Play

After that foray into my murky and embarrassed past, I suppose I must continue. Because I am not going to write a play, or compile a lyrical poetry slam. Because I know, know in my butterfly filled former actor stomach, that it's never as easy as it seems. I have seen plays soar, suck me in whole, haunt me, challenge me. More often have I experienced the gut wrench of an actor on stage three feet from me sweating nausea, waiting for the next line to enter her teflon brain. Or yawned as the story petered off into a morass of confusion and boredom. Or cringed as a missed moment of timing spun the performance into a wild and frightening wobble. I dread bad theater the way most reasonable people fear death by violence.

The thoughts of such nightmares visited me on the train into work this morning. I've seen two very different performances of All In The Timing, a David Ives masterpiece of writing. Playful, funny, touching, true and very complicated. I saw it handled masterfully, impeccable timing - light touch. I was laughing too hard to breathe. Or I was struck breathless at the juxtapositions.

Then. Later. A small liberal arts theater program tried one of the funnier chapters. (A program notorious for making a botch of another disremembered play.) It hurt. It was over the top, it was wrong, it was far worse than hearing a bagpipe band out of tune, off station on the radio, at full volume, on earphones. I felt they were trying to distract me. Subtlety be damned, this was COMEDY! I almost bit through my thumb. I was not amused.

Actors hate Our Town. I admit, I didn't hate it the first time I saw it. After repeated viewings, in my role as Always the Usher, Never the Ingenue, I began to detest it. It is too easy, too facile, too predictable, too complete. Too neat. Too pat. Actors no doubt are bored in it. I begin to wonder if it was secretly meant as parody. It is a play that is almost impossible to fuck up. Even done badly, it has a durable charm, for those who have not seen a lot of other plays. Nearly pandering to sentimentality. Maybe not nearly.

Peter Pan is much the same, and another yearly money maker for many a theatrical company. Hard to get a handle on why it's popular, and what is wrong with it. Christmas Carol has the same quality. These plays are straightforward, unchallenging, with simple morals, and pretty sets. Very forgiving to inexperienced actors. Filling in coloring books for artists.

I pondered the idea of really great play writing being not quite so accessible. Harder to do right, far worse when it goes wrong. And it takes great writing, great acting, decent production, and an attentive audience. It takes engaged actors in love with the words. All done right, it opens a door to elsewhere, with ambiguous lessons, indescribable humor, and transformed reality. Which is also why it can crash so fast, so hard. Never offers an easy way for poor-to-mediocre actors who don't understand what they are saying. The difference between playing the Kazoo and playing violin. No violinist would be tempted, but I would certainly choose kazoo, if asked to chose which to play. It wouldn't be good, but it wouldn't hurt so much, just the once.

And this is why I won't write plays, nor ever be an actor. I would be an Our Town writing kazoo player. Art doesn't need any more mediocrity.