Back to Step One

What is the meaning of life? As an actor, this question bears quite a bit of weight, as it not only has to do with what my work will occasionally confront me with, but more importantly, it really asks me why I choose to do what I do. I dare not admit to having the answer to the question, but I do have an answer: To experience both with others and within ourselves. I discovered, or rather developed this assertion when I was fifteen, roughly around the same time I had consciously decided that acting and the theater would be what I would pursue for the rest of my life.

I have been thinking a lot lately of entertainment. What does this word mean? I used to think it a pedantic term the wealthy of our theatrical community use when describing the greatest of all things (of which, in the lectures I have sat through, they somehow try to convince me they find in the theater) – it was nowhere near what I have always envisioned my art to be. On the day of my high school graduation, my father came to find me before I walked-the-walk. He had a gift – a letter – that I still treasure to this day. In it, he proclaimed his pride for me in that I have never opted for the easy route in the theater and the arts: he told me I am not an “entertainer,” but an actor, striving in my art for a deeper understanding of self (in both myself and audience).

But in both recently traveling to Ohio to meet Kaitlyn’s brand-new baby nephew (where at one point I was referred to as “Uncle Collin”) and becoming a godparent to the beautiful girl two very close and dear friends just gave birth to, that word, “entertainment,” is beginning to change its meaning. It is becoming a very good thing.

Baby Charlie cries quite a bit. Sometimes he smiles. At three months old, he has started to laugh. When I saw Baby Isabella for the first time, she was sleeping soundly, but with a smile affixed to her face (something doctors will try to tell you is not possible at 6-hours-old). The smile of a baby brings immense joy – it somehow stirs a feeling of proud accomplishment, though I may not have had anything to do with their giggling beams (it may have something to do with my love and hope for the human race).

Why does a baby smile? While I enjoy entertaining (if you will) the notion that babies are far more intelligent than the “goo-goo” noises we make would have us giving them credit for, they certainly are not intellectually concerned with politics or philosophical conundrums. Babies scream and cry because of pain and fear – of needing or wanting something – and they smile and laugh because they are entertained. And ask any parent – it is best to keep a child constantly entertained.

Something interesting happened in Ohio. I would love to toss Baby Charlie into the air to make him smile and laugh, but I began to wonder why I would do this. It was certainly that proud accomplishment, but of what? – It was of creating a connection between Baby Charlie and myself. I had reached out across invisible bounds to have genuine human interaction – and we connected, we were sharing the joy of living. My entertainment had been serving a purpose – and I was not an “entertainer.” I was something else, something simpler, greater, more powerful – not necessarily artist in this one step back from the Theater, but certainly performer, of which role in the Theater is taken up by actor.

Also in my time there, Baby Charlie received an early Christmas present of a Jumperoo – mass amounts of entertainment in the round! But what was his favorite part of this phantasmagorical gift? Bouncing! He was allowed to express his excitement for the jungle animals surrounding and playing with him in an extremely physical – dare I say visceral? – manner. And in doing so, he is building the strength in muscles to ultimately learn to stand.

When we watch a good piece of Theater, much is demanded of us – it forces us to delve deep into ourselves in one way or another. And in this, the Theater can, and should, entertain. But what, at the end of it all, does entertainment mean? That is a question I cannot dare venture to answer; pleasure is derived in many different ways, specific to every individual. What is important here is that our entertainment engages us actively – that when in the Theater, we continue to experience.

The Art of Paradox

I would like to respond to Issac Butler's recent tribute to your favorite deity and mine, Dionysus. Bulter, while speculating on the unknowable reasons our art form originated as praise to this elusive god, made an excellent connection with the mythology of Dionysus's death and resurrection to the nature of death and rebirth in the theatre each time we close a show or begin a new production.

Butler's view of Dionysus's evident mortality is incredibly intriguing to me because I've always considered Dionysus as the Bohemian cry for an attempt at immortality. Despite the fair amount of research I've done on Dionysus both for leisure and as a theatre student, I have never found a description of him that surpassed my freshman year History professor's proclamation that "Dionysus was the god of sex, drugs, and rock and roll." This may be why I've always kind of imagined him as a cross between Jim Morrison and Tim Curry's Dr. Frankenfurter, but it's also why I've come to see him as a god of the people. Mythology shows us that the Greeks were fascinated by the concept of immortality. Deities had faults just as humans do; the only difference between them and us was their immortality. Dionysus, although he was always resurrected, had the ability to be killed. He was the only god who shared mortality with men . Still, he is often described as having everlasting youth. Historically, in Dionysus's orgiastic rituals, his maenads, whom, as Bulter pointed out were not priestesses, worked their way into a drunken undulating ecstasy in the hope to copulate with the god and conceive his child. A child fathered by Dionysus would be a demigod, and therefore one step closer to achieving immortality.

Accepting the perpetual awareness of the certain metaphorical death we must eventually experience each time we begin working on a play, I also think we're striving for a sort of immortality. A revival is not the only way to resurrect a dead play- if it was good it will live on kinesthetically and be expressed in the form of actions, ideas, memories and emotions. As Butler mentions that the rehearsal hall is a sacred place, I remember an extremely old director explaining to a student that she dressed up to attend performances because the theatre was her equivalent to church. In the sense that it provides us with emotional and intellectual enlightenment, I completely agree. Idealistically speaking, creating theatre should be an endeavor to make a memorable impact and to connect with something divine, much like the rituals of Dionysus's women.

Butler also sites Dionysus's eventual maturation as another reason he was entitled to his own festival. It is true that by the time the festival was established, he had developed and so had the Greeks. They had just established their alphabet and began recording their dramas. Perhaps not coincidentally, Dionysus was the only Olympian who could read and write. Yet as militarily and politically driven as these festivals were (they took the opportunity of the massive gathering to collect taxes), there was also a ritualistic aspect. The festival began with a reenactment of the Dionysian myth and there is evidence that over 200 animals were sacrificed in the five day stretch. Male actors dressed as women, and large phalluses were donned. We have accounts that the audience was audibly responsive, and were allowed to eat and drink during the festival.

It seems as though Dionysus was a Freudian. His world revolved around intoxication and pleasure. He would not tolerate anyone who did not believe in him and what he represented. Those who protested his divinity often went insane and met horrible deaths. Among the many examples, the most famous is portrayed in Euripides' The Bacchae, when Pentheus's head was ripped off by his own mother for doubting Dionysus. The myth of Dionysus explains that we can not afford to deny the sexual, ritualistic impulses we have. We must recognize and embrace them or else they will destroy us. Perhaps the City Dionysia was about embracing these feelings in a responsible manner. If so, the Greeks proved their civility in finding a religious place for this part of human nature, instead of degrading it as separate and non-holy.

In my discussion, I chose avenues that were unparallel to Butler’s for a purpose. The paradox of Dionysus's evident mortality versus his celebrated immortality as well as that of his inspirational intellect and uncivilized nature are just more examples of the way he represented duality. I think theatre is the art form that most readily accepts conflict and duality because these concepts are our muses and our mediums. We are simultaneously presentational and representational, metaphorical and literal, two dimensional and three dimensional, artist and spectator, teacher and student. In many ways, our art only exists within a dirty, dizzying Dionysian ritual.

**Of course, these are just some connections I've made between Dionysus and my thoughts on theatre. I am not an expert in history or mythology and even the experts are not exactly sure how Greeks viewed their art form. I do not have enough knowledge to assert that these are actually possible reasons for the festival of plays to have been a tribute to Dionysus.

Briefly, Blasted

This production left me with, appropriately, aggressive feelings. To be blunt: I hated it. But to be brief, I left more apathetic than assaulted, and it was the hypocritical arrogance of the critics that has sent me into an almost uncontrollable fury.

Simon Kane, in Mark Blankenship’s preview article of Blasted, alluded to The Dark Knight as an example of the modern mindless violence that we are all over-exposed to. Not Hostile, not Saw I – V, not the evening news. BATMAN. Blasted, according to Simon Kane, is the work of art that is intended to “resensitize” us to the violence of the world that Batman has so frivolously stolen from us. But I question this notion of “resensitization,” as I do not believe cramming horrific violence without any discernible thread of a plot down our throats in a space associated with high art and intellectualism is helping the matter in the slightest – especially as I sit in the back row watching the entire audience lurch forward each time the lights pop up again in a frantic search for the next graphic atrocity. What does this play really say about our cravings as a culture? I suggest a look at Arthur Miller’s Resurrection Blues, where a dilapidated country uses the world's lust for violence to pull themselves out of third-world status. I am equally put to an alarming state of unease when Ben Brantley admits to empathizing with these abominable characters. There is an abundance of plays with rich plot and relatable characters by excellent and important writers today that some people, like Charles Isherwood in his review of Blasted, seem to want to gloss over (like Martin McDonah or Tracey Letts – whom, Isherwood seems to have forgotten, wrote August: Osage County) in favor of out-and-out violence that they can defend because it is in the high-class locale of the theater – a place not yet squelched by gobs of buttery popcorn or easily expended as background noise to making dinner.

And then, in that same article, Isherwood went on to claim Beverly Hills Chihuahua as worthwhile “escapism.” Of course, I could perhaps be speaking too soon – I admit I have not seen Beverly Hills Chihuahua. But have you?

(However, despite all my feelings here, it needs must be said - because all the articles I have read, for some strange reason, managed to bypass this little tidbit: GO SARAH BENSON, BROOKLYN COLLEGE ALUM!)

The Best Seat in the House

The Beggar's Opera

Rough theatres rejoice! There is no reason to be embarrassed about non permanent seating! Join me in celebrating the growing trend of incorporating the audience into set designs: a practice that gives even the dingiest performance spaces an advantage over the most ornate prosceniums on Broadway.

When a production team mounts a project in a nontraditional space and the members have to decide on a seating layout that will work best for their show, it forces them to think about what part they want the audience to play in the production. Contemporary theorists have asserted that the audience is just as responsible for the quality of a show as the creative team. When we have the freedom to manipulate how an audience member is situated, it allows us to make a subtle, perhaps even unconscious suggestion to the spectator about how they should be viewing the play. Both the original and the revival of Shaffer’s Equus elevated the audience around the playing space, simultaneously giving the audience members an air of omnipotence and entrapping the players in the world onstage. The Broadway production of Inherit the Wind put some audience members into an actual jury box to judge the epic Scopes monkey trial for themselves.

This is especially important to those of us who are interested in progressive theatre, for the activists using the medium to make claims about today's society to inspire thought and change. It’s exciting to know that we can give viewers a little push in the right direction simply by the way we seat them. Incorporating the audience into the design is an ever present friendly reminder that the audience is not a constant; it is living and breathing, just like the production.

Extra onstage seating was common in 18^th century England. Before actor-manager David Garrick banned audience members from squeezing around the stage in 1763, he scoffed about having to look at ghastly, dimly lit faces as a backdrop to the otherwise intimate crypt scene in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Although Garrick was disgusted with the thought, I can't help but imagine this as a breathtaking tableau, even when I de-romanticize it to include the sleeping guy in the second row, and the woman leafing through her playbill on the top. When we are seated across from other audience members, it literalizes the idea that theatre is a reflection of life, whether rippled or stagnant, because the spectators – ourselves - are well within the sightlines. When the style of seating is harmonious with the rest of a production, it follows logically that the audience is more likely to be alert and appropriately responsive. All of these qualities boil down to a standard Peter Brook definition of a responsible spectator.

These are some of the reasons I am incredibly proud that Brooklyn College is embracing this untraditional practice. After our spring production of Moliere's The Learned Ladies, we will be renovating our coveted proscenium space so that the seating is flexible. Instead of molding a show into a pre-determined space, there will be more freedom to mold the space itself. I wouldn’t be surprised to see more theatres follow suit in the future.

Green Spray Paint

A quick post, because I can barely contain my excitement! Rosebrand is advertising eco-friendly spray paint! It's part of a small line of other environmentally responsible theatre products.

Check it out here!

You can't always get what you want...

I wonder what would happen to a Broadway show if its budget was capped? Would we lose the concept of the spectacle as we know it? It was actually John McCain who gave me the idea when he proposed to ease our national debt by freezing all government spending. Although this probably would not be beneficial on a national level I think the same idea applied to Broadway productions would heed a positive result. The gears do not stop turning when you tell a true artist “No.” Instead they turn harder and faster. Artists may not like limitations, but we like challenges. Creating theatre is about overcoming challenges and solving problems; it shouldn’t necessarily be easy. If we pulled a McCain on Broadway, we may not be able to go with our first instincts. We would be forced to think creatively and our productions might turn out to be even better. Although perhaps, when you consider the projected $40 million that Julie Taymor requested for Spiderman the Musical in contrast to a continuously plunging governmental support for the arts, Barack Obama’s concept of “spreading the wealth” might be an even better idea.

Now is not the time to increase Broadway’s budgets. Broadway has been stuck in a sort of artistic lull for awhile now, but more money is not the answer. Bigger budgets are leading to more expensive tickets, and the coveted student rush seems to be slowly fading away. Patrons are paying almost $200 a ticket to sit in a plush seat while our economy steadily crumbles down around us. These are prices that most students and artists definitely cannot afford to pay. The most expensive ticket to a performance that I’ve ever purchased was $85 to see the Rolling Stones because I wasn’t sure they’d all live to tour again.* It was truly a matter of life and death. There are a handful of productions currently on Broadway that interest me, but I just can’t bring myself to pay those prices. What we’re in need of now is theatre that will engage and enlighten us without leaving us completely broke. Smaller budgets and lower ticket prices will fill the houses and diversify the spectators. They will eliminate the idea of elitist theatre that makes bohemian shows like RENT and In the Heights so ironic.

You must be thinking that I’m crazy. Theatre is finally being massively funded, so I should just shut up, right? All of us complain about having insufficient budgets, anyway. I know I do. Well, this is a gutsy statement for a designer to make, but I think we should start rethinking the way we physically create theatre. It is incredibly difficult to be both a theatre artist and an environmentalist. The conventional way of producing theatre is not only expensive, but quite wasteful. I shudder to imagine of the greenest of green theatre, a literal interpretation of Brook’s concept of the empty space, but maybe it’s time to start thinking of ways to reduce the theatre’s carbon footprint. Blogger Mike Lawler has some simple suggestions on how to get the green theatre revolution started.

For all artists out there who are skeptical, I am confident that we can still create beauty on a budget. The spectacle may no longer be found in elaborate scene changes, trap doors, and flying actors, but something a little subtler…like leaving the theatre and realizing that I still have enough money for dinner. If I learned anything from Mick Jagger, it's that you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you nee-eed. Yeah.

*They’ve toured three more times since I saw them. None of them died, but Keith Richards did fall out of a palm tree.

The Hyper-Narrative and You: The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedy of the Postmodern Direct Address

The Postmodern Hyper-Narrative occurs when a character in a play changes from directly engaging other characters, where they are living out the action of the play, to directly engaging the members of the audience, where they begin to describe all the action we are no longer seeing, as though someone were reading me a fictional first-person, past-participle narrative. This form of storytelling in our Theater has emerged from the crumbling specificity of the Postmodern Self-Reflexivity, which in turn stemmed from Brecht’s Epic Theater. And while Brecht certainly had good intentions (and I full-heartedly agree with having a consciously political theater), I fear the specific artistry of the Theater has been lost along this path into the Hyper-Narrative by not trusting in our audiences or demanding more from our artists.

Not to say there do not exist plays in which a Hyper-Narrative style works. Shakespeare perfected Dramatic Irony through use of soliloquies – an active form of Hyper-Narrative allowing characters to explore and externalize inner conflict. But more contemporarily, Roberto Aguirre-Sacassa’s The Mystery Plays, while maybe not a great play, handles this style in a very functional manner: Thematically, Joe Manning of Act One’s The Filmmaker’s Mystery and Abby Gilley of Act Two’s Ghost Children are alone in their respective journeys, making the use of Hyper-Narrative apropos to the storytelling. And the actual moments of hyper-narrative are reserved solely for the protagonist of each act, allowing them to work through their internal conflict externally with the audience, rather than explaining to the audience what conflict they would have seen had they been watching a play. Oh, wait…

And that is where the Hyper-Narrative of other plays fails the Theater – as in Disco Pigs, where most the story is told rather than lived, yet the brief moments of character interaction are so raw and beautifully compelling, or in irksome Postmodern productions like Outside Inn that lose purpose with Hyper-Narrative clutter, like the incessant use of multimedia that has nothing to do with the story being told. I am worried the artists behind these pieces are catering to an audience they expect to be inactive and unintelligent. Yes, the myth of an MTV generation is real (with the mouth’s of my coworkers filled with homophobic jokes and pop-culture references), but that will not change, our audiences will not Grow, if, in our Theater, we are not expecting anything of them – reading to them as though they are droning idiots rather than living with them hoping for that spark of emotional connection. And why are we reading to them? The audience has come to the Theater! – they can read a book in the comfort of their own home, can’t they?

This side of the Postmodern has let loose the canon of non-specificity. “Why?” doesn’t seem to be a very easy (nor important) question to be answering these days, as I watch books be turned into movies be turned into musicals with famous rock bands be turned back into movies. Of course, I admit as an artist my own difficulties with the question, but I am not so sure “why?” bears the same depth and meaning in the face of a $40 million price tag dangling on a Broadway budget. This causes me great concern for what others may think being an artist really means.

The Defense of Escapism

Where do I live? Underneath a blanket on my living room couch? Inside my head? On my computer screen?

Where do I live when I am creating theatre? Locked up in black boxes and Vectorworks files? Between the loose pages of a flimsy script?

Where do I live when I'm going to see theatre? In one of the two nice dresses I own? Upon a creaky, uncomfortable second-row seat? Or is it somewhere else…?

Escapism, especially in our entertainment-driven nation, invokes the image of a lethargic man, whom, in stubborn refusal to accept his own reality, pours himself into a fantasy. He buys People magazine, plays World of Warcraft, loops the RENT soundtrack on his ipod, and can beat everyone at Friends trivia…even though he has no real friends of his own to challenge.

As an admitted (and defensive) escapist, I look to the Random House Unabridged Dictionary to clear my name with the true definition:

Escapism: (n) the avoidance of reality by absorption of the mind in entertainment or in an imaginative situation, activity, etc.

Wait, wait. That’s wrong. I meant to use the American Heritage Dictionary:

Escapism: (n) The tendency to escape from daily reality or routine by indulging in daydreaming, fantasy, or entertainment.

That’s not quite it, either. Wordnet?

Escapism: (n) an inclination to retreat from unpleasant realities through diversion or fantasy; "romantic novels were her escape from the stress of daily life"; "his alcohol problem was a form of escapism"

Ok, ok, so the master narratives are making a fool out of me. But if escapism is romance novels and alcoholism, then I am sad to say that the most popular forms of theatre today perpetuate this stereotype. Broadway’s movie-musicals have provided us with redundant Utopian societies, where conflict is light and endings are joyous. Patrons are paying record breaking prices to sit in a cramped seat, turn off their brains, and consume a budgetless spectacle. I agree with those who fill the Broadway houses that escapism is valuable, even necessary, to maintain our sanity with the pace and pressure of our American lifestyles. But we are using it incorrectly. Escapism should not be an unhealthy obsession, it should be a tool that motivates and inspires those who experience it. Yes, escapism should temporarily remove us from this reality, but it should not throw us back empty-handed.

My personal definition of escapism is more idealistic than the widely accepted ones. I have felt the sensation of being summoned back to reality by the gradual illumination of the house lights after a performance. But where am I coming back from? My consciousness is too nosy to allow me to truly suspend my disbelief. Even when all the elements of a production are just right, I have never actually forgotten I was watching a play. For me, a successful escape is when I am invested in the characters and the world that is being presented and I have a definite, emotional interest in watching the piece unravel. When this happens, my creativity is stirred; afterwards, I dwell on the dramatic action and discuss it with others. Of course, you dictionary composers of the world, my physically being in the theatre allows me to temporarily escape from, oh, let’s say, the dirty dishes in my sink. But if I let myself escape even further, from my seat in the theatre and into the play itself, I am able to return to the dishes later that evening with something new to contemplate while I wash them.

Brecht proposed a solution to the theatre’s habit of producing mindless entertainment. By emotionally distancing the audience from the piece and insisting his actors have no emotional connection to his characters, he hoped to control the awareness of the viewers so that they would absorb the play actively, which, he believed, would spark discussion and lead to social and political change. In his Epic Theatre, he believed that the “spectator stands outside” studying the action, wherein conventional dramatic theatre, the “spectator is in the thick of it,” and “shares the experience[1]” Brecht preferred that a member of his audience feel as if they were in a classroom rather than a theatre. While today’s productions are guilty of removing the theatre’s fundamental purpose of instruction, Brecht wanted to remove the fundamental purpose of entertainment in its simplest definition: anything a play can offer that captivates its audience. I disagree with this solution, maintaining that escape (at least by my definition) is intrinsic to the theatre and is necessary for an audience to indulge in if the play is to affect them at all. The answer is not to eliminate escape, but to use the emotional investment that it generates as a way to communicate with the audience. Emotion inspires action.

I consider myself quite grounded in reality despite my devotion to the Harry Potter book series, thank-you-very-much. The need to escape is innate in my soul, but so is the need to create, progress, and change. Theatre has the capability of spring-boarding progress. It can raise questions and suggest answers. It is eternally searching to diagnose, treat and cure the ailments of our society. Yet its approach is paradoxical, pulling us into anti-reality in order to make a statement about true reality. Somehow, we are able see our world more clearly after we've been allowed to glimpse into another. In America, especially with the presidential election at hand, we are all dying for progression. For insight and direction, I, among many others, trustingly turn myself over to the theatre, the proverbial mirror of our society. But if we are considering escapism as a rally for inspiration, I am convinced that our society today is more complex than Shrek: the Musical. We are in need of a type of escapism that is enlightening and motivational.

Personally, I tend to gravitate towards plays which present realities filthier, more tragic and dramatic, but just as detailed and complete as our own. Whether they are absurdist (Beckett’s Endgame), expressionistic (Torben Betts’ Unconquered), or conceptually realistic (Alan Bowne’s Beirut), these plays offer us a standard 1984-esque warning. Although they transcend genre, all of these dramas provide us a glimpse at a prospective future, which is why I refer to them as Portent Plays. Essentially, these pieces cry out for a drastic change before it's too late. Can these fantastically terrifying works lend themselves to escapism? After all, the term escape suggests going to a better place, not a worse one. Yet as an audience member, we are still being asked to accept the world that is being presented, even if it is just “different” as opposed to “better.” Once we’re able to immerse ourselves in this world, we are no longer distracted by the divergences and we’re left to pick out the similarities between it and ours. How far are we from a society which gruesomely brands the bodies of abortionists with the letter “A,” as in the one presented by Suzan-Lori Parks in Fucking A? That is arguable, but there is no question that women's rights is a touchy subject in our society, with the recent government proposal that would brand contraceptives as abortion. There is one similarity that all these plays share, no matter how bizarre the alternate society is: we are still watching human beings live and die, get raped and abused: be affected. This allows us to make the emotional leap and relate to the characters despite the lack of verisimilitude. The mere fact that these fictional places are conceived and produced by real people as a result of true life experiences is startling. Projecting a society that is worse or scarier than ours also gives us the ability to be thankful for the positive elements of our lives as we walk out of the theatre and back on to the street, as opposed to leaving the Winter Garden wishing our lives contained more spontaneous song and dance routines. Perhaps the Portent Plays have the greatest potential for political and social impact because we are able to escape from them back into our own safer, more concrete reality while simultaneously using them to acknowledge that problems such as sexism, racism, nuclear war, and disease exist all around us and pose a very real threat.

I am uncertain of exactly where I am when I am watching a play. If it is a bad play, I may be dwelling on those dirty dishes in my sink. If it is a mediocre play, I may be in seat F18. But if it is a truthful play, I am somewhere else: somewhere between my physical self and the action, somewhere in the air of the theatre, floating among the spoken words, the audience’s reactions, and the beams of colored light. Theatre is not as readily accessible as television and film. It is temporary and expensive. Therefore, it is more important that we leave the mindless entertainment to other media and use theatre as a medium with which we can indulge in our need to escape in a way that is beneficial as opposed to desensitizing. I would like to revisit this topic at some point. I think it is relevant to examine the elements of escapism in other areas of theatre, such as realism and even performance art. Unfortunately, there is a sink full of dishes calling my name.

[1] Theatre/Theory/Theatre, Edited by Daniel Gerould

"An artist, a man, a faliure, MUST PROCEED." - E.E. Cummings, HIM

After sitting around a table in a conference room of the New York Workshop Theater with Director Meghan Finn, some of her production team, and a decent sized group of actors to read through the entirety of E E Cummings' HIM, I left absorbed and amazed at the beauty of the lyricism and complexity of the characters, inspired to discuss with Kaitlyn the whole way home the importance of this work both in the time of its inauguration and now. But five months later I found myself leaving the Soho Rep. Walker Space silently wondering what happened.

At the E:Bar of 59E59 Theaters after the opening night of Disco Pigs, I wound up in a discussion about some problems in our contemporary Theater. And when I made a comment regarding Legally Blonde as baseless entertainment – purely in the sense of its perfect commercial “formula” and its movie-turned-Broadway Musical status, which it “is better at replicating its model than most”, as Mr. Ben Brantley boasts – that has its small place in the vast world of Theater, but does not embody the possibilities and ideas I feel so strongly should be more present in out Theater World, my conversational partner retorted:

“Mmm… be careful.”

I do not believe in being careful, I believe in being responsible; if we have reason behind our passion, we need to act on it. As Shakespeare explores in one of his most celebrated plays, Hamlet, and as American history illustrates time and again, it is important to stand up for what we believe in – Hamlet’s inability to act results in the death of nigh almost everyone, and America did not become an independent country, slavery was not abolished, women did not get the right to vote through calm, civil, obedient discussions. I bring up this comment in conjunction with a discussion of HIM because I feel the production, in its entirety, conveys both great examples of not being careful and not being responsible.

“When [Henry Alsberg] suggested that the Provincetown produce [HIM]” in 1928, they were taking a great risk, as “most of the staff was horrified.” What with all the problems of practicality – 105 characters and 21 scenes – there was also “the fact that few of them could discover what the play was about.” But Cummings, director James Light, and designer Eugene Fitsch embarked then, in their downtown space, what many people and theaters today are either too afraid to try, or try far too hard to do: they explored “the most fundamental type of theatrical experiment – experiment in dramatic form.” The three of them did all they could to quickly resolve the problems of practicality strictly so this play could be done, acting out of pure passion for the story they needed to tell without concern of “moving them uptown” but finding “what they could not find elsewhere.” [1] And as Genevieve Taggard of the N.Y. Herald Tribune wrote: “That the reader has difficulties is true. But the reader’s difficulties come not from a lack of objectivity in Mr. Cummings’ work, but because this is not vague feeling or vague thought, but very precise in its intensity, and therefore very new and strange.” [2] But in spite of comments such as this, as well as a sold out run, the 1928 production suffered stifling criticism, which I would like to think, though can only rightfuly wonder if this meant the Provincetown Playhouse had no interest in being sensitive, or careful, of their contemporary critics, but were strictly concerned with creating a compelling human drama.

Eighty years later, in a world rife with skyrocketing divorce rates, unexpected pregnancy, and adolescent parents, HIM, a tale of the harsh consequences of irresponsibility, is just as important as ever. However, very little of Meghan Finn's production was compelling because it was deficient in the humanity or the complexity of the "Human Condition" that makes this play relevant and important. I have the sneaking suspicion it has to do with stamina, and all the fervor in Finns voice back in April at the NYTW wore sore by September at the Walker Space because a time-crunch-style rehearsal period of only five weeks – where every minute counted and everyone had to be on their game at all times – stressed out both Performers and Director: it caused the Artists to stretch themselves too thin over a project much bigger than merely a month, challenging far too much the vigor of Finn as an innovative Director. (And it was that strain on this production, though not necessarily Meghan or Cast specifically, that strangley reminded me of our responsibility, as Artists, to be in constant awareness of the discovery of who we are and why we choose to devote our lives to this practice – if we lack reason, we continue to degrade the immense power Theater can command, and if we lack an understanding of ourselves, we will forever flounder in inability of making a point.) For a first major directorial outing, I applaud the ambition, but Finn seemed to desire a quick discovery of her unique Artistic Voice here, where a vulnerable exploration would have far better suited both the occasion - a Thesis production for an MFA - and the play itself.

However, the texture of Cummings' luminous and emotionally wrought poetry was being chipped away at with a rather dull instrument: Dan Cozzens.

Him is E E Cummings' autobiographical character, and Dan Cozzens' portrayal reminded me of everything my high school English 3 classmates hated and could not understand about E E Cummings. Cozzens was not grounded or present as Him, lacking depth or personality, and unable to ever connect to Elan O'Conner's Me. There was no love or joy in his character or their relationship, and therefore no journey, sadly causing this beautiful story to be told without a point. I fear Cozzens' failed in his responsibility of doing the amount of work necessary to this character, instead just memorizing lines and, rather than living and breathing in Him's "childlike sensitivity and fragility," [3] forcing on character traits like some awkwardly shrunken articles of clothing, such as the irritatingly bad habit of… pausing mid sentence for some sort of emphasis. I assume that was an attempt to attach the visual style of Cummings poems to the rhythm of his character's speech, which would be poor judgment being as it is an actors job is to discover the rhythm of the text rather than imprint their own upon it. But even still, HIM is not a poem but a play, an art form inherently rich in the visual stimulus Cozzens must have mistakenly thought a good idea to bring to the foreground of his character work. I can only wonder how he won the title role at his audition, and maybe recommend a bit more pre-casting acuity in researching those of whom one is considering casting.

Not everything about this production was worn-out or lacking depth. In opposition to Cozzens' weak work here was Corinne Donly's incredible performance as the Doctor. Opening night, she appeared slightly exhausted, but I could not expect anyone attacking this role with as much commitment as Donly to appear refreshed - besides, it allowed her to live so seamlessly in this dark world Cummings has created. As he wrote it, the Doctor appears in the majority of the show, including all the scenes of Him's play within the play, often taking on the major characters, and has countless monologues rife with dense subtext. All that, add Finn's thought that this character should ominously embody Him and Me's Daughter throughout the play, combined with Donly's aggressively grounded performance, and you have a character that might cause insomnia in any actor.

During the last ten-or-so seconds of the Doctor-as-the-Barker's final speech of the show, directed at Him, I saw a spark, a change in Corinne Donly's eyes - she suddenly morphed into an all-out Ball-of-Rage that I, sadly, saw as Donly stepping out of her character ever-so-subtly to yell at Dan Cozzens for not being present on-stage with her. Kaitlyn corrected me: "What you saw was Meghan's direction." Finn's and Donly's brilliant slight-of-hand glimpse of the Daughter behind the many masks of the Doctor was sadly obscured - for me, anyway - by Him.

Also, the design elements were incredibly successful. Justine Lacy found solid worlds of both history and fantasy in her costumes of the countless visually distinctive characters, Michael Hochman seamlessly found the darker underbellies of the story being told in his lighting design, Michael Cassidy, with his sound design, created the fear and impending viciousness of the blob scene, and Kaitlyn Mulligan’s set found both the grit of vaudeville and the circus which Cummings was so obsessed, as well as visually sucking the audience into incredible depths I never noticed at the SoHo Rep. Walker Space. These successes are due to the fact these artists were all working fervently those five months previous to the actors five weeks, as well as that their vehement work ethic never ended until the play opened – I know, I was there the morning of opening night after an all-nighter of painting the set while Lacy was tweaking costumes downstairs.

The play is long, the language dense, the plot difficult to follow, but the story is there – one of responsibility itself. And Cummings explores this, for all the flair and style of his poems, in the only way that seems to make any sense: he has written a history of himself through the perspective of an anesthetic-induced dream of his former wife, mother of his daughter – and more than that, he wrote it theatrically: living, breathing, naked, and honest. To tell this story fully, it not only required Cummings to write it, but it needs people to relive it; we can learn all the facts we want from everything our history professors lecture on about, but it is the parts of history we live through, our history, which we will carry with us forever and deem of most importance – it is why we feel so passionately about the coming Presidential Election or think Post-Modernism will be the death of the Art World as we know it. I am not interested in Theater exploring our world as it should be, but as it is or could be, for while “the beautiful… is form considered in its simplest aspect… the ugly… is one detail of a great whole” which “constantly presents itself in new, but incomplete shapes” [4] – an admittedly Romantic view of Theater Cummings’ play explores so skillfully. So while HIM may instruct and it may delight, which many critics since Aristotle argue to be the intention of Theater, this play's purpose is much simpler: "it simply is;" [5] Cummings is offering his play to an audience "as a glass through which to examine the sublime" and make their own judgments, a play where "the grotesque… is the richest source of inspiration that nature can throw open to art." [4] But I found no grotesquely beautiful breath of life here, due to Cozzen's strange approach to such an immense character, as well as the stretch Finn’s Direction had to endure.

And this play can be done, this story can be told. I could not imagine, due to my biased opinion generated from the uncontrollable fact that I am a young adult in 2008, a more necessary time to do this play. But if we heed the calm advice to be careful of voicing our own thoughts and opinions – the tools of progress – we lose the significance of HIM by not demanding we do better in learning from our failures, thus forfeiting the Theater's power to every unconsidered, uncriticized play and production as mere acceptability (consenting it to be the best we can do) and lack the hope and ability to move forward.




1. Helen Deutsch and Stella Hanau, The Provincetown, 1931
2. Gilbert Seldes, him AND the CRITICS, 1928
3. Linda Wagner-Martin, Cumming’s HIM – and Me, 1992
4. Victor Hugo, Preface to Cromwell, 1827
5. E E Cummings, HIM playbill, 1928

Why blog?

I chose to devote my life to the theatre because of my thirst for knowledge and polymathic nature. One of the most beautiful elements of our art form is the research that is required in order to pursue it. Each production we stage brings a new understanding of psychology, history, geography, politics, literature, and much more. Being a theatre artist puts me in the position of a permanent predator of information. An action as monotonous as walking down a residential street in Brooklyn becomes an educational experience for me as my senses absorb summer humidity, Spanish music, and weathered wrought iron. I have a habit of collecting interesting pictures and reference books on any subject and I carry an electronic dictionary with me where ever I go. An unquenchable curiosity about the world in which I exist is not only a part of my job; it is a part of my nature.

With this blog, I hope to apply this innate need for observation and learning directly to my art. While studying theatre history with Amy Hughes, I was introduced to historically ground breaking dramatic literature, passionately conflicting theories, and the great and powerful Oscar Brockett, theatre historian extraordinaire. I discovered that the more I learned about the past, the more I was able to understand the present state of the theatre and the more informed my own theories became. The literature we were assigned sparked late night discussions and intellectual debates, which often resulted in a personal solidified opinion based on an understanding of facts. The two required semesters of theatre history only wet my appetite for more. I want to keep reading, analyzing and discussing, but this time in a more public forum. Working on this blog will allow me to submerge myself even further into the sea of dramatic literature and theory. In addition to friendly conversations over Ben and Jerry’s and animated subway speculations, I will compile an online record of these realizations and opinions that I continue to form as I continue to become informed.

There is also a correlation between knowledge and confidence that interests me. I need to exercise my ability to articulate and research in order to solidify an image of myself as a scholar and theorist. My humility is what is keeping me from beginning this blog as a drastic call to arms even though there are evident problems with today’s theatre. Instead, I am going to begin as a speculator, making suggestions here and there, but mostly defining the world I am talking about. From that point, I will feel comfortable enough to begin to offer opinions and criticism in a responsible manner. Eventually, I would like this blog to grow into a dynamic forum that is both making and answering the call to a progressive theatre.

So here’s to art, knowledge, and scholarship…you might as well pour yourself a glass of wine now.

A Start

For the past few days, weeks, months, I have been trying so hard to formulate what would make a good essay to describe my opinions and where I am coming from theatrically, creating a personal opening statement for me here at the blog. I thought it necessary to put out what I want, specifically, from our theater community as a sort of grounding thesis. But no such luck. When thinking of such difficult subject matter, my thoughts would scatter, leaving me unable to articulate things that were, and are, indeed in my head, yet suddenly unable to be formulated into some articulate dialogue of sorts; I was frustrated, for I was certain I had strong and coherent viewpoints while debating in my Theater History course this whole past year that, apparently, I was incapable of hanging on to.

In my time this summer away from intense and enlightening lectures from Professor Hughes, drunken Oscar Brockett reading, and wide-eyed late-night revolutionary talk spawned from reading the likes of Victor Hugo and the infamous Antonin Artaud, had I slipped my way down into the dregs of the ever-generalizing Post-Modernism, where self consciousness and a blatant disregard for gestalt rules all? I had come, as my Theater History course came to a close, to hold “Post-Modernism” in revulsion because I saw it as the lazy choice at a critical moment in the history of theater; Theater was growing, expanding its bounds, and so instead of remaining specific and being responsible for this highest of arts (as Artaud states in his The Theatre and Its Double), the theater world at large - particularly here in America, the King of Capitalism - somehow cracked and flooded with – literally – absolutely anything.

This morning, my consciousness shook me, reminded me that I am not creating this forum out of fear of being or becoming “Post-Modern”, but that I am upset and offended at the theory (or lack thereof) behind Post-Modernism. I do not think it is fair to lump the likes of Caryl Churchill, John Jesurun, Richard Foreman, and Robert Wilson (among all other practicing artists) into the same category – two of these individuals mentioned are bending back their bow, arching that arrow through the air with such diligence, care, and awareness toward an achievement greater than the confines of just the box in which their art is presented, that I cannot begin to fathom how the others seem to lack even suspicion as to what it is they clumsily clutch in their over-sized and under-achieving hands.

I want change – Growth – in the art of Theater, and to achieve this evolution I do not think coming outright with some outlandish, potentially asinine theory is the answer – that would be me succumbing to the need to be portentous that I see so much within Post-Modernism. Healthy Growth is gradual, and successful Revolution comes from strong ideas fueled by passion and a need to consistently know more about who we are, where we come from, and what is happening around us. So as of now, I have no “answers”, per se, but I know what I’ve seen, of which all I feel passionately about, some conforming very nicely to the non-conformity of Post-Modernism, earning more credit than they deserve, and others that are… hmm… something else, deserving far more credit than they earn.

Mission Statement

Reason

Our thirst for knowledge and scholarship is unquenchable and we dwell deeply in our curiosity of the world in which we exist. By producing a constructive outlet for our ideas, we hope to spark discussion and creative thought, and demand a more enlightened theatre. In the course of our research and writing, we hope to be improving awareness of ourselves as artists, theorists and critics. Through our publications we will endeavor to stir that same awareness in others. Although there is greatness within our theatre today, we feel most of it is masked by popular productions or averted by renowned critics. Through our discourse, we shall strive to awaken and capture that spirit of greatness in order to revolutionize our contemporary theatre.

Influences

Our need to create the Manifesto emerged from a continually renewed excitement and inspiration from studying theatre history with Professor Hughes at Brooklyn College. As we studied the progression of theatre, we became familiar with theorists and playwrights who called for a reevaluation of their art. We learned about Aristotle [1], whose ideas are always a great basis of comparison for later theories, Victor Hugo [2], who was willing to go against the rules by establishing the controversial genre of Romanticism, and Antonin Artaud [3], who asserted that theatre artists are responsible to deliver a higher awareness to the public. With the academic year coming to a close, and with our burgeoning excitement to discover the role in which we play at present, we were introduced to the post-modern muddle. Through history, theatre has sought to continually redefine itself based on ideals, either refuting or embracing theories of the past, so we were disappointed to learn that the post modernists are choosing to put an end to this growth, and propose the notion that there is no such thing as an original idea; everything that will be has already been. Further, its structure is so vague, that it encompasses all practicing artists. It is this pretension and lack of responsibility to the art that spurred the need for us to voice our opinions publicly.

Approach

We will take on this responsibility. We are observant artists with good ideas, and are confident in stepping up to the task of scrutinizing today’s theatre with the aid of historical texts. Tracing our contemporary theatre through its own history will consequently develop a deeper understanding for the art to which we chose to devote our lives. It is our intention that this understanding will foster growth and inspire new directions in our theatre.

1: Aristotle, Poetics, c. 335 BC

2: Victor Hugo, Preface to Cromwell, 1827

3: Antonin Artaud, The Theatre and Its Double, 1938