What Is Radical?

So there's this church.
Which is sort of something like an artistic home and sort of something like a spiritual home, not that I draw much distinction between those two things.

It's full of lefty-pinkos who tend to couch god-talk in "whatever it is that's out there." And it's full of white-haired little old ladies who wear pearls and scarves.  And it's full of old drag queens, and young couples both straight and gay, and lots of single people and people who are dying and people who are rich and people who are broke and some veterans...

And I go there sometimes.  Because they say smart stuff that makes me think.  And I like to be in a room with a bunch of people who don't have a lot in common except that they wanna be there.

And it's a place that defines itself, in part, by its being "radical."

They sing hymns and have a choir and coffee hour.  They have a sermon every week, they pass a collection plate, they visit the sick and dying and comfort each other.  And yes, they help occupy Wall Street, but for me, just about everything they do is radical -- and totally traditional -- and totally radical.

Anyway, I was sitting there today, mumbling along with a prayer, saying "What is Radical?"

Yes, as Dietz used to say (probably still says), "a good story well told is always radical"  -- which, hell, you could argue the New Testament and Old Testament sure as hell were, right?  You could say that performance art is radical.  You could say...

That's as far as I've gotten.  Or, rather, I'm more interested in ASKING that question right now than I am in ANSWERING it.

What is radical?

What does it mean in the space of Judson church?

What does it mean in the world of theater?

What does it mean in my life?

What does it mean in my community?

A New Play

Right now, I'm casting and going into rehearsal for a festival/workshop production of The Dragon Play, with a friend's new theater company.  My screenplay has reached the "let's do readings with real, bankable actors and see what feedback we get" stage (pushing the boulder up the hill!  inch by inch!).  I've built/am building a website, am making a concerted effort to get to know more directors and to create opportunities to work with them, and I'm actively rewriting the play I've been working on all year, in hopes of sending it out to different development opportunities this summer and fall.

I'm also writing a new play.

In a year characterized by my carving out lots of quiet time to write, and working on one project at a time (more or less), this play is...well...being born in the midst of a storm.

But because it's a play I've been thinking about for a reeeeaaaalllly long time, and because the characters are based on people I know really well, or have known forever, or both, and because the play is set in a place I inhabited for years, the weirdest thing is happening.

I keep rushing back to my computer, not thinking "I gotta work" but thinking "I wanna go see what Amanda and Ben and Max are up to?" and "what's Jesse gonna do now?"

I've never had so strong an (admittedly ridiculous) sense that the characters themselves are simply hanging out in the room I've made, doing their thing, not even waiting for me to show up and watch them.  It's like they're the bunch of kids who live in the basement, and I occasionally pop down with snacks to check on them and see whether they've lit the den on fire.  It's really weird.  But also kind of nice.

I like these kids.  I look forward to spending more time with them.

Perspective from Arthur Penn

"I do not want to know another thing about what a nice guy or gal someone on the stage is: This is entirely irrelevant to me. Some sort of desperation has crept into our theatre--all of our arts, really, but we're discussing theatre--where we feel a defensive wall is erected around the meretriciousness of our work by highlighting how hard someone has worked; how many hours they've put in at the soup kitchen; how many hours they spent researching the aphasic mind in order to replicate the actions of one; how many ribbons sweep across their breast in support of causes; how much they love their lives and how lucky they feel to be on Broadway!

There is very little art, but there is a great deal of boosterism. Fill the seats; buy a T-shirt; post something on the Internet; send out an e-mail blast.

I'm in my eighties, and I think I should have left this earth never knowing what an e-mail blast was.

I saw a play recently that was festooned with understudies: Not the actual understudies, but the hired, primary actors, all of whom performed (if that is the word) precisely like a competent, frightened understudy who got a call at dinner and who raced down to take over a role. No depth; no sense of preparation. These were actors who had learned their lines and who had showed up. And that is all.

I spoke to the director afterwards. By all accounts a nice and talented and smart guy. I asked him why a particular part in this play--a Group Theatre classic--had been given to this certain actor. He's a great guy, was the response. Prince of a fellow. Well, perhaps, but send him home to be a prince to his wife and children; he is a shattering mediocrity. But nice and easy counts far too much these days. Another director told me--proudly--that he had just completed his third play in which there wasn't one difficult player; not one distraction; not one argument. Can I add that these were among the most boring plays of our time? They were like finely buffed episodes of Philco Playhouse: tidy, neat, pre-digested, and forgotten almost immediately, save for the rage I felt at another missed opportunity.

All great work comes to us through various forms of friction. I like this friction; I thrive on it. I keep hearing that Kim Stanley was difficult. Yes, she was: in the best sense of the word. She questioned everything; nailed everything down; got answers; motivated everyone to work at her demonically high standard. Everyone improved, as did the project on which she was working, whether it was a scene in class, a TV project, a film, or a play. Is that difficult? Bring more of them on.

Is Dustin Hoffman difficult? You bet. He wants it right; he wants everything right, and that means you and that means me. I find it exhilarating, but in our current culture, they would prefer someone who arrived on time, shared pictures of the family, hugged everyone and reminded them of how blessed he is to be in a play, and who does whatever the director asks of him.

Is Warren Beatty difficult? Only if you're mediocre or lazy. If you work hard and well, he's got your back, your front, and your future well in hand. He gets things right--for everybody.

No friction. No interest. No play. No film. It's very depressing.

I don't want to know about your process. I want to see the results of it. I'll gladly help an actor replicate and preserve and share whatever results from all the work that has been done on a part, but I don't want to hear about it. I've worked with actors who read a play a couple of times and fully understood their characters and gave hundreds of brilliant performances. I don't know how they reached that high level of acting, and I don't care. My job is to provide a safe environment, to hold you to the high standards that have been set by the playwright, the other actors, and by me. I hold it all together, but I don't need to know that your second-act scene is so true because you drew upon the death of your beloved aunt or the time your father burned your favorite doll.

Now the process is public, and actors want acclimation for the work they've put into the work that doesn't work. Is this insane? Read the newspapers, and there is an actor talking about his intentions with a part. I've pulled strands of O'Neill into this character, and I'm looking at certain paintings and photographs to gain a certain texture. And then you go to the theatre and see the performance of a frightened understudy. But a great gal or guy. Sweet. Loves the theatre.

Every year or so, I tell myself I'm going to stop going to see plays. It's just too depressing. But I remember how much I love what theatre can be and what theatre was, and I go back, an old addict, an old whore who wants to get the spark going again.

I don't think we can get the spark going again because the people working in the theatre today never saw the spark, so they can't get it going or keep it going if it walked right up to them and asked for a seat.

It's a job, a career step, a rehabilitation for a failed TV star or aging film star. I got a call from one of these actresses, seeking coaching. I need my cred back, she said.

This is not what the theatre is supposed to be, but it is what the theatre now is.

I don't want to just shit on the theatre: It's bad everywhere, because it's all business, real-estate space with actors. It's no longer something vital. I used to think that the theatre was like a good newspaper: It provided a service; people wanted and needed it; revenue was provided by advertisers who bought space if the paper delivered, but profit was not the motive--the motive was the dissemination of truth and news and humor. Who goes to the theatre at all now? I think those in the theatre go because it's an occupational requirement: They want to keep an eye on what the other guys are going, and they want to rubberneck backstage with those who might use them in the future. But who are the audiences? They want relief not enlightenment. They want ease. This is fatal.

I talk to Sidney Lumet. I talk to Mike Nichols. I ask them if I'm the crazy old man who hates everything. You might be, they say, but you're not wrong. They have the same feelings, but they work them out or work around them in different ways.

The primary challenges of the theatre should not always be getting people to give a shit about it. The primary challenge should be to produce plays that reach out to people and change their lives. Theatre is not an event, like a hayride or a junior prom--it's an artistic, emotional experience in which people who have privately worked out their stories share them with a group of people who are, without their knowledge, their friends, their peers, their equals, their partners on a remarkable ride." ~~ director ARTHUR PENN

Light Yourself On Fire -- a re-post

I'm working on a play right now that is deceptively simple, and is kicking my ass.

Premise: Five teenagers try to get their hands on some beer.  Simple and fun, right?
Problem: Lights up on five teenagers in a room.  Lights down.  The teenagers in question are of a world where their vocabulary is...impoverished, shall we say (f-bombs every sentence).  Their town is tiny, their outlook hasn't yet expanded beyond the county line.  Gotta keep it moving, gotta keep things turning.  I LOVE these characters, I KNOW these characters, but it's harder than I thought.

Thank you, Brian O'Malley, for your admittedly cutesy but nonetheless inspiring post.

Once more into the breach.