An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told

June 6, 2008

I recently had the question posed to me if I took a 'traditional' approach to Shakespeare.

What does that mean? Well, the asker wanted to know about the setting – a reasonable enough inquiry. And yet, I have had several discussions since the idea first floated into my brain about revisiting Rom & Jules relative to setting. Some people get very excited about my inspiration for interpretation, to the point I found myself red-faced at a Wednesday night dinner with the urge to explain. I've also had a fair share of raised eyebrows and mutterings about Leonardo DiCaprio.

Whatever.

And yet… I have to admit… I find this debate fascinating.

I will likely always end up on the side of leaving the 16th century. I mean… really… why would you want to go back to it? People smelled bad, mostly because they were always stepping in horse poo and people poo on the streets. They bathed… but they wore the same clothes and probably had a nice hazy cloud of insects around them. But you were probably used to it… not that anyone could get really close to you. As a woman you were tied up in a corset that pointed between your legs, not giving you any option but to sit up straight. And then there was a circle of bone and wire encompassing your hips. Ah… women's fashion… white make-up made from mercury, rouge made from the blood of insects… and then you shaved your forehead. Not that it mattered because women couldn't act anyway, not even as themselves. Women were too busy being pregnant 15 times over (if they lived) or sewing endless hems on linens or being allowed to be beaten or killed by a father who suspected that she was compromising her chastity. Never mind the fact she fainted all the time from her freakin corset.

Don't get me wrong. It's a very romantic era. Those knights in shining armor… who would kill you if you went to the wrong church. You had to go to church and believed all that fire and brimstone stuff. Those roomy castles with bone chilling drafts and rats that scurried across you while you slept. The majestical feasts of meats loaded with cloves and spices to conceal the rotten flavor. And Sir Monkeyface Greybeard vying for your hand in marriage at age 14. Good times.

But… is that essential to telling the story of star crossed lovers? Does it matter if they wear farthingales and codpieces? Is the story not the same if they are wearing jeans and listen to their iPods? Isn't the beauty of Shake-speare the very fact that it doesn't matter the clothes they wear or what dance it is that Romeo bows out of… but we still get swept up in his teenage passion?

The feelings don't change, no matter our bathing habits or costumes or dietary preferences. Is not Romeo & Juliet as relevant today in a world of violence and sex and impulse as it was 400 years ago in Italy? Or 2000 plus years ago in Greece? Speaking of… how Grecian was Midsummer anyway? Old Willy himself did not feel any need to be 'true' to the time of Pyramus & Thisbe in his tale... so why on earth does it improve the storytelling these days?

This all isn't to say I detest the era of the writer. I spent how many years living, eating, and breathing the 15th and 16th centuries? I loved wearing my red dress and teasing unsuspecting cub scouts about their evil left-handedness. And from that I learned you have to use the present to make the past interesting. Not everyone gets excited about iambic pentameter or the fact that there are truly three separate purposes of armor… and gold is the absolute worst metal with which to protect oneself. Our student audiences would let their attentions wander with the details of metal-making and the specific rules of jousting. But they always came back to the stories about relating to other people, the details of marriage and parties and wearing the right clothes to impress someone. Those things may change shape over the years… but ultimately we relate to them because somewhere in ourselves, we have felt similarly.

Romeo & Juliet speaks to me not because of the amazing description of Elizabethan swordplay or its references to Verona. I go back and listen to the dialogue over and over because there are still romantic and hotheaded teenagers walking amongst us. There is still a society that uses violence to deal with anger. There are still parents who are oblivious to what their children want and push them into lives that fulfill their own ambitions. There is still a hope we can learn to mend from this two hours traffic on the stage.

Thank You Places

May 9, 2007

Mornings are particularly challenging during tech week. I forget… it's been too long. I've somehow managed to not be involved in one – as full-fledged crew - for long enough to lose momentum. Not since September… and then there was also a mountain of peripheral stresses. So I wake up in the mornings reluctantly. Wasn't it just a few short hours ago when I closed my eyes... because inevitably after moving like molasses through the rest of my day, I am always wide awake at that final hour of getting home.

And I ask myself why I do it. Running crew is one of the more thankless jobs in theater. You can't even watch the show. A number of tedious moments crammed into close quarters with piles of furniture and sweaty actors, who always manage to get in the way when we try to achieve a swap of said furniture in under thirty seconds. All to just wait for the next exchange and dodge the curtains flapping with the drafts of doors closing and actors sweeping across the stage.

Plus, we don't get to leave at night. The actors go home. We stay until midnight… later… to paint the floor, to fill in holes, to move more furniture to impossible hiding places in the little theater. Even as the feet ache, the eyes grow heavy, and the shoulders are knotted with so much stress. (Have I had time for a decent run in the past four days? Of course not.)

But there are special moments… minute as they are… that somehow justify the sleep depravation, the turning of one's skin to Hulk green, and the invisibility. Like painting said floor when in comes a Hovey local at some random hour of the night, offering to get us beer, as the director granted the request to crank up the Dropkick Murphy's to my favorite assonant song. Or abating the sore feet by choreographing our own dance moves to the fabuloulsy performed disco and rap numbers. The gratitude of the actors who actually get crew… because they've done it. And the... truly wonderful camaraderie and inside humor amongst the other amazing crew.

This one isn't the same without Mahthah… but… there will be enough fun to keep me going through the next two weekends, enough to not regret sacrificing my time or sleep yet again.

Wives May Be Merry and Yet....

April 13, 2007

They say smell triggers memory. But, every once in a while, a certain phrase of dialogue makes the past vivid for a fleeting moment. I suppose it is a consequence of theater. We study the language for so long and it remains imprinted indelibly in our brains. Some of the time. When it is a play I don't wish to forget. The passage of time buries those happy thoughts… until the articulation pulls them out again.

Last night I returned to my alma mater and watched a production of The Merry Wives of Windsor (Texas). I am devoutly fond of that seldom produced Shakespearean comedy. I owe that devotion - and pretty much most of my passion for all of the compleat works - to my involvement in another Lesley interpretation … gasp… thirteen years ago. It was the happiest experience I had in college, learning that language and struggling every night NOT to burst into laughter on the stage. Such a funny, funny play.

Four years ago, I directed it. I had an equally amazing experience, with a group of actors I still count amongst my favorite friends. The short-lived tradition of Barre Buddy Nights cemented the bonding and the sense of fun that came onto the stage in very hysterical moments.

Both of those interpretations echoed through my brain as I watched the students perform.(when did 18 become so much like 12?) I could see so perfectly my co-star as Mistress Page pounding her fist to her forehead saying 'peer out! Peer out!" Or in the later production, our Dr. Caius rambling in an exaggerated French accent looking for his green-a box… wearing that very attractive shag carpet vest.

God. I LOVE this play. It has yielded some of my favorite memories of working in theater. I give a good deal of the credit to the language and story that is so silly it can produce sore stomach muscles. But, I suppose, just as much credit has to be given to the dramatis personae of the cast and crew on both productions. Last night left me with a lot of questions wondering where some might be this decade and some years later. Some I've encountered… some I just wonder… but they remain in my memory locked, preserved perfectly (and maybe with a merciful cloud to the imperfection of our sophomoric acting abilities).

It's unfortunate. I had to argue the merits of this play a week ago. And had I the brain power and the experience of last night fresh in my mind this Friday, perhaps my argument would not have floundered so pathetically. Ah well. There is always another opportunity. And for now, I'll just relish in the pribbles and prabbles of my wistful recollection.

Avoiding George Bailey

December 4, 2006

Is it appropriate to label the circumstance irony? That three years ago I directed a stage version of It's A Wonderful Life… and determined somewhere in the middle of rehearsals that I wanted to flee small town New England as soon as possible and avoid a George Bailey life in my own version of Bedford Falls? Has it only been three years?

Tis the season… for remembering that story, that play, as well as the popular theme of revisiting one's past, present, and future. I went back to my Bedford Falls this weekend and found the floodgates of memory smash open with the avalanche of nostalgia.

I visited with old friends from the varied compartments of my Worcester/Barre life, proving to myself that they were in fact still flesh and blood - not just images on myspace. Those were definitely pleasant outings, reminding me of what I left behind, invoking a sigh or two over happy memories (finally confirming it was Sir Brian - thank you, Neil). There is of course that ego boost of going back and talking about my very cool job, my recent theater activity, and the infamous subject that turns my face pink with little provocation. But, more pleasantly, there was a chance to see old friends, check in with them about their triumphs and sorrows… and just know that they are still friends in spite of the passage of time and that suspicious barrier of 128. I really enjoyed the smiles and laughter… and hope that there isn't a gap of as much time before the next collision of our companies.

My mind was already swimming with memories before these visits, having also made use of my westward excursion to begin the daunting task of sorting (and mostly trashing) the massive collection of crap still stored in my parents' soon to be former home. I spent the hours going through dusty papers from when I could first hold a crayon to… well, I think I only made it to the beginning of high school. But, wow. Things I didn't realize were still in my brain awakened with a small glance of yellow-lined paper… getting 'bonus' points on my math quizzes in 8th grade for my encyclopedic memory of rock n roll trivia, writing notes to my friends on lunch bags, writing fairy tales to my friends about all our crushes in 'veiled' form, art projects made from tracing my hand or foot or sneaker, a note of encouragement from my recently disgraced 6th grade teacher, report cards, initials scribbled on book covers (why the hell did I save my book covers?), slam books, and more stories. Always writing… something… but… the child was so much simpler, able to convey honesty in few words, without all this careful choreography of clever vocabulary… yes, I think there were some comments from Mr. Beschta about word economy somewhere in there as well… Oy. Pack rat, absolutely… but what a trip down memory lane…

And yet, I am glad it was a visit. I didn't feel any sudden epiphany that life in a small town is just where I'm supposed to be. Maybe if Clarence or Marley stopped in during the night I would have felt differently… but I don't think so…

Parting is such sweet sorrow

November 20, 2006

I miss her. I feel that sense of loss… even as she was far from anyone I would admire, let alone befriend. Maybe pity. But, good God, she was so clueless and fashionably challenged in the worst way. She spoke with fillers (the habit of 'like' that got pounded out of my brain every night at dinner with my dad)… and she ate at McDonald's. But without her, I feel empty today.

I've been through this so many times. Well not so many… because what really makes it happen is the fact that it doesn't happen EVERY time. There have definitely been some characters and plays that couldn't end quickly enough… that the final performance was more a relief than anything. A learning experience, absolutely. When it ended, it was mercifully over. But there are times… every once in a while… when the parting is a little pained.

It isn't just the character or the play - even as I keep listening to our CD this morning to re-visit some of those moments under the lights. It is also the brief collision of a handful of individuals to create something. Something theatrical… but something memorable. Lots of laughter… but just a comfort and ease with one another that allowed us to perform in this twisted production.

There is always another one. Some up and coming project with which to alleviate this feeling of emptiness. Hell, I am already committed to tech the next one. Not to mention that other big production of the holiday season… oy… real life. Yeah, I guess it's time to re-visit that part of my existence. Bridal showers and all that Christmas hoopla.

But for today… today I will allow myself the frown to feel the sorrow of an end.

Adaptation

October 24, 2006

I read Jane Eyre when I was twelve. Something about that novel latched itself onto my pre-teen angst and still clutches my heart with devoted appreciation. There has never been a movie produced that does it justice – that, in my mind, captures what makes the novel compelling. There is supposedly a play… but I think that would be even worse.

This fall I have experienced a couple attempts of local theaters to mount a stage presentation of novels written by English women in the early 19th century. The productions I witnessed had some very strong elements, commendable performances, and very beautiful re-creations of the periods they represent. But, oy… I have come to the conclusion as both a participant in one and the witness to others… that riveting theater these novels do not make.

You can never please an audience adapting a beloved novel. There will always be someone to complain. There are millions of readers with millions of different backgrounds to craft their interpretation of characters and the way things are supposed to look and play out. And in theater, there is a number of equally varied opinions as to what is 'art' or entertainment.

This is, of course, merely my opinion. Those women had a lot of time on their hands, holed away in their manses, walking across the moors, or waiting for their philandering, sexually ambiguous husbands to come home. I don't have that sort of time… and grow very impatient with their needless exposition. I want to see something happen – not just imagine it as someone tells me in flowery language. I appreciate the bravery of the adapters… but I think the medium limits the ability to stay true to the novel and create a workable stage piece.

So, there's my snooty intellectual diatribe for the day. I'm sure when the opportunity to see Jane Eyre comes around, I'll still go. Because I always have hope… maybe the next time will be different.