Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres Part 2

I went with the gentle diversion. He got in his car and left, I walked to the subway, and the next day we all had lunch with Charles, the Artistic Director of the company. The purpose of this lunch was to discuss the project -- this was something Charles did with every one-act in the festival: dine with the cast and creative team in order to casually bounce some ideas around. I'm betting it was also a way to gauge the overall tension, positivity vs. negativity, or whatever else might be going on with any one project. Thing is, the cast and creative team -- with one notable exception among the actors -- pretty much got along. The only major issue was that the playwright refused to rewright.

So we all went out to lunch. And some ideas were bounced around, most of them useless because they didn't take into account the biggest problem in the piece -- which I will address soon. I was actually somewhat embarrassed for a couple of the actors, because their main ideas stemmed solely from the notion that the size of their roles, and thus their stage time, should be increased. This is not a quality in the heart of every actor, but it is definitely present in some. They count their lines, some even count the words, they actually seek ways to upstage everyone else in the play; these are the actors who will hide your props, move your costume, possibly even poison your makeup -- though that seems relatively rare. I haven't often encountered them, but the funny thing is that every one I've ever worked with has always shown her or his hand pretty early on in the process. The first sign is always greed for more lines, more stage time. Which is not to say that every actor who wants more stage time is a theatrical sociopath -- just as every person who likes weaponry is not a mass-murderer -- but the angling, wheedling, grasping desperation for more lines that some actors display is a clear and bright red flag. That moment in Rivendell comes to mind, in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings, when Bilbo sees the ring on its chain around Frodo's neck and for a moment transforms into a scary grasping greedful creeper: that's what this kind of actor can't keep hidden away, and when she or he sees whatever represents her or his personal One Ring, greed and desperation take over and the actor will engage in behavior that ranges from the ridiculous to the deplorable.

We all met at the theater and walked down to a diner on the corner past Playwrights Horizons (was I the only one who looked with longing at those doors? Victor saw me and nodded as if to say, "You are right to be looking at those doors. It's only a matter of time." Alas, it would seem that the gift of prophecy does not rest among Victor's other talents.) Victor stood outside checking his voicemail as we got a large booth. He'd quietly insisted to me that he and I sit next to one another opposite Charles and the playwright, so I quietly arranged it thus; when Victor came in, it was with the news that our playwright would not be joining us for this mandatory lunch because of unforeseen personal obligations. To which Charles responded, "Translation: I'm a fucking pussy and I'm afraidseys to rewritseys my widdow babbow scwiptseys." 

This was a refreshing revelation, because it meant several things: first, that Charles was aware of the playwright's unwillingness to fulfill his side of the deal. Second, it appeared that Charles was thus laying the groundwork for open and honest discussion of the project. Those were the most important things, but an added detail was that it seemed that Charles had met this kind of resistance before and was impatient with unprofessionality. I asked him about it:

Edward: Charles, this can't be the first time you've worked with a stubborn playwright.

Charles: Oh my God, no. It's the entire reason we have that contract with all of our playwrights now: the first two festivals we did, we got people who thought collaboration meant refusing to allow us to do their play if we didn't cast it to their satisfaction, things like that.

At this point Charles opened the discussion to the table, and, while the main issue the actors had with the play was one of repetition and pointless lines, these important notes began to get bogged down as the more covetous actors began to work their dark charms. Victor and Charles were having none of that, and wanted more to focus on the clogged dialogue. Eventually, Victor even went so far as to say something to the effect of, "Hey, listen, we all want more to do. But until we get the issue of clarity across to our playwright, asking him to add more confusion will only make our work harder." This prompted the greedies to scrabble backwards, protesting that it wasn't about more lines. But it totally was. 

The leads were thus able to get their concerns across to Charles, who noted everything carefully in preparation for an e-mail and then meeting with the playwright. Finally, Victor asked the question I had been waiting to hear: "Does anyone have any thoughts about the overall structure or plotline?"

Silence.

I looked around, then raised my hand. Victor said, "Yes, Edward, O King of Structure?" Here is what I said:

Edward: Okay, here's the thing: this guy, our main character, he's a bestselling novelist, right?

Group: Uh-huh.

Edward: And the conflict in the play is rooted in his wife's fear that he's in danger of losing his job as a Biology professor -- and not getting tenure -- because he's focusing so much on his writing. Correct?

Group: Yeppers.

Edward: Then here's my question: if he's a bestselling novelist, what the fuck does he need to worry about a teaching job for? He has already made more money as, to quote page one of the play, " ...  a New York Times #1 Bestseller," than he ever will teaching Biology.

Group: [silence]

Edward: This premise, that a bestselling novelist would be so scared of losing a job that is only a miserable distraction from what he loves, is essentially flawed. And because it's the main support beam upon which the play stands, we are essentially presenting something that no half-intelligent audience member is going to buy.

Professor: Well, Edward, we don't know how successful he is ...

Edward: [pointing to script] Page One: "Honey, I am a New York Times #1 Bestseller, you'd think I could spend a Sunday afternoon working on my novel." I think it's pretty clear.

Wife: I always thought he was joking with that line.

Edward: Why?

Wife: Because otherwise, why am I so worried about his job?

Edward: You're proving my point.

Wife: Huh ... yeah, I guess I am.

Charles: You know, I hadn't even caught that. I think it's an excellent point, and I'll make that the thrust of my discussion with the playwright.

Professor's Fat Sister: I don't know ...

Victor: What don't you know?

Professor's Fat Sister: We're sitting here talking about rewriting his entire play ...

Victor: You were just arguing to bulk up your lines by half, Fat Sister.

Professor's Fat Sister: I just ... it feels wrong. All I'm saying.

Wife: Well, I can keep assuming he's joking if that's what needs to happen, but it's shit acting on my part and I know it. I can't invite an agent when I know I'm doing poor work.

Victor: What about you, Ballerina?

Ballerina: If the central conflict were no longer about not getting tenure at the university because of his relationship with his muse, what would it be about?

Edward: It would be about his relationship with his muse. His wife already as much as accuses him of cheating on her; the tenure thing is a pointless diversion -- this is a play about a love triangle between a writer, his wife and his muse. Getting rid of the tenure bullshit clarifies all of that, gives you all stronger wants and -- hopefully -- less confusing dialogue.

Victor: Thus Spake Edwardthustra.

Charles: Edward, do you want a job as a reader?

Edward: Yes, indeed.

Charles: We'll talk. As for the rest of you, this has been very fruitful and informative. I will run all of this by the playwright and, fingers crossed, I will succeed in --

Professor's Fat Sister: I still don't know ...

Charles: What is it, Fat Sister?

Professor's Fat Sister: It feels so underhanded, meeting like this. If I were the writer, I wouldn't want everyone rewriting my script without me being there. I don't know if I can be a part of it.

Charles: Are you backing out of the show? Because I have another actress ...

Professor's Fat Sister: Oh, no! No! Just ... y'know, concerned. 

Victor: Fat Sister, this is a mandatory meeting of which the playwright has been aware for months. He knew this was the lunch in which his script was likely to change. We are doing our jobs, according to our contracts. He is not doing his. 

Professor's Fat Sister: But Professor didn't even bring any of this up, the -- who are you, Edward, the "assistant director"? The "assistant director" brought this up. You're not -- he's not even a real member of the team, he's a gopher. Since when do gophers have opinions? I'm just sayin', is all. He's not an actor. He's an assistant.

[Long silence. Waiter passes, ignoring us; probably not the first time he's heard an exchange like this. Not gonna lie: everything she said hit home.]

Charles: Thank you for making your feelings so clear, Fat Sister. Edward, I apologize.

Edward: Yeah, no. Fine.

Charles got up to pay the bill and we all headed outside. I had plastered a pleasant smile on my face and, by some miracle, maintained it all the way back to the theatre. I think I let it slip once Victor and I parted at 8th Avenue, and I may have found a very tight corner to face on a very packed train back to Corona. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to the numb soullessness guaranteed by a day of work at Restoration Hardware.

Victor called me the next day to tell me he'd had a long phone meeting with the playwright, who felt like we were "cutting his balls off." This affected Victor deeply. He began to back off. So, by the next week when Victor made a nice speech and handed the cast over to me, the wrighter had basically been given carte blanche and was using it to not rewrite anything in his play. My job had become very simple: shepherd the show through this last week of rehearsals and two days of tech, making regular reports to Victor, then attend all performances. I inquired later with Charles and Victor about pushing some rewrites, and the consensus was that it might be better for the company to avoid pushing a playwright into a nervous breakdown over a 30 minute play. I agreed, and everything ahead appeared to be clear skies and smooth sailing. None of us had reckoned, however, with the vengeance of the Professor's Fat Sister.

A Blog About Theatre

For the last eight months I have been writing Notes From The Future and posting it episodically within this blog, because this is currently the only blog I have to my name. Obviously there's a bit of a conflict between the name of this blog (Rinky-Dink, Adventures In American Theatre) and Notes From The Future, which is a story about what happens to love when earthquakes, monsters and time travel get in the way. Or maybe it's a story about a couple of idiots who clearly chose the wrong path. And maybe I'm writing about Veronica and myself with unflinching clarity, or maybe I'm making myself far more attractive in print than I actually am. I'll never tell. What I will say is that I've hit a bump in the road.

Perhaps 'pothole' is the better word. Either way, the three of you who read regularly will have noticed by now that I have pulled over. The engine is off – in fact, it's cool to the touch. There's still gas in the tank, oil and water unmixed in their appropriate receptacles. But I am on my back under the car, staring at the complexities I've created and very, very aware that a) certain inconsistencies are about to trip everything up and, b) I will begin directing The Three Musketeers in late February. It's kind of like when I know I need to be up early in the morning and I therefore cannot sleep: I know I need to keep working and finish this damned thing (I even have notes on what comes next and how to end it), but it would appear that I have something-or-othered, and as a result I am thoroughly somethinged.

Part of it is health-related, and I won't bore you with details, but that's distracting. The other part is having to work at home. I don't know how people do it. The only time I can get work done is late at night, but working late at night = sleeping all day, which fucks my sleep schedule. It's 11:06 pm as of this moment, and I have to complete, edit, and post this blog within the next hour or fuck up the deliciously normal sleep cycle I've finally managed to regain after New Year's. I would love to drive up to Solano College every day and write in the Adjunct Faculty Office. But 120 miles round trip with gas prices what they are and things and such and pennywhistles among sandpipers, o the unmitigated profligacy of it all.

Another issue I'm having is with Blogger/Blogspot itself. While it has undergone some changes that are definite improvements, it seems that none of you can easily comment, no matter what I do to the settings. Not gonna lie: I totally love comments. That's why I practically beg for comments every time I post a link to my blog on Google+, Facebook, Twitter, etc. I recently met someone who is so obsessed with NFTF that she has read it in its entirety – twice! Never a word from her, alas, and she's just the person whose comments I'd love to have. Imagine my frustration when everyone tells me they try to comment, but the blog won't let them. Or it's prohibitively difficult. (I am assuming a high level of intelligence among you, dear readers, because I've noticed that smart people like my writing. Which of course means you're all geniuses. Would you care to celebrate this revelation with bonbons au gingembre? Join me in the escritoire!) There are several other venues I am currently considering and my current favorite is WordPress. It's a poor artist who blames the tools, but let's be clear: words are my tools, websites are the galleries in which I currently display my work.

Now, when I started this blog, I was thinking that I would use it to catalog my pithily unrepentant observations about theatre as it currently stands and as I've experienced it in the SF Bay Area and other regions here in the Western United States. Some of my stuff is just that. Oliver in Idaho, a series originally written from the trenches of the exact production described, was first shared via the blogs on MySpace. But MySpace is now the weed-choked, crack-vialed lot several blocks away where they shoot various scenes for The Wire, because the world, to quote Roland of Gilead, has moved on. O alas, it has indeed.

So, why haven't I continued to write directly about my experiences since 2006? Simple: I chickened out, took a job working for my Dad, and promptly fell of the face of the earth. After that, every show I did felt like a blessing that I couldn't endanger. Were I to write candidly about a poorly-written original musical, for example, there was a danger that the librettist, lyricist or producer might get wind of it. And since none of them had any idea that the show was poorly-writ, blah blah and etcetera. Instead, I concocted fictionalized versions of the productions in which I was involved. I had fun writing them, and when I go back and re-read, I am always a little saddened that they've never gotten much attention. I think parents must feel this way when they have awkward kids. “I love you, honey. And you are pretty. You are. You just … need to not be ugly any more.”

Recently, however, I had a chance to discuss my blog at some length with a couple of people. One was my brother-in-law, first initial J, who feels that I spend too much time writing about street names in early episodes. Fair enough. I don't know how much that thought will affect the eventual form the blog takes, but I appreciate the feedback. And if that is his only critique, I'll take it! My sister Hillary, on the other hand, wants me to cut every single reference to theatre. She probably only told me this because she had had some cocktails at our older brother's 50^th birthday party, and I truly do appreciate the response.

Because it got me thinking: am I writing too much about theatre within NFTF? I think she may be right: I might be a little heavy-handed with the Carol Channing references and Nathan Lane inflections. But I justified it, each and every time, with a glance at the title of the blog: Rinky-Dink, Adventures in American Theatre. I thought to myself (quasi-consciously), “Ah, this gemlike little quatrain about Sondheim vs. Styne is just the thing to justify this blog about time travel being published under a theatrical label. This will satisfy the theatre junkies who are so avidly – yet SILENTLY – reading my blog! Perhaps this will draw them into the light of day? Perhaps – dare I hope?! – just perhaps my cogent observations about the current state of affairs in mediocre regional theatre will be just the thing to get people commenting!”

Nope.

So I'm laying here under my blog, with hot inspiration dripping on my face and the smell of burned potential strong in my nostrils, and I'm thinking. My need to write about Theatre must be fulfilled. My youngest sister is so bored with my writings about theatre that she skips – actually skips – whole sections of it whenever I lean in that direction. What to do? Socket wrench? Shot of whiskey? Both? I'll take three, thanks, and then stare at the page some more. Meanwhile, I may just have to create a new, separate blog, somewhere else. Transfer NFTF over there, and maintain Blogger as the home of Rinky-Dink, as that association seems cemented in both the spiritual and the literal senses.

It's four minutes after Midnight. This blog is unfinished. Notes From The Future have yet to arrive. I am bracing myself for three comments followed by thunderous silence. Thus my writing career mimics almost exactly the shape of my theatrical career. Lesson learned:

Location, location, location.