This past fall, I worked on a show that was co-produced by theatres in New York City and Minneapolis. The Minneapolis production took place then, and the New York production is in tech now. I'd never been to Minneapolis before -- never been anywhere in the U.S.A. longitudinally between Pittsburgh and Los Angeles, in fact. So I cut myself some slack in my budgeting, deciding to seize the moment by constantly asking myself when the next time someone would pay my travel to and housing in Minneapolis for a month and a half, and treating the time as a working vacation of sorts.
It really was a lovely place to visit. The company of the show was very friendly and well-bonded, and we did things like have apartment-parties and go to the Walker Art Gallery together. We took the light rail to the Mall of America. I spent a long afternoon with an internet friend in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts museum. I walked the streets and saw the grand Mississippi. But mostly... mostly, I ate. I ate a lot. And man, it was <i>good</i>. So if you happen to find yourself in Minneapolis, particularly in downtown, here's a brief overview of my experiences.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
In My Life--
Last week, my Facebook feed was particularly frequented by a couple of different theatre-related things. One was photographs from a local (to my very-much-not-NYC hometown) community theatre production of Les Misérables. The other was people linking to the blog of bad theatre PR photos. Both of them featured a lot of people in the breed of "historical" costume that is typical of high school and community theatre, where "costume design" can mean "go to Salvation Army and find some things for yourself that matches some vague notion you have of whenever the show is set."
Now, I'm a great lover of amateur theatre and community theatre. I differentiate between the two. I consider "amateur" to be anything not professional, the choice to spend the time one has left to spare outside of the necessaries of making a living being put toward a labor of love -- the word itself literally comes from "love," after all. What could be more noble than that? "Community theatre," on the other hand, is specifically that classic Waiting for Guffman stereotype of overblown petty dramas, egos in no way equaled by talent, painful fifteen-minute scene changes, the same decade-old wooden flats being recycled for the scenery every year, and -- the Anchorman of the stage. It also happens to be where I got my start in theatre, something I wouldn't trade for the world, and something I believe to be of vital importance to society. Warts and all, it's a wonderful thing.
Nevertheless, looking at the pictures, with the clothes frozen into static images and stripped of the spirit that brings that Goodwill garb to life, can inspire some second-hand embarrassment. A wonderful performance can mostly sell most stories, no matter how little the design contributes or how much the design detracts. But still, it's a shame when the physical production becomes an element that must be overcome, that does little to assist the audience's suspension of disbelief, or is even a source of distraction. It's almost worse when the design earnestly tries and fails, like the painful sensation of watching a person in denial.
It was then that the idea popped into my head that I would rather see Les Mis in contemporary street clothes than with a blithely clueless, skill-less approximation of some person's idea of "historical." No changes to any of the words or music -- just losing the trappings of some sepia-toned vision of "The Past." Because Les Miserables is a story that doesn't want to be contemporary. Its tragedy is that it is contemporary.
On my OkCupid profile, my "most private thing that I'm willing to admit" is "Les Misérables -- the novel, the musical, the platonic ideal -- has had an enormous impact on my life. Enormous." It's not an exaggeration. And if I'm going to give myself any credit for being personally honest at all, I can't refrain from singing my old song of how Les Mis changed my life.
Now, I'm a great lover of amateur theatre and community theatre. I differentiate between the two. I consider "amateur" to be anything not professional, the choice to spend the time one has left to spare outside of the necessaries of making a living being put toward a labor of love -- the word itself literally comes from "love," after all. What could be more noble than that? "Community theatre," on the other hand, is specifically that classic Waiting for Guffman stereotype of overblown petty dramas, egos in no way equaled by talent, painful fifteen-minute scene changes, the same decade-old wooden flats being recycled for the scenery every year, and -- the Anchorman of the stage. It also happens to be where I got my start in theatre, something I wouldn't trade for the world, and something I believe to be of vital importance to society. Warts and all, it's a wonderful thing.
Nevertheless, looking at the pictures, with the clothes frozen into static images and stripped of the spirit that brings that Goodwill garb to life, can inspire some second-hand embarrassment. A wonderful performance can mostly sell most stories, no matter how little the design contributes or how much the design detracts. But still, it's a shame when the physical production becomes an element that must be overcome, that does little to assist the audience's suspension of disbelief, or is even a source of distraction. It's almost worse when the design earnestly tries and fails, like the painful sensation of watching a person in denial.
It was then that the idea popped into my head that I would rather see Les Mis in contemporary street clothes than with a blithely clueless, skill-less approximation of some person's idea of "historical." No changes to any of the words or music -- just losing the trappings of some sepia-toned vision of "The Past." Because Les Miserables is a story that doesn't want to be contemporary. Its tragedy is that it is contemporary.
On my OkCupid profile, my "most private thing that I'm willing to admit" is "Les Misérables -- the novel, the musical, the platonic ideal -- has had an enormous impact on my life. Enormous." It's not an exaggeration. And if I'm going to give myself any credit for being personally honest at all, I can't refrain from singing my old song of how Les Mis changed my life.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Having just a vision's no solution--
About a week ago, I met a friend for coffee. "Meeting for coffee" being the non-literal verbal phrase to denote "sitting at a table and talking in a relationally-neutral setting for an extended period of time" -- I don't drink coffee, but I assumed (rightly) that anywhere peddling caffeinated beverages in an environment that encouraged loitering was likely to serve tea as well. We've been friends since our undergraduate days, and we later became graduate school classmates. In both situations, we were prone to spontaneously striking up what would turn into long conversations that pleasantly wandered their way through whatever was floating on our minds, which was generally theatre, the latest developments in society and culture, and an overwhelming sense of existential doom. Now that I'm no longer reaping the benefits of being confined to an academic environment (which, as insular and suffocating as it could sometimes seem, strongly facilitated social interactions with one's peers by virtue of sheer proximity), I'd unsuccessfully tried to arrange a hang-out when I was back in New Haven in December and jumped on his reciprocal offer when he was back in town in between semesters.
I was supremely proud of myself for this event happening. Once I had passed the playdates of elementary school, I had from that point onward pretty much failed at the art of purely social "hanging out." Between living at least a 30-minute drive from any of my new peers (with no local public transportation), not forming any strong personal connections until high school, and, while enjoying the company of others, being well content with solitude, it had never developed into a normal or regular activity for me. (When a friend was helping me move from New Haven, a particularly well-liked mutual friend came up in conversation, and I remarked "Oh, I really like that guy!" My friend replied with surprise, noting that the two of us never hung out. "Do I hang out with anyone?" I asked. To which he replied, "Point.") Also, meeting a friend at a coffee house in Gramercy to engage in bantering conversation seemed as though it would further me along the path of becoming an attractive character in a popular novel to later be turned into a hit television series, or at least a quirky indie film.
This isn't about how ridiculously accomplished having adult human social interactions makes me, though. One of the topics in particular that we touched on during our chat-and-caffeinate session was one that is often on my mind, and the particular neural pathways that were lit that afternoon haven't calmed down since then.
One of the things that I did over my holiday unemployment was attend the Welcome to Night Vale live show. For the uninitiated, Welcome to Night Vale is a podcast that started in June 2012 and takes the form of a local news radio broadcast for the small American city of Night Vale -- essentially a (mostly) one-man radio play. As for the city of Night Vale and its inhabitants, though -- well, the best description that I've heard of it so far was if Stephen King and Neil Gaiman created a community in The Sims and then just left it to run on its own for ten years, though I'd also add in a healthy heaping of late-night radio conspiracy theory. It's largely humorous, with what seems bizarre to the listener being simply mundane to the radio host and his local audience, but is also by turns touching, horrifying, and thought-provoking.
While I'm a fan of the show in the traditional sense of one who enjoys the content, I'm also extremely intrigued by its model as media and art. There are two episodes of the podcast per month, on the first and the fifteenth. It is completely free (though you can donate directly to the show and they have items available in the show's online store). It has no sponsors and contains no advertisements. It largely flew under the radar until around July 2013, at which point Tumblr got interested... and then it exploded. While still relatively small and niche in the overall world of popular culture, it was, for a time, the number one podcast in America, beating out NPR, and remains near the top. Their live shows sell out in thirty seconds (literally, speaking from the experience of trying to buy those tickets). The writers recently got a book deal. The fans are massively enthusiastic, supportive, and invested -- sites like AO3 and Tumblr show a lot of work (fic, art, crafts, etc.) being created and a lot of attention being paid.
Meanwhile, over in my industry, it feels to me as though we're in a near-constant state of low-level panic over trying to create demand that will support the work we are trying to do. And when I say "my industry," I mean theatre. (Which is a realm in which the writers and main actor of Welcome to Night Vale also reside, having made their initial connection via the experimental theatre group the New York Neo-Futurists.) More specifically for me, it's regional/non-profit theatre rather than commercial/for-profit (i.e., "Broadway") theatre. (Though Broadway Producer Ken Davenport just today gave highlights from and commentary on the Broadway League's report on Broadway ticket-buyers in the 2012-2013 season, which is both interesting and hardly irrelevant.) How do you keep your organization afloat when you see audience attendance stagnating or dropping? How do you get people to come see your little grass-roots show in a basement somewhere? On a practical/business level, it's necessary to bring in audience and/or donors to provide you with the resources to do theatre. But also, if you're telling a story that you feel is worth telling... don't you want people to see it? And the more the better? Without the people, theatre ceases to be culturally relevant, becomes a calcified tower of economic and cultural elitism. Or at the very least, it is limited -- it's seeing the same small demographic of people in the audience time and time again (we've all seen those audiences filled with the Old White Rich group), the creation of an echo chamber.
Before turning to stage management professionally, I worked for an organization where our audience kept on decreasing -- and the year after I left, the organization was merged with another, effectively closing. That organization was a Roman Catholic parish where I was the director of the music department. At staff meetings, we'd hear local statistics about decreasing congregation sizes, how there were more funerals than baptisms and weddings combined. And indeed, fears were not misplaced, as the dissolving of that particular community evidenced. One would think that moving from the Church to the theatre would be one of the biggest industry changes that one could make, but I've found it to be quite to the contrary. It's not for nothing, it seems, that theatre's roots are in religious ritual.
So... how does this all fit together? Or, at least, how might it? I'm sure that others far more studied and directly involved than I am have thought these things before, but it's been so much on my mind that I'm curious to see where I end up just from analyzing my own observations and ideas in relative innocence, like a modern-day philosopher in the wild. And it's taken up so much of my thought-processes when I'm running and showering lately (when all of the best thinking occurs, of course) that I figure that I might as well put it down into written words.
I was supremely proud of myself for this event happening. Once I had passed the playdates of elementary school, I had from that point onward pretty much failed at the art of purely social "hanging out." Between living at least a 30-minute drive from any of my new peers (with no local public transportation), not forming any strong personal connections until high school, and, while enjoying the company of others, being well content with solitude, it had never developed into a normal or regular activity for me. (When a friend was helping me move from New Haven, a particularly well-liked mutual friend came up in conversation, and I remarked "Oh, I really like that guy!" My friend replied with surprise, noting that the two of us never hung out. "Do I hang out with anyone?" I asked. To which he replied, "Point.") Also, meeting a friend at a coffee house in Gramercy to engage in bantering conversation seemed as though it would further me along the path of becoming an attractive character in a popular novel to later be turned into a hit television series, or at least a quirky indie film.
This isn't about how ridiculously accomplished having adult human social interactions makes me, though. One of the topics in particular that we touched on during our chat-and-caffeinate session was one that is often on my mind, and the particular neural pathways that were lit that afternoon haven't calmed down since then.
One of the things that I did over my holiday unemployment was attend the Welcome to Night Vale live show. For the uninitiated, Welcome to Night Vale is a podcast that started in June 2012 and takes the form of a local news radio broadcast for the small American city of Night Vale -- essentially a (mostly) one-man radio play. As for the city of Night Vale and its inhabitants, though -- well, the best description that I've heard of it so far was if Stephen King and Neil Gaiman created a community in The Sims and then just left it to run on its own for ten years, though I'd also add in a healthy heaping of late-night radio conspiracy theory. It's largely humorous, with what seems bizarre to the listener being simply mundane to the radio host and his local audience, but is also by turns touching, horrifying, and thought-provoking.
While I'm a fan of the show in the traditional sense of one who enjoys the content, I'm also extremely intrigued by its model as media and art. There are two episodes of the podcast per month, on the first and the fifteenth. It is completely free (though you can donate directly to the show and they have items available in the show's online store). It has no sponsors and contains no advertisements. It largely flew under the radar until around July 2013, at which point Tumblr got interested... and then it exploded. While still relatively small and niche in the overall world of popular culture, it was, for a time, the number one podcast in America, beating out NPR, and remains near the top. Their live shows sell out in thirty seconds (literally, speaking from the experience of trying to buy those tickets). The writers recently got a book deal. The fans are massively enthusiastic, supportive, and invested -- sites like AO3 and Tumblr show a lot of work (fic, art, crafts, etc.) being created and a lot of attention being paid.
Meanwhile, over in my industry, it feels to me as though we're in a near-constant state of low-level panic over trying to create demand that will support the work we are trying to do. And when I say "my industry," I mean theatre. (Which is a realm in which the writers and main actor of Welcome to Night Vale also reside, having made their initial connection via the experimental theatre group the New York Neo-Futurists.) More specifically for me, it's regional/non-profit theatre rather than commercial/for-profit (i.e., "Broadway") theatre. (Though Broadway Producer Ken Davenport just today gave highlights from and commentary on the Broadway League's report on Broadway ticket-buyers in the 2012-2013 season, which is both interesting and hardly irrelevant.) How do you keep your organization afloat when you see audience attendance stagnating or dropping? How do you get people to come see your little grass-roots show in a basement somewhere? On a practical/business level, it's necessary to bring in audience and/or donors to provide you with the resources to do theatre. But also, if you're telling a story that you feel is worth telling... don't you want people to see it? And the more the better? Without the people, theatre ceases to be culturally relevant, becomes a calcified tower of economic and cultural elitism. Or at the very least, it is limited -- it's seeing the same small demographic of people in the audience time and time again (we've all seen those audiences filled with the Old White Rich group), the creation of an echo chamber.
Before turning to stage management professionally, I worked for an organization where our audience kept on decreasing -- and the year after I left, the organization was merged with another, effectively closing. That organization was a Roman Catholic parish where I was the director of the music department. At staff meetings, we'd hear local statistics about decreasing congregation sizes, how there were more funerals than baptisms and weddings combined. And indeed, fears were not misplaced, as the dissolving of that particular community evidenced. One would think that moving from the Church to the theatre would be one of the biggest industry changes that one could make, but I've found it to be quite to the contrary. It's not for nothing, it seems, that theatre's roots are in religious ritual.
So... how does this all fit together? Or, at least, how might it? I'm sure that others far more studied and directly involved than I am have thought these things before, but it's been so much on my mind that I'm curious to see where I end up just from analyzing my own observations and ideas in relative innocence, like a modern-day philosopher in the wild. And it's taken up so much of my thought-processes when I'm running and showering lately (when all of the best thinking occurs, of course) that I figure that I might as well put it down into written words.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Just keep moving on-
Welcome, Year 2014 of the Common Era! The Year 2013 kept me quite busy, and I hope that 2014 does the same – though perhaps not quite as busy. Self-evidently, blogging fell by the wayside as having finite amounts of time to allocate took its toll. I don’t regret any of the things that I did allocate that time to, though. Okay, that’s a dirty lie, I do regret some of those hours playing Marvel Heroes Online. Not all of them. Many of them. But not all of them. But most of those higher priorities were not regrettable things: finishing a thesis, receiving my Masters degree, building my career, being a healthier person, moving to the city of my dreams, learning how to have a social life as an adult who isn’t completely consumed by their work.
I’ll be doing a year-in-review post in my personal journal, but on a whole, I don’t wish to get bogged down in the past. Despite that, there are a few items from the previous year that I still want to share and will thus be revisiting at some future point.
Look forward to my expounding on such topics as:
- How the Les Misérables movie, which I saw about a year ago, still reduces me to incoherent ranting!
- Being a drag king among queens!
- Becoming a professional! Like, really!
- Eating all the food in Minneapolis!
- Doing all the exercise! (Please see previous item.)
- Welcome to Night Vale!
- Welcome to New York fucking City!
But mostly, I’ll be moving on.
Sometime within the first third of 2013, I was eating alone in the cheap-quick-and-delicious noodle house by my office at grad school, and while I usually used such opportunities to watch random episodes of Criminal Minds on the television over the dining area, I was drawn into eavesdropping on a conversation between two young men a couple tables over. One of them was explaining to his friend that each of his years had a theme. That year, 2013, was his year of connection. Things such as keeping in touch with family, setting work aside to go out with friends, replying to personal e-mails, being sure to have quality time with other people – those were prioritized. And when he did things, he tried to remember to ask himself if what he was doing improved connection.
Right then and there, I decided to totally steal his idea. Thanks, random dude.
And so, many months after that, near the end of December, I decided to go at it a little sideways and give myself a mantra, something that I could remind myself of very quickly and easily.
2014: The Year of Action.
Or: The Year of Just Do It Except Without Stepping On Any Trademarks.
Or: The Year of Shit Or Get Off The Pot.
Being true to my word, I actually began enacting my theme before 2013 has even ended. I didn’t let e-mails sit unread in my inbox, just building up anxiety. I entered a contest with the Trans-Siberian Orchestra where you had to submit a video – I can’t remember the last time I entered a contest that required the time and risk of a creative submission. I got myself tickets to a couple of Broadway shows that I really wanted to see but had been hemming and hawing about for months. I wrote that Welcome to Night Vale fan fiction idea that had been bouncing around in my head since November, after not having written any fictional prose in about four years and I’m pretty sure that the last thing I wrote was porn. I organized a karaoke party with friends. I put on my bowler hat. I finished the cover letter for that job application. I finished that bottle of champagne.
I’m here doing this.
And, of course, when I did each thing, I pumped my fist in the air, assumed a superhero pose, and yelled "ACTION!!" like I was about to rush headlong into battle.
So stay tuned: we’re going to get the blood flowing here again.
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