Goodbye, Blog

As part of my author study project, I've been reading a lot of Conor McPherson lately. I'm getting very familiar with his work--the total number of plays I've now seen or read (or both) is now, if I'm not mistaken, is seven (The Seafarer, Port Authority, The Weir, The Shining City, Night Alive, St. Nicholas, & This Lime Tree Bower). That might not seem like a lot, especially since plays aren't that long, but given the emotional complexity and thought-provoking nature of his work, it feels like a lot. It's certainly more than I've seen/read of any other playwright, with the possible exception of Shakespeare (Romeo and Julliet, Twelfth Night, Richard The Third, Much Ado About Nothing, As You Like It, Macbeth, Hamlet... yeah, no, Shakespeare wins).

The two I read just recently were St. Nicholas and This Lime Tree Bower. These represent the earlier phase of his work, when he wrote monologue plays. Recently, his writing has all been in a conversational style.

These plays reminded me of something that was talked a lot about at Cherubs this summer: storytelling. Some students actually took a class on storytelling, where they created their own performance pieces telling personal narratives. I didn't, but storytelling was something that was a part of all we did there: theatre is all about telling--and more specifically, I think, sharing--stories.

I think I prefer, for the most part, McPherson's current style, because I find it so breathtakingly lifelike and honest. But there's something I find really lovely and fascinating about the monologue plays. There's something really courageous about sitting down in front of a group of people and telling a story about yourself. The characters in the monologue plays must inherently have this courage, given the nature of the play, and it adds a really intriguing psychological level to the plays.

I really do love that bravery, and that kind of personal connection the speaker has with the audience. The shared awareness, the shattered fourth wall. That kind of deep empathy was what drew me to McPherson's work in the first place, and it reminds me why I love theatre so much and why it's what I've chosen to do.

I hope that you find McPherson's bravery, spontaneity, and passion in the stories you tell and the stories that are told to you. And I hope you've enjoyed reading this blog. Thanks.

Ideas

This week's blog post is a little different. 

I'm not going to write about a play, because I haven't been reading a play. I've been reading Jon Jory's Tips: Ideas for the actor (and not for the first time).

It's a great book. It's a series of pieces of advice for actors. It covers everything. It's not intended to be read straight through, really, but to be flipped through. It's meant to give the reader reminders and jolts of inspiration. And it works. The advice is spot on. Everything Jon Jory wrote in there was great.

But that's not what I've been reading it for. I've been reading it, really, for the other words written there in the margins. Words written by many very important people to me. People who knew me and believed in me. Words like that have meant a lot to me when I believed in myself a lot less. And when I was waiting to find out whether strangers with the power to change my future believed in me.

And the people who wrote those words, I don't think they'd be surprised by my acceptances. And I may have been just a little bit less so because of them.

So I want to salute the books that hold memories in a way that nothing else can. I'm very, very grateful for all that we can get out reading--sometimes very literally--between the lines.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Me)

I was pretty freaked out by Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, by Edward Albee. My initial reaction after reading the play was Oh my God... these people...

The play tells the story of one night--one very long night--that an old married couple spends "entertaining" a younger married couple in their home. Over the course of the night, all of the problems in both marriages (and there are many) are brought to the surface, and the audience watches as their relationships collapse. It's sad, yes, but even more so, it's disturbing. The hosts, George and Martha, are vicious people. Their guests, Nick and Honey, have their issues, too, but they're nowhere near as cruel. George and Martha try incessantly to hurt each other in any way they can. They will use anyone and anything against each other, no matter what it costs them (or anyone else who happens to get caught in their crossfire). They are deeply, deeply damaged people who are clearly bad for each other, but, it seems, stuck together forever.

The structure of the play is excellent. It builds and shifts, so that despite the fact that it's a lot more talking than action, the audience doesn't get bored. The characters change their tactics constantly--some of the exchanges between George and Martha are like watching a sword fight. The slow reveal of information keeps the audience engaged as well. George and Martha's mysterious "son" is mentioned at the beginning of the show, and as it progresses, the information the audience learns becomes more complex and intriguing. And by the end, the refrain is eerie enough to send shivers down your spine: "Who's afraid of  Virginia Woolf, Virginia Woolf, Virginia Woolf..."

The play is great. But it's not the kind of play that will restore your faith in humanity or make you feel better about the world. It may make you feel better about your life--by comparison. It's It's tragic and sickening and unresolved--as Martha puts it, "what a dump."

This Is Our Youth

"teenagers have so much more depth of experience than their parents think and so much less than they think," --Kenneth Lonergan

As I was skimming a play anthology called Under Thirty in search of plays that might contain good college audition monologues, I was surprised to see a title I recognized: This Is Our Youth, by Kenneth Lonergan. I was lucky to get a chance to see the show at Steppenwolf this past summer, performed by Michael Cera, Kieran Culkin, and Tavi Gevinson. I decided to read it--it's a great play, and I was interested in seeing how different my experiences watching it and reading it would be. I've read plays and then seen them before, but never the reverse, expect for a few Shakespeare shows I saw when I was too young to remember much about them.

I was shocked. It was almost like reading a different play. I remembered the plot, of course, but a lot of other things seemed very different. For one thing, the character descriptions of some of the characters differed greatly from what I saw onstage. For one thing, Cera's and Culkin's characters are written as being nineteen and twenty-one years old (respectively), which changes the way you register their words and actions a great deal. Also, Gevinson's character was much closer to her real age. She was playing a nineteen-year-old, so that affected the relationship dynamics between her and the other two as well.

But what stood out to me even more was the way that the actor's interpretations affected how I saw the story. Michael Cera brought an authentic sweetness to the character of Warren that didn't come across to me as I read the script, and Culkin's Dennis seemed even more manipulative and in-control than the one in the text. The ending felt different to me, too. In the script, it felt like sort of a resolution. When I saw it, it seemed to cut off very abruptly, unfinished. It's very cool to compare the two--the more I read and watch plays, I'm astounded by how varied different interpretations of the same play can vary. I guess that's the result of creating an entire world out of dialogue: there are lots, and lots, and lots of choices.

The reason This Is Our Youth is included in a play anthology called Under Thirty is that it's about young people. The characters are teenagers, and they're thinking and talking and wondering about it means to be a teenager--and to become an adult. But it's no coming of age story. It's about the real fear and vulnerability involved in not understanding your identity and coming to terms with death. I dug up my program from the show, and found within it and interview with Kenneth Lonergan. He says, "teenagers have so much more depth of experience than their parents think and so much less than they think," and to me this rings very true. I would highly recommend This Is Our Youth. There's sex and a huge plate of drugs that flips over and three very real, lost people trying to find themselves and each other. It's great.

The Metal Children

The Metal Children, by Adam Rapp, is a page-turner. It is hilarious and heartbreaking and offensive and confusing and unresolved and spellbinding--it pulls you in and doesn't let you back out till the final curtain. It's the story of a community reacting to a controversial work of art. Tobin Falmouth, the author of a graphic young adult novel that depicts, travels to a small town called Midlothia, where copies of his book have been pulled off of shelves and out of hands and stored in a giant underground vault. The young people of Midlothia are furious, and their backlash creates a huge and ultimately very violent rift in the community. The absurdity of the actions taken by both sides is such that often the audience does not know whether to be horrified or to laugh, and often they feel an uncomfortable, moving combination of the two. See for yourself:

STACEY: The best thing to do is stand your ground. Even if the pork patrol starts pressing in on you.

TOBIN: What’s the pork patrol?

STACEY: Just some boys from school who harass people. They’re small-minded bullies, but they think of themselves as community regulators. They believe community “pork” is bad for community “health.”  They wear Porky Pig masks and metal baseball cleats.

TOBIN: Jesus. Where the hell am I?

It’s hilarious when you hear it, and even funnier the first time we see a menacing figure appear wearing a pig mask. It’s not so funny when he beats Tobin to a pulp.

The ridiculousness of such events, in combination with their harsh level of plausibility and reality, makes the play very grounded. There is a great deal of self-evident truth in the story Rapp spins, and so the audience becomes very invested in and conflicted about the lives of these characters.

Mr. Herbert has said that in the best theatre scenes, two characters are vehemently arguing against each other and are both right. The Metal Children is filled with such conflicts. It is complex and challenging and denies simplistic arguments like "freedom of speech" or "protect the children." It demands that the audience face the fact that truth is chaotic and right and wrong are not black and white. It asks more questions than it answers and leaves us to figure it out for ourselves. It’s great. Read it.

Almost, Maine

December is finally here, and the temperature has gone way downhill. Soon, we’ll be heading into the heart of winter, so for my last blog post of the semester, I decided to do a winter romance: Almost, Maine.

In the notes at the beginning of the play,the author, John Cariani writes, “Please keep in mind that ‘cute’ will kill this play. Almost Maine is inherently sweet. There is no need to sentimentalize the material. Just… let it be what it is: a play about real people who are really, truly, honestly dealing with the toughest thing there is to deal with in life: love. If you do the play don’t forget how much the people of Almost, Maine are hurting. Honor the ache, play the pain (keep most of it covered), and don’t forget that Almost, Maine is a comedy. Sadness is the funniest thing in the world.”

Well, “Almost, Maine is inherently sweet” just might be the understatement of the century, even if statements like “sadness is the funniest thing in the world,’ would lead you to believe otherwise. It takes place in a small town called Almost in northern--you guessed it--Maine. It’s a series of eight “episodes,” vignettes that each feature two or three different characters. Sometimes a character will mention someone from a different episode, and it’s clear that all of the characters in this world are connected, but each vignette is it’s own story, focusing on a specific and unique relationship. They all take take place at the same time, about nine o’clock on a “cold, moonless Friday night,” under the stunning lights of the Aurora Borealis. And each has a unique, slightly magical element.

And yeah, they’re really cute. You can’t watch the show without saying “aww.” It’s just not possible. Ron Swanson would say “aww” if he saw it. It’s that adorable. But it’s not saccharine. It doesn’t make you feel uncomfortable or want to vomit. It’s not fake. These stories are so real, and heartfelt, and often times quite awkward that you can’t help but smile. They’re not perfect. They don’t all have happy endings. But they’re beautiful. In one, a woman shows up at her boyfriend’s house in the middle of the night to return all the love he gave her over the course of their eleven-year relationship. She’s angry and wants to end it because she feels like their relationship isn’t going anywhere. She carries in huge bags, filled with enormous amounts of love. She demands that he return all the love she gave him, too. He brings out a tiny little bag. She’s shocked and angry, insistent that it can’t be all the love she gave him. Until, that is, she sees what’s inside. He explains to her that he managed to fit all her love into the ring, which is “a lot bigger than it looks.” That’s one of the stories that does have a happy ending.

I’m not so sure I agree with what Cariani says about sadness. It’s true that Almost Maine is hilarious, and a lot of those jokes are at someone’s expense, often about very painful things. But if that were all there was to the show, I think Almost, Maine would be at best an OK, moderately funny play. I’ve seen scenes from it played with the honesty and authentic emotion that Cariani requests. The resulting euphoria is what makes the play wonderful. Sadness makes it good; joy makes it great. At least, that’s what I think. You can decide for yourself in a matter of months--it’s the Spring show here at ETHS.

Ladder

There’s a lot I think I could say about Annie Baker’s The Aliens. But I wanna talk about ladders.

This is part of one of the monologues in the play. This character, KJ, has just been talking about how when he was a little boy, he went through a phase where he continually repeated the word ¨ladder.¨

And finally one night my mom got into bed with me and she was like: you can say it for as long and as loud as you want and I’ll hold your hand the whole time.

And I was like: okay.

And then I just went:

And then he says the word ¨ladder.¨ 92 times.

At that point, there is a stage direction reading ¨he has begun to cry by this point.¨

The he says ¨ladder¨ 35 more times. Then,

(a pause)

And then I stopped.

And his very next line after this monologue is the delivery of terrible news.. Immediately after this speech, this character, this complicated, chaotic, lost character has to tell someone he cares about that something horrible has happened.

And there’s not a lot of direction for the actor here. But Baker tells the actor when to cry and she formats these words that are all the same word in a very specific way and it is clear, knowing what has happened and when you see what happens next, that every single one of those ladders is there for a reason. And I think that must be an amazing journey for the actor playing KJ to go on: finding the meaning in each and every one of one hundred and twenty-seven ladders.

Because it’s clear that KJ has a lot he wants to say but doesn’t know how to say, and to see somebody do that, start screaming and sobbing out everything he wants to communicate using one word because there is no other way for him to say it… it’s gotta be incredible. I don’t know why the word is ladder (though it’s pretty clear that KJ hasn’t done a lot of climbing in his life). I don’t know how I would read this monologue. But I do know, beyond the shadow of a doubt that, it’s brilliant.