What Is This Life?

If your first thought is “Oh wow, where has this blog been?”, well, you probably need more hobbies. But read on, and maybe you’ll figure it out. Or maybe I will. Bear with me though, its relevance to theatre may be obscured by philosophical musings and too much personal information. Also . . . it may get a little rambly up in here.

Yesterday afternoon, a young teenager who shall remain nameless and may or may not be related to me, had an existential meltdown while I was trying to watch tv. He was quite loud about it, so despite my best efforts to remain invested in my Very Important TV Show, I was left with no choice but to pause it and focus on the hysterical teen who had planted himself between me and the screen. (What is this?? I thought this was a theatre blog, not another mommy blog!! Hush it. I’m getting there, and no one said it was my son.)

Kidding aside, this nameless young man couldn’t initially articulate the source of his angst, but with some prodding and much rambling, it soon came to light, and can best be summed up (in my words) as the terrified question: “What is this life? What is this path I’m on?”

And I connected, instantly, with his pain.

I let him continue to talk, but I didn’t need him to. I could have scripted every word that flowed from his heart: This life doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t do what I’m expected to do. My life is going to be ruined. 

Society and our parents (most of our parents) firmly believe that there is only one right path in life, only one sequence of events that leads to a “good life”.  Do A, then B, then C, then D and you’ll get a nice pat on the head and a “Good boy”. Keeping in mind that I'm not talking about where you end up - but how you get there. Of course, there’s a reason – for millions of people, that IS the formula for happiness and success. They get exactly what they want out of life by doing all the “right” things.  They prove that the formula works.

But there are some of us, I don’t know how many, for whom that path leads to misery. A lifelong struggle to find happiness and success without ever realizing that it lay down an entirely different path, one that we left behind ages ago and may never get a chance to find again. One that we would have found by making decisions that would have been roundly disapproved of by those who care about us. And there I was, sitting there with one of those people, someone who still had his whole life ahead of him, as he hesitantly outlined the path he wanted to take. A path that meant taking actions that go against everything we are told is “right”, that society would scream “Noooo! You’ll ruin your life if you do that!” Yet, I couldn’t help but think “You’ll ruin your life if you don’t.”

I said the one thing no responsible parent would ever say to their child (not that I was talking to my son. Or that I even have a son.) I said “Do it.” The relief that flooded his face was matched wholly by the relief that flooded my heart. He had a plan. He had looked into himself, out to his future, down at the path he was on, and had the guts to say “I want to get off.” Will it be easy? No. Will society shake its head and lament another lost soul who got it all wrong? Probably. Will this theoretical, unnamed teenager care? Oh, no. No, he won’t. 

Over the last several months, faced with unexpected failures and forced to confront my place in this world we call The Theatre, I’ve found myself questioning nearly every decision I’ve made since decisions were mine to make.  If I had had the self-awareness and courage to make the wrong decisions when I had the chance, maybe I wouldn’t be someone who has lived with the misery of relegating theatre to the status of hobby. The wrong decision I did make – getting pregnant in college, becoming a single mom – has brought me the satisfaction of seeing a young man become, in this instance, my role model – my hero. 

What is this life?  I wish I could answer that for myself.

This Is Soup . . . and This Is Art

So much for my goal of posting once a week – with overlapping shows and the ongoing, epic quest to become a productive member of society, I’m afraid I lost a few weeks.  But I’m jumping back in with a topic that was actually brought to light by a comment on one of my previous posts. The topic of the previous post is irrelevant, but one of the strongest protestors burst out with a frustrated:

"And, tellingly, why is no one advocating for the audience?"

My simple answer to this is: The audience must advocate for the audience. Why should anyone other than the audience speak for the audience? Why should they not be allowed to vote with their feet, and their wallets?

But since this is a blog, a simple answer simply will not do.

I show 'em this can of Campbell's tomato soup. I say, "This is soup."

 Then I show 'em a picture of Andy Warhol's painting of a can of Campbell's tomato soup. I say, "This is art."

 "This is soup." "And this is art."

 Then I shuffle the two behind my back. Now what is this?

 No, this is soup and this is art!

                   -Trudy the Bag Lady, Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe

Is it our job, as directors, actors, playwrights, to explain to our audience the difference between soup and art? While it seems some readers of this blog would say “Yes!”, I would argue no. Theatre audiences are smart, tuned in people who can be trusted to divine what is intended from a theatre piece, without dumbing it down for their sake. Provided, of course, that the actors and the director put the effort into understanding the material themselves, and conveying it clearly.

It’s dangerous, as artists, to ensconce ourselves in a bubble of mental superiority, to assume that we know and understand something that the general public could never really “get”. It leads to one of two extremes: a drive to create ever more inscrutable art, to prove a level of perception that the” common man” could never hope to achieve.  Or to pander to your audience instead of trusting them, dumbing things down to make them  “accessible” to the public at large, instead of allowing them the freedom to engage with the art by thinking about it, questioning it, analyzing it.

A class on directing that I’ve been teaching recently showcased their pieces for friends and family. One of the directors chose a well-written, funny play that was an easy laugh. It was a quality script, but required nothing from the audience except to be entertained. The audience chuckled, laughed, and roared throughout. The other directors worked with scripts that were a little more challenging for the audience, and played to a much quieter crowd. All the pieces were well-received, and afterwards, the director with the “easy” piece received well-deserved kudos and congratulations. The other directors got . . . questions. Excited, probing, thoughtful questions. The audience remained engaged with those pieces long after the lights went down. They didn’t need it spoon fed to them, they thrilled at the opportunity to participate intellectually.

None of this means you force your own idea of art on the nearest group of theatre goers. It means you know your place in the theatre world. Know what kind of art you create, and who your audience is, and go find them. 

What is the audience’s role in all this? Passive observers, meant to meekly fork over their money and absorb what we place before them with as little mental effort as possible?

Did I tell you what happened at the play? We were at the back of the theater, standing there in the dark, all of a sudden I feel one of 'em tug my sleeve, and whispers, "Trudy, look."

 I said, "Yeah, goose bumps. You definitely got goose bumps. You really like the play that much?"

They said it wasn't the play gave 'em goose bumps, it was the audience.

I forgot to tell 'em to watch the play; they'd been watching the audience! Yeah, to see a group of strangers sitting together in the dark, laughing and crying about the same things...that just knocked 'em out.

 They said, "Trudy, the play was soup...the audience...art."

 Don’t treat the audience like soup. Give them the chance to be part of the art.

Thanks, You Shouldn’t Have! No, I Mean, You Actually Shouldn’t Have . . .

I adore auditions. After spending  a few weeks with a script, reading and re-reading, working it through your imagination, it’s splendid fun to put it in the hands of auditioners. The imagination goes into overdrive as lines are read: intonation is analyzed, facial expressions are studied, chemistry is absorbed. The director mixes and matches to see who sparks together on stage. It’s akin to piecing together a jigsaw puzzle, with one distinction – the picture keeps changing. As the actors move the material between them, the vision tweaks and twists, new pieces fall into place, new ideas crop up. The possibilities swell. It’s . . . well, it’s just fun!

Now, I get it, I’m having more fun than the auditioners are. For the actors, it’s tension and butterflies, second-guesses and self-flagellation. Did I screw up? Did I do the best I could? Did she notice that I farted? I admire actors for putting it out there, taking the risks, and not backing down when the person right before you just nails it. Then, going home and . . . waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting for the cast list to go up. It sucks, no?

While you (actors) are sitting and waiting, however, we (directors) are taking our turn on the insane hamster wheel of second-guessing. Sometimes we’re dealing with a good showing of strong actors for a particular role. Sometimes, it’s a plethora of mediocre actors, or one or two actors that you’re just not sure you can make work. In any case, it’s hours or days of shuffling audition sheets and headshots, mumbling to yourself and playing the occasional (non-binding) desperate round of eenie-meenie-miny-mo. If you’re lucky, you have an anchor – that one actor that you absolutely know you want for a role. From there, you can sometimes fit the other actors into the equation, based on how they play together. Sometimes, you simply have to make a difficult decision about one character before you can even begin to decide about another.  Finally, often in the eleventh hour, moments before the deadline to release the cast list . . . it clicks. The actors slide neatly into position, their headshots beaming contentedly at you as if wondering why you didn’t get this configuration from the start, and save yourself the headache. The cast list goes public, and you sit back in relief, happily looking forward to the first read-through, to enjoy the initial melding of this painstakingly constructed cast.

And then . . . the phone rings.

 “Gee thanks, that’s great! But, uh, I really only auditioned because my son wanted to be in the show. Since he didn’t get cast, I’m not going to do it. Sorry.”

“Gee thanks, that’s great! But, that’s a really big role, I don’t think I can take on that kind of commitment right now. Sorry.”

“Gee thanks, that’s great! But, I just don’t feel like it’s worth my time and energy for just a few lines. Sorry.”

“Gee thanks, that’s great! But, I really didn’t expect to get cast, I just auditioned to support my friend. Sorry.”

“Gee thanks, that’s great! But, I forgot that I had tickets to a concert during opening weekend. Sorry.”

“Gee thanks, that’s great! But, my husband/wife/parents said I don’t have time to do the show. Sorry.”

“Gee thanks, that’s great! But, I didn’t know there would be, like, a lot of rehearsing involved. Sorry.”

“Gee thanks, that’s great! But, I didn’t really want to audition, it just seemed like you needed people to read for that role. Sorry.”

Do I even need to say that the list goes on? No cast is put together on a whim, not if the director is any good. Each choice is made thoughtfully, factoring in a myriad of dynamics, and it is with no small amount of hair loss that the director shapes the best possible cast from the pool of auditioners. 

I love community theatre actors, and I understand nerves. I get schedules and commitments and spontaneous actions. But any actor who sets foot on the stage at an audition needs to acknowledge that they are presenting themselves as available*. Be upfront with your concerns and conflicts, let the director have all the information before he decides whether to take a risk on you. 

I used to tell nervous actors, “It’s never a waste of time to audition.” I need to amend that to, “It’s never a waste of time to audition, as long as you’re prepared to actually accept a role.”

*The exception to the rule being, of course, if you are auditioning for multiple shows. It’s perfectly acceptable to say, “Gee thanks, that’s great! But, I accepted a part in another production. Sorry.”

So . . . Why Are You Doing This Again?

I was chatting on facebook with one of my favorite people in the world last weekend (I have to say that, in case he’s one of the nine people who read this blog). After some complaining about the weather, as I am wont to do, I mentioned that I needed to sign off in 10 minutes to go work house at a local theatre.

B: “What is house?”

Me: “Running the concession stand, handing out programs, selling tickets, etc.”

B: “Do you get to eat any candy?”

Me: “Nope.”

B: “So.....why are you doing this again?”

It took me but half a second to respond to his question, but it stuck with me all night as I filled popcorn bags, tore tickets, handed out programs, sold oversized boxes of Junior Mints and emptied trash cans. Why would I do this?

Why did I once pack myself into a claustrophobic cranny on a dizzying catwalk for two hours at a time, for the sole purpose of turning on a spotlight during the second act of a show,  subsequently turning it off again three minutes later? 4 times a week, for 4 weeks?

Why did I spend an entire show running back and forth between four light trees, frantically slipping gels in and out of the instruments for a solid hour and a half?

Why did I spend the entire run of a production sitting offstage, screaming incoherently at random points in the show?

And why, oh why, did I spend 24 hours of my life sitting in the bowels of a theatre, my head crammed a mere inches from the boards, surrounded by darkness, perched on a cold, metal chair, with only an angry chicken for company? An angry chicken, I might add, that I was responsible for chucking up through a trapdoor once a night, four nights a week, for three weeks.

I’m a director, for the love of Thespis! Why would I do these things, among a myriad of other strange, boring, dirty, thankless jobs in theatre?

If you’re reading this blog, I suspect you already know the answer.  If you don’t know the answer, come hang out with me in the theatre sometime. If the magic doesn’t touch you, then at the very least, you can’t help but bear witness to how the magic touches me.

Happy Chrismakwanzukkah, everyone, and a Happy Theatre To All!

The Most Important Thing You'll Ever Learn About Theatre

It's my goal, now that I've started this thing, to post at least once a week until I run out of things to say. (Stop laughing.) Since I'm not feeling well this week, I'll cheat a little and share something someone else wrote - the most important information that anyone in theatre, community or otherwise, should know. It's something I was introduced to while studying theatre in college, and have never forgotten. (If anyone knows who wrote this, I'd appreciate being able to attribute it!)

Theatrical Structure Explained

Producer:
Leaps Tall Buildings In A Single Bound
Is More Powerful Than A Locomotive
Is Faster Than A Speeding Bullet
Walks On Water
Gives Policy To God

Director:
Leaps Short Buildings In A Single Bound
Is More Powerful Than A Switch Engine
Is Just As Fast As A Speeding Bullet
Walks On Water If The Sea Is Calm
Talks With God

Playwright:
Leaps Short Buildings With A Running Start
Is Almost As Powerful As A Switch Engine
Is Faster Than A Speeding BB
Swims Well
Is Occasionally Addressed By God

Actor:
Makes High Marks On The Wall When Trying To Leap Buildings
Is Run Over By Locomotives
Can Sometimes Handle A Gun Without Inflicting Self-Injury
Dog Paddles
Talks To Animals

Band:
Runs Into Buildings
Recognizes Locomotives Two Out Of Three Times
Is Not Issued Ammunition
Can Stay Afloat With A Life Preserver
Talks To Walls

Chorus:
Falls Over Doorsteps When Trying To Enter Buildings
Says, Look At The Choo-Choo!
Wets Self With A Water Pistol
Plays In Mud Puddles
Mumbles To Self

Stage Manager:
Lifts Buildings And Walks Under Them
Kicks Locomotives Off The Track
Catches Speeding Bullets In Teeth And Eats Them
Freezes Water With A Single Glance
Is GOD

Mean What You Say, Don't Say What You Mean

I always intended to attack the changing of lines as a separate post in the future, and it appears from the comment section that the future is now. But I’d like to address two things before I do.

One, the original message in my previous post got lost and diluted in the unexpected focus on changing lines. While I brought up that issue as the impetus for the post, it’s only one of many, many issues that contributed to the point I was trying to make which is first, foremost, and always: There Is No Excuse For Lazy Community Theatre. And *that* is what the focus of this blog will be.  Changing lines is a symptom, not the disease.

Second, my sincere thanks to Tami and Anonymous (yeah, I know who you are) for chiming in. I think it’s imperative to community theatre for these issues to be brought to the forefront and hashed out, and I appreciate the debate.

And now, at last, I get to the point of this post! Let’s begin by nipping in the bud this conspiracy to paint me as a fanatic.  (Yes, two people said it, so it is now a conspiracy!!) This was never about *one line* or even *one show*.  Of course I didn’t issue a pas d'armes over an isolated incident. I’m concerned about what I perceive to be a growing trend in community theatre: A cavalier disregard for the art of the script itself. 

Let’s tackle the legal argument forthwith. (I’ve been watching The Practice.) Federal copyright law explicitly prohibits making changes (unauthorized changes) to copyrighted material. When you pay royalties and obtain a license to produce the play, you sign a legal contract stipulating, as put by Samuel French, “The play will be presented as it appears in published form and the author's intent will be respected in production. No changes, interpolations, or deletions in the text, lyrics, music, title or gender of the characters shall be made for the purpose of production.” And again, even without this contract with Samuel French, there’s still the pesky little matter of Federal Copyright Law.

 

But hey, we’re artists! We’re rebels! We don’t let social norms and fascist laws made by The Man bring us down! Hey, I’m no uptight square. I’ve fudged the speed limit on more than once occasion, snuck food into a movie theatre, heck I’ve even carried an ice cream cone in my back pocket on a Sunday. (Ok, maybe not that last one. But I totally would if I had an ice cream cone. And a back pocket.) So maybe the legal argument doesn’t mean much?

Then let’s talk artist to artist. (Disclaimer: I am a writer and a director, but I am not a playwright.) Theatre is not a solo construct. What the audience sees on opening night (and at subsequent performances) is the cumulative effort of many artists, starting first and foremost with the playwright and her script. The script is a piece of art. The playwright is an artist. You have to respect both those concepts before reading on, or what I have to say from here on out will mean as much to you as the legal argument did. Every word of dialogue (stage directions are another discussion) was written the way it was written for a reason. The playwright is doing more than relaying a story through dialogue. The construction of each line of dialogue speaks not only to the story, but to the characters, to the tone, the atmosphere.  A painter doesn’t dip her brush in the closest pot of blue and then paint the sky. She chooses a particular shade to create an impression, a feeling. She chooses her brush strokes with equal care. So it is with a playwright’s words. 

Hence, what to make of an actor who changes the lines carelessly, without thought to the author’s intent? I see laziness. I see arrogance. I see someone who, frankly, doesn’t understand the art of theatre. It’s not the actor’s job to explain to the audience what the playwright meant. I see it all too often in theatre – switching a word or two around, ad-libbing a bit at the end – conveying the ideas that a) the audience won’t get it and b)the playwright didn’t know what he was doing. Instead, the actor should understand what’s behind the line and portray that with her vocal intonations, her body language, her facial expressions. It's lazy and lacking in artistry to change the line and feed the meaning to the audience instead of making it work as the playwright intended. If you think you can do better than the script before you, then by all means, go write a script. The world of theatre can always use smart, well-written scripts. But while you have someone else's work in your hands, don’t be so arrogant as to presume that you know better than the playwright. (And, to be blunt actors? Nine times out of ten, your line *isn’t* better.) 

All of this, of course, presumes that the script in hand is well-written, that it is worthy of the subjective label “art”. What if the script just doesn’t work as written? Well, the obvious solution is to simply not agree to do the script. But if you’re truly stuck with it (it’s happened to the best of us!), you are still under a legal and artistic obligation to respect the original work. A bad script doesn’t give a director carte blanche to go in with a machete and hack the script to bits to please our own whims, to cavalierly cut lines whenever it suits. "Cut it!" is not the rallying cry here, "Make it work!" is. You figure out a different approach to the script artistically, and you respect the agreement you’ve made with the playwright. Otherwise, you lack integrity as an artist. 

As an actor, and a director, it’s too easy to be blasé about the issue. After all, what actor has ever had their artistic contribution stolen, or misrepresented, or changed by an outside party? As actors and directors, we are artists, but we are artists who are part of a *collective work*. Understand that, respect that, and community theatre will not only survive, it will survive with integrity. 

Tilt at ALL the Windmills!

After years of thinking about it, and sometimes even talking about it, I have at last begun a blog. The motivation for the blog, the inspiration for the title, and the subject of my first post all stemmed from an incident a few weeks back when, after I delivered an impassioned rant regarding my standards for community theatre, an actor I was working with smiled, shook his head blithely, and murmured, “Well, we all have our windmills.”

This good-natured comment took me aback for only a moment, but burrowed into my subconscious for weeks. It left me wondering, and re-wondering, is my dedication to the creed that community theatre is the front line in the battle to keep live theatre viable really a case of tilting at windmills?  I don’t know – but perhaps if I chatter on long enough with random blog posts, I’ll be granted a grand epiphany on the matter. Or not.

The aforementioned rant that became the genesis of this blog was prompted by a rehearsal for a show I was directing. After a week or two of struggling with a difficult script, an actor or two began to display mutinous leanings, and a demand of “Change the lines!” began to emerge. I put my foot down, and the roar became a grumbling, and rehearsal went on. Afterwards, I was treated to an email from one of the actors, simultaneously apologizing and questioning my unwavering devotion to “every word of the script”. I responded via email, reiterating my reasons for not making changes to difficult lines (clearly a subject for another blog post!), but after bedding the line-change issue, I found myself continuing in what quickly became a rant. With some editing to remove unnecessary information (and because there just *might* have been a touch of inappropriate language sprinkled in), here is a sampling of the email:

. . . I am of the opinion that community theatre is as much – [heck], more - "real theatre" as professional, so I hold it to the same standards. Theatre is a passion for me, and I hold all aspects of it in the highest respect and I expect the same of those I work with. I find it an embarrassment when people take the attitude "Hey, it's community theatre, it's just for fun, it doesn't really matter what we do with it." That kind of community theatre makes me cringe . . . Theatre was born in the community, the community is it's only hope for survival right now, and it may very well die in the community - there is no excuse for lazy community theatre.

[snip]

That's the kind of director I have always been and always will be - I see so much more to theatre than actors running around on stage spewing lines. The artistry and meaning of it goes much deeper than that - there is art in the playwriting, art in the directing, art in the set design, art in the lighting design, there is even art in the stage managing of a show, and I won't shrug off those principles because I got stuck with a bad script.

I admit, my horse is quite high on this issue. :)

It was this rant, with the line-change issue snipped, that prompted the actor to make the Don Quixote reference when next we met. For those of you unfamiliar with the reference, “tilting at windmills” refers to a scene in the novel Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes where the protagonist of the story (named, shockingly, Don Quixote) spies a group of formidable giants in the distance. Don Quixote valiantly charges into battle with them, sure of victory and fortune, despite the admonishment of his friend that the giants are, in fact, merely windmills. In modern terms, “tilting at windmills” can mean either a battle against an imaginary foe, or a battle that is futile. Hence the question that inspired this blog: Is my fight for quality community theatre a battle that doesn’t need to be fought, or a battle that cannot be won?

I say neither, and if giants disguise themselves as windmills, then it is windmills I will fight. And I know for a fact that I am not the only Don Quixote wielding a lance in the community theatre world.