This description, of course, captures nothing of the actual moment on stage, which was all about the visual and the implicit. But it was a really neat effect, and the sort of tech-acting synergy we often aim at and seldom achieve

I arrived wondering whether the fact that I’m less excited about coming to Ashland was about the plays, or about me and where I am right now, (more about that in the next few posts) but also wanting to see *everything*, and already sad about having missed both Well and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

As you might guess, it’s a retelling of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex. But this is a vision of Oedipus Rex transplanted and translated into a very specific now. Unlike many retellings it manages to both be a faithful reflection of the Oedipus story (as it exists in my brain) and true to its transplanted identity in southern California.

It shares with Sophocles the issues of Jocasta as plot piece/Jocasta as character, but in the second half she really comes into her own.

The coro blends seamlessly from prisoners, to townspeople, to seers, with a minimalist setting that nonetheless tells you exactly where you are. When Tireseas entered, I couldn’t breathe. The imagery of this enormous space and him entering from outside was incredible. And the repetition of the vision at the end, with entirely different emotional content was devastating.

Stunning theatre, and I’m so glad I went.

Both playwrights write mostly plays that focus on small, intimate communities, with a strong sense of location: August Wilson’s cycle of plays about the African-American community in Pittsburgh throughout various eras of history; Lanford Wilson’s small Southern-Midwestern towns in The Rimers of Eldritch, Book of Days, and the Talley plays.

The work of both Wilsons is characterized by compelling, quirky, often flawed but almost never off-putting characters.  They both have marvelous ears for voice and dialogue; they also both write excellent monologues.  They focus on the complex relationships among their characters.  I love listening to their characters talk, both for the near-poetry of the text and for the emotional and narrative content.  (Though I consider myself more of a plot person than a voice person, one of the characteristics common to the playwrights I love best is memorable, quotable, playing-with-language dialogue.  This is why I keep returning to the works of Tom Stoppard, George Bernard Shaw, and – yes – Lanford Wilson.)

For both Wilsons, the focus on voice and character and community sometimes comes at the expense of plot; even when full of dramatic events, the plot is often a secondary element.  (Lanford Wilson has a couple of plays in which as far as I can tell nothing happens, e.g. Hot L Baltimore.  August Wilson’s plays do all have some sort of dramatic event in them, often a death and/or a family conflict.  But quite a lot of Fences goes by before it becomes clear what the plot is going to be about — though I only noticed in retrospect.  And in fact the plot events (man has affair, wife kicks him out of the house, he convinces her to raise his dead mistress’s baby, meanwhile his conflict with his teenage son ultimately leads to the son running away from home) are interesting mostly only as a way to illuminate these particular characters’ lives and relationships.

I’ve seen most of August Wilson’s plays at the Huntington over the years, without thinking too much about them.  By contrast, after seeing Talley’s Folly in middle school, I’ve been a Lanford Wilson fan, have most of his plays in my collection by now, have directed one of his plays and have at least others on my plays-to-direct-before-I-die list.  Making this connection between the two playwrights has given me a new perspective on August Wilson; or rather, has clarified some patterns in my response to his plays.  (This is not to claim they’re identical by any means, but I find the similarities illuminating.) Now I want to read his plays again, this time as an adult, all at the same time, and with a director’s eye.

Food on stage can fall anywhere along the spectrum. In The Importance of Being Earnest the eating (and squabbling over) very specific food items is an integral element of the dialogue. In Rabbit Hole, a different, highly specific dessert is eaten in nearly every scene; but while the constant serving of food does serve to illustrate something about Becca’s character and her relationship with her family, the creme caramel and lemon squares never quite play the focal role in a scene that the cucumber sandwiches do in Earnest. In Frankie and Johnny in the Claire de Lune, preparing and eating food are part of the characters’ negotiation of their relationship — but the food required is milk, meatloaf, and a vegetable omelet that an actor must prepare during the scene, so the play requires not only food, but a working refrigerator and, ideally, a working stove. And how many actors want to eat cold meatloaf — or worse, tepid, meatloaf — in the middle of a performance? Or kiss someone who has just done so?

The thing that really baffles me is the number of 10-minute plays that
require food — sometimes not just a cup of coffee or a couple of
cookies, but something elaborate and messy like a plate of chicken and
pasta. 10-minutes plays are usually performed as a set, where
keeping props and scenery to a minimum is important for quick set
changes. Sometimes, the food is central, as in a play I recently saw
about two women whose job is to prepare the last meal for prisoners
about to be executed. If that’s the subject of your play, then the food is necessary — and there’s nothing an apple pie under construction for a good concrete, specific image. But if it’s incidental, why not make everyone’s life easier and leave it out?

Beverages are somewhat less problematic, because they can often be faked with empty cups or colored water. But if you want a character to throw a drink in another character’s face, consider the logistical ramifications: colored water on costumes, wet floor until the next scene change, possible damage to makeup. . . And that’s assuming that your `whisky’ or `brandy’ is colored water and not, say, iced tea mixed with cranberry juice. In the latter case, you will have something colored and sticky all over set and costumes. Also, it takes longer to consume a serving of beverage than most scripts allow. Unless the characters are slugging back shots, the scene can become a race to empty their glasses in time to ask for a refill.

Similarly, it takes a painfully long time to consume food on stage, especially if the eating character has the next line. (Have you ever hollowed out chocolates so that they would contain as small a volume of chocolate as possible while still reading as bon-bons to the audience? Chocolate is particularly tricky to speak through.)

Now, it must be admitted that theatre people delight in logistical challenges; that’s where all our most cherished anecdotes seem to come from. So go ahead, put that roast turkey dinner in your script. Generations of actors and stage hands will happily curse your name.

Scrubs is a sitcom, ER was a drama. Grey’s Anatomy is a soap opera. (and Private Practice is an even more extreme soap opera). House is a black comedy.

And then there’s Trauma, which, as a local show, we’d all really like to see succeed out here. But it’s clearly horror.

Out here in the Bay Area I’m part of the literary committee at the Magic Theatre, which means I get to meet with the fascinating and diverse group that is the committee *and* attend first rehearsals for the shows that are going up. (And I get tickets to see their shows.)

Also, starting this month, I’m a member of the playwright pool at the Playground! Each month, we get a topic and four days to write a ten-minute play. The best six are performed the following week. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

Now, myself, I’m one of those writers who writes long and has a lot of trouble making serious cuts to my work. It’s not simply because I’m in love with my own deathless prose: I also have trouble choosing surplus possessions to get rid of, deciding who leave off the guest list for parties. I do appreciate concision, the more so because it’s almost impossible for me to create myself. I firmly believe in the necessity and value of editing. And word/page/running-time constraints are a great motivator for those of us who find cutting text difficult.

On the other hand, there’s nothing magical about 10 minutes. (Or 3500 words, or any other arbitrary length constraint.) Was the script improved or diminished by the removal of the second appearance of the grandmother’s rambling about supermarkets, which became a punchline for the first? Or the line about how she fought to keep her son in regular schools so that people wouldn’t think he was retarded? From inside the rehearsal and editing process, I can’t tell: I’ve lost my sense of perspective. The audience won’t miss those lines, but they also won’t know what they’re missing. Maybe the ideal length for this particular play (performed at the speed this particular set of actors performs it) is really 11 minutes. But the script will be shaped to meet the constraints of the 10-minute form. This wouldn’t really worry me, except that the 10-minute form seems to dominate the world of short plays: what does one do with a play between 10 and 60 minutes long? And what is lost if all short plays must be forced into the 10-minute box, regardless of their natural length?

I was at the Magic for another read through of The Goldfish and a second reading of Mrs. Whitney. The energy in the room was great. Everyone was excited, but also incredibly laid back. Both casts were there, and John Kolvenbach flitted around the room with bare feet, sometimes watching the action from behind his hand.

Before they began to read, there was a quick game of musical chairs so that the actors could see each other: parents and children were facing; lovers were facing.

The floor was striped with colored tape.

The Goldfish was funny and wrenching. It made me want to curl up and cry for all these wounded people. They have strong, hard stories. And really, one can’t not elope after seeing this play. Can’t be done.

It was a lot of fun to watch John watching the actors do their thing with his words.

And then, after a break and another game of musical chairs, they read Mrs. Whitney.

Mrs. Whitney follows Mrs. Whitney (surprise) from The Goldfish five years later. It’s a brand new, wet-behind-the-ears play.

At this point, The Goldfish had been rehearsing for two weeks. It was starting to feel solid, with the strong characters from the first reader becoming stronger and more settled. But for Mrs. Whitney this was a first read. The actors had been there for a while, and everyone was loosened up and having a good time. The reading reminded me that the root of this practice is play, playing, play-acting. The group sat in there and had fun with the script. It was magical to watch.

As we entered the room, the walls were lined with pictures of horse racing, New England college life, maps, Yonkers, and upscale Connecticut.

Kolvenbach himself was able to attend the rehearsal, which means that we both got the chance to listen to his description of the play, and had the chance to watch him as we listened to the reading. I’ve talked before about specificity in writing, and I was really intrigued when Kolvenbach talked one of the goals being to delve:

deeply into the personal until we come out into all of us

He described this play as a reduction, simmered a long time.

I love that as a goal. How to create, not just a story, but the deep reduction of a story, pulling out such a delicate essence that it transcends the story itself.

Goldfish was developed at South Coast Repertory, where it was directed by Loretta Greco (who is directing the Magic production. The particularly cool thing they’re doing this year is doing a rotating repertory of Goldfish and Mrs. Whitney, the play which tells another piece of Margaret Whitney’s life story, five years later. They’re using the same director, same designers, and some of the same actors. I can’t wait to find out what happens next in Margaret’s life.

After hearing from the playwright, the director, and the designers, we had the read through. From where I was sitting, I could see Albert and Leo, but could only see Lucy and Margaret from the back. Watching Albert and Leo was magical. They were occupying a different kind of space. We went from sitting around a table, a group of professionals watching a show, to having a very old man, an annoying teenage boy, an alcoholic woman, and a confident assertive teenage girl sitting at the table. No costumes, no sets, no bodies. It will be amazing to see what happens when they get all that.