning in New York, and assured them that if they had not already spoken with their parents, we’d make sure they had time to do so very shortly. Then I said that they were probably sitting there thinking — that, in the face of massive tragedy, their pursuit of theatre study, or a theatre career, might now seem insignificant, or perhaps frivolous. Then I told them why they should banish those thoughts. They needed to continue on with exactly what they were planning at that point in their lives. They should not be swayed by whatever had occurred that morning (since we knew only of the results of actions, not the source or human toll, as I spoke). If they already loved theatre enough to spend a semester away from home and from their school among strangers in order to learn more about it, then surely they could feel, as I did, that theatre was the only means we had to express our feelings about the world. I had committed my life to theatre 16 years earlier, upon college graduation, because I had no other choice. Theatre was what fascinated me, moved me, fulfilled me and challenged me. It was also the means through which I had come to understand life and other lives, cultures, even worlds. I urged them not to see theatre as irrelevant, as expendable, in the face of horror, but instead as profoundly necessary. I believed, and hoped they would too, that theatre, and indeed all artistic expression, might be more essential now than ever, since perhaps through the arts we could come to express our own feelings about what had happened and help others to come to terms with it as well. I told them, using a phrase that I would later find many were using, that unquestionably the world had just changed. But I also said that the world had changed a lot since the days of Greek drama, and that theatre had survived and continued to be meaningful to many people. Then I told them to use the phones or send e-mails if they wished, to return in an hour for lunch, and go back to class. I do not think my talk was revelatory in the grand scheme of words spoken that days or in the days, weeks and even years that followed by people wiser, better known and better spoken than I am. But apparently it served well enough for my small audience, because the staff stayed, pretending that this was just another work day, the kids returned to class, and the semester continued as planned, as, slowly, America returned to a new type of normal. When I finally went home that night, and turned on the television, I was very grateful for the O’Neill’s lack of televisions in that too stingy for cable, pre-broadband internet-era, because as I saw the images of that morning’s tragedy, what had been inconceivable became all too real. Had I seen them, I wonder whether I would have had the strength to keep the staff on site (an unpopular decision with them at the time) or to give the talk I instinctively and perhaps impulsively gave. And that talk, while hardly the St. Crispin’s Day speech, had achieved its own theatrical goal, even as I had given vent to my truest feelings about theatre in my life, in the face of great tragedy. * * * A coda: The day passed without incident. The NTI group saw some other matinee while I saw, with unintended irony, Strindberg’s Dance of Death. I accompanied the students to an evening performance of Mary Zimmerman’s transcendent vision of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. At 11 pm, we were on our bus headed back to Waterford. In the darkness of the bus, pierced here and there by an overhead reading light, we passed through Westchester, and David and I turned to each other almost simultaneously, confessing our mutual relief. Theatre has its power, but there’s nothing like heading, safely, home.
This post originally appeared on the American Theatre Wing website. |
