A certain middle-American theatre ran a teen performance troupe for about a quarter century. The leadership didn't change for twenty years. When the change happened it was in a time of significant change throughout the theatre. Alcoholism and mismanagement had run it aground. The board made a final effort at saving the operation before it went under completely, a new artistic director. Had anyone known the full scope of the disaster they'd have seen that the wreck was beyond salvage, but in their blindness they stumbled on their salvation at great personal cost to the new hire. The change in leadership of the teen troupe was only one among the many staff changes that came around that time. Year 19 passed painfully with an interim director. Hope for a reliable change was all that carried them through.
As the theatre turned around the teen troupe foundered. Enrollment dropped. The new director had a following among a subset of the community--mostly kids associated with the big box churches--and brought in new faces while old ones disappeared, but there was no net gain. The remaining students, the ones who had stuck with it through all the changes, grew frustrated with their cabaret acts and only agreed to return if they produced a musical. More than any other musical they wanted to produce Rent. So the artistic director got the rights, the school edition of Rent--a coup. No one in town even knew such a thing existed.
The Artistic Director broke the news to the troupe's director. He signed on. Sure, there might be a kerfuffle at his day job with the big box Christians in the mega-church, but this show, this time, it was too important. He was in it for good or ill.
The production brought in a few new faces, but nothing like the hordes they'd hoped for and needed, but they kept at it. The production was scheduled for spring. Christmas came first and they could include some songs from Rent in the Christmas showcase to get a headstart, and then, surely the boys would join--boys were always in short supply.
It was not too many weeks before the big box Christian families figured out what Rent was about--nevermind how, that's another post another time--and the jig was up. The director balked--he liked his day job. The artistic director threw up her hands--no boys, a backsliding director and let's not even talk about trying to keep a music director signed on...
They dropped the project.
The performance neared, yet another holiday performance, one too many. Half the ensemble was in the big, main stage Christmas show. Five shows a week: tap dancing, singing and carrying on with smoke and pyrotechnics and the winter came early and strong. Everyone ran around pouring lotion into their skin and re-hydrating, shuffling through the early snow. The Christmas spirit was worn out of them. The troupe stood on stage, their brand new music director sight-reading through the numbers, soloists and duets, a quartet or two and the whole ensemble worked their way through with downcast eyes, sloffing feet and a heavy mein.
--
A Pep-Talk
"Commitment, this is what defines the quality of a performance. Commitment to the given circumstances maintains the integrity of the character. Commitment to the character keeps the actor in the moment and allows her to be vulnerable before an audience. Commitment to the script gets the lines memorized accurately and precisely with a complete understanding that honors the playwright and the audience with the work as conceived and, given a decent script, communicates accurately and effectively.
Commitment to the rehearsal process and your collaborators gets the lines memorized as soon as possible. It means you remember the blocking, show up early to the rehearsals and the performances and get the job done. It means doing everything possible to make everyone else look good, knowing that everyone else is doing the same for you. Commitment to the audience gets the work in front of them and responds to them in the moment, cares for them as they are our community--they are us. Commitment is the only thing between us and the nihilism of an artless world, and anything you do that degrades that commitment is a step toward the abyss."
"You have seen what a failed commitment can do. You have been betrayed by mislaid plans, by unfulfilled intentions. Directors quit, administrators fail to assemble the right players, players miss rehearsals, why should you bother to do any more than take care of yourself?"
"I've got news for you; this is not a solo. There may be solos within it, but this is all of us making this happen, one song leads into another. You can't sing about measuring with love when you're hating the girl next to you. Make a commitment."
--
I've had time to reflect on this speech--never you mind how I heard it--and it stings me. I have travelled around this country and around the world making theatre happen wherever I go and never staying anywhere very long. An eight week run leaves me feeling anxious, waiting for the turn of seasons. I've been a perching bird, flitting from archway to archway and never roosting long, never enshrining any one place or any people with a commitment of love and attention, no place or people but these itinerants who reach out into the darkness and give all they have to make contact with another, but we never stay long enough to make the feeling stick.
All performance depends on commitment.
I'm ready now. Where's my light?
--
Addenda
"Creating anything is hard. It’s a cliché thing to say, but every time you start a job, you just don’t know anything. I mean, I can break something down, but ultimately I don’t know anything when I start work on a new movie. You start stabbing out, and you make a mistake, and it’s not right, and then you try again and again. The key is you have to commit. And that’s hard because you have to find what it is you are committing to.”
-Philip Seymor Hoffman
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/21/magazine/21hoffman-t.html?pagewanted=2&ref=theater
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
pelo: a pathetic fallacy:
I see my hair in the mirror and of late it reminds me more and more of my grandmother's. My hair has been a stubborn, ascetic thing; thin, nearly bodiless, of indeterminate color--blonde, brown, red, gold--it refuses to take artificial colors. It dislikes artificial stylings, unraveling back to the limp hay mow that is its neutral home.
Of late my hair reminds me more and more of my grandmother's, in all its frizziness, and not as a barometer. Humidity intensifies everything; it is the alcohol of every season. Winter bites harder, even as it preserves the living body, cracking the skin less but freezing it more. Spring and fall are more full of their respective smells, accelerated in their respective actions. Summer, unbearable to me in its heat, is all the more unbearable with humidity. With high humidity I begin to languish around 75 degrees Fahrenheit and ooze into complete immobility around 80. However, no matter the season, my hair loves humidity, coming to life, springing into a shape, feeling vital with possibility and hope instead of limply waiting for the baler and hayloft.
My grandmother's hair is something else altogether. Her hair is as effective as she, all economy and readiness, made for work, made for scrubbing and scouring. At length it flows with roiling waves, no matter the weather. Kept short it rolls up sleeves, high above the elbows, and looks for a job. Her hair understands finance and makes it work for her. Her hair throws the deadbeat out on his ear and owns the room. Her hair dares you to oppress and defeats oppression before the thought has coalesced.
Of late my hair has stood on end a little, particularly at the prow. As the hairline recedes it takes issue with its circumstances and demands its birthright, takes a stand even as it loosens its grip. My hair will die fighting, strip itself into a machine set against the tyranny of time and excess, vanity and injustice and anything else you've got.
Someday, God willing, my hair will turn gray, a half-naked badger of bristles as strong and fearless as the hair of my foremothers. My mother and her sisters, are well on their way, angry, silver brush-heads defiantly resurfacing from chemotherapy, daring foolhardy men to caress steel wool, lacerating their hands at every point of contact. We are hard people who grow sharp where we should be soft.
Of late my hair reminds me more and more of my grandmother's, in all its frizziness, and not as a barometer. Humidity intensifies everything; it is the alcohol of every season. Winter bites harder, even as it preserves the living body, cracking the skin less but freezing it more. Spring and fall are more full of their respective smells, accelerated in their respective actions. Summer, unbearable to me in its heat, is all the more unbearable with humidity. With high humidity I begin to languish around 75 degrees Fahrenheit and ooze into complete immobility around 80. However, no matter the season, my hair loves humidity, coming to life, springing into a shape, feeling vital with possibility and hope instead of limply waiting for the baler and hayloft.
My grandmother's hair is something else altogether. Her hair is as effective as she, all economy and readiness, made for work, made for scrubbing and scouring. At length it flows with roiling waves, no matter the weather. Kept short it rolls up sleeves, high above the elbows, and looks for a job. Her hair understands finance and makes it work for her. Her hair throws the deadbeat out on his ear and owns the room. Her hair dares you to oppress and defeats oppression before the thought has coalesced.
Of late my hair has stood on end a little, particularly at the prow. As the hairline recedes it takes issue with its circumstances and demands its birthright, takes a stand even as it loosens its grip. My hair will die fighting, strip itself into a machine set against the tyranny of time and excess, vanity and injustice and anything else you've got.
Someday, God willing, my hair will turn gray, a half-naked badger of bristles as strong and fearless as the hair of my foremothers. My mother and her sisters, are well on their way, angry, silver brush-heads defiantly resurfacing from chemotherapy, daring foolhardy men to caress steel wool, lacerating their hands at every point of contact. We are hard people who grow sharp where we should be soft.
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