Finally

I Am Sent with Broom Before, To Sweep The Dust Behind The Door.

I have been asked to edit Shakespeare's A MID SUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM for production by a local theatre group. Someone from their group (apparently) saw my staging of RICHARD III and approved of the deletions I had made in that work.

"Bring  A MID SUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM down to under two hours," I was asked, "and shorten the monologues."

I nodded  and agreed. Since Shakespeare's comedy is only about 75 minutes long, I knew that length would not be an issue. (When I edited RICHARD, it was to bring the running time down from five to two and a half hours.)

Editing the monologues is another matter altogether. I see two small paragraphs that appear redundant. The more I study this playwright, the more impressed I become. He approaches an issue from every angle. And, for some reason the light has been turned on, and I'm looking at Shakespeare from a fresh, rather than my normally jaded, viewpoint. My impression is that Shakespeare may be OVER analyzed, so galloping ignorance is not always a bad thing. My inclination is to simply sit back and enjoy the ride.

Aside from that, I'm starting to put together the first notes for the other play I'm contracted to direct at the theatre where dear RICHARD was staged, The play is called ZACK, written in 1920 by Harold Brighouse. I've never heard of it. Have you? The saving grace here is that I appreciate the British humor from that time, so I anticipate that ZACK and I will get along just fine.

This is my favorite time of the year. Mosr of the theatres available to me have now picked their next seasons, and will soon be looking for directors. Since I've been fortunate enough to be involved with two "hits" in a row, I'm in a good position to get the shows that are of interest to me.

And ...

Enough for now. Corners of the night sky have now streaks of dark crimson. Morning is not far away and my bed is calling.

j

The Problem, Dear Brutus

It’s one forty-one in the morning, and the topic for tonight is the obvious and monumental decline of the United States of America as a world power.

There. I’ve said it. Are you happy now? We’ve had it. Done. Bye-bye. Auf wiedersehen!

There’s only one problem here.

I don’t believe it.

It’s not that I’m super patriotic – “my country, right or wrong!” (Oh. Excuse me. I think that was Germany.) We secretly want to believe that everyone in the world would be better off if they thought like we do, and that everyone yearns for a democracy exactly just like ours.

(And perhaps that’s part of the problem. We don’t actually live in a democracy. We live in a republic. You know, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic …” Oops. My bad.)

In any case, as a country we are not always the most diplomatic. But this is not a sign of decline. We’ve always been that way. In 1958 a novel was published called “The Ugly American.” Set in a fictional Asian country, it chronicles “innate arrogance and the failure to understand the local culture.” We definitely like to impose our will on our friends. (Case in point; we talked our best friend country into joining us in some prolonged for real war games. It worked for awhile. The Prime Minister who agreed to this (at the time) is now diplomatic attaché to a community of yak herders in Outer Pango-Pango.)

Perhaps the pessimists see us in decline because of our economy. I can certainly agree that it’s a mess. “Worst since the great depression,” they say. True true. But they don’t actually listen to what they are saying. It’s not “worse THAN the great depression.”

(Consider this one fact alone. In the 1930’s we were a largely pacifist nation. I don’t think anyone would question that we now have the greatest war machine on earth. I don’t think our most serious nuclear foe would want to put that to the test.)

So – seriously – how can anyone say we are in a decline that will permanently affect our status as an influential authority on the world scene? Isn’t that for history alone to decide? Pardon me. Let’s not even go that far. Tell me, o great sayers of the sooth, what’s the political climate going to be like in two weeks? Should I wear my radioactively shielded raincoat?

“The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.” We see emerging nations as our replacements, when they are what they have always been – a challenge. China is an industrial leviathan, but with a flawed government. How much farther can they go before they implode? Japan is fast on their heels and, in my opinion, much more stable. We should seriously make an effort to understand their culture … but we probably won’t.

After some thought on the matter, I can see Germany becoming the dominant force in Europe. Their influence and pressure is already growing. Because of this, I see England becoming stronger. The balance. They have risen to the occasion so many times before, I see no reason why they won’t again. But it ain’t gonna be easy. It never is.

Okay. I’ve now solved the problems of the world, looked under rocks, and heaved a few at cultures I generally like. But am I right? Could be. Or could be not. Could be next week the governor of Pango-Pango will announce that his yak butter is the cure for the common cold …

Great. It will give us a whole new direction in which to lurch.

j

MORGAN update

In February of 2010 I submitted a post regarding the (then) present disposition of a play I had written years before, but until then had never released. The play is titled MORGAN and to this day remains a passion in my life.

It’s funny how some things come into being. My young daughter and I had been watching one of the many dreary King Arthur movies on television, when she turned to me and asked, “Morgan le Fay? Who is HE?”

I answered as best I could, but in the back of my mind I was already envisioning a play that would justify that question.

Before I put a single word on paper, I spent three years reading every novel, history, and commentary I could find regarding the literary Arthur Pendragon and his estranged half-sister, Morgan. (There’s reasonable evidence to suggest that an “Arthur” actually lived, and that he was so far removed from the legend as to be almost unrecognizable.)

I made a couple of interesting discoveries.

The first – a somewhat humbling realization. In 6th century England there were both crude and sophisticated civilizations, religions, and codes of conduct. Intelligent thought was in evidence. My country has yet to HAVE a 6th century. During the time of Arthur, where I live was swamp lands – Indians hadn’t even reached here.

The other discovery was more to the point. Throughout most of the narratives, there is a recurrent theme along these lines; Morgan was evil, a schemer, a witch, jealous of her half-brother, and constantly plotting his downfall for never fully explained reasons. Eventually Arthur “wins,” but only after prolonged struggle and cost (including his life.)

I soon realized the problem started with Arthur. He was ultimately the winner, and history is almost always written by the last group standing. The truth, as I discovered, is that Morgan was the victim in every sense of the word. As a child she witnessed her lands taken away, her father killed, and her mother raped. To put it in modern terms, Morgan witnessed a terrorist attack.

So that became Act I of my play.

Act II chronicles Morgan’s rise to power. It seems reasonable (as literature) to suggest that Druids existed at that time, that Merlin was a Druid High Priest, and that they wielded real mystical power. Morgan, being a woman, realized her only opportunity to effect justice was by embracing black arts. She became second only to Merlin, and outlasted him.

Act III follows her descent into madness and the suggestion of recovery. She became an absolute power, and “absolute power corrupts absolutely.” She became Hitler at his worst. With the death of Arthur she loses her powers and there is an implication that she could eventually regain a degree of sanity.

The play ends with an irony. Without her constant prodding, Arthur would have been nothing. If left in peace, he would have been an insignificant king of a lackluster kingdom, one in a long line of dusty footnotes. Instead of destroying him, she directly and indirectly created the legend.

Now you have the picture. It’s a large and complex work. No theatre I know is capable of producing it. (Key words here are “I know.”) About a year ago I was discussing the language in the play with a friend who produces mainly Shakespeare plays. She asked to read it, and a month later asked if I would allow the work to be considered for production by them.

I agreed, made note of it in a blog, and then forgot about it.

A couple of days ago one of my favorite commentators asked for an update. Here it is.

In November the Shakespeare producer contacted me and said her company would produce the play if I would direct. Since at the time I was neck deep in the RICHARD III production, I postponed answering.

And that’s where I am now. I don’t know if I want to do this.

I just don’t know.


j

A Teapot Christmas

In our Writer's Group gift exchange, a good friend gave me this Teapot calendar for Christmas. Not an expensive gift this, but a warming one. She is well aware of my undisguised attraction to anything teapot.

Above a teapot on the opposite side of the room is another wall hanging, given to me by a loving daughter some years back. It also reminds me of constant support and encouragement.

This is a happy room.

j

Tis the season ...

Dancing In The Dark

A long number of years ago I fancied myself to be an artist. I played with brushes for awhile, graduated to smearing paint on canvas with a knife, a saw, even once encouraged a small child to wallow across a canvas barefoot. (True story. Unfortunately, the child was half way across my kitchen before I could catch her ...)

And then I discovered the airbrush. With no effort at all I could produce ten paintings at a time, and they were so utterly bazaar that utterly bazaar human beings would purchase them and hold them dearly close (figuratively speaking.)

I digress.

It was shortly after I started detailing the neighbor's dog that I saw a pictorial in NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC supposing what other planets might look like.

My immediate reaction was "I can do that," and, placing cans on black canvas, happily sprayed up a storm - sometimes literally.

The cans sold easily. All of the paintings - seven of 'em - sold, except one. I was surprised. The one to be found wanting was of an exploding star, and by a fluke looked not too bad.

That was years ago.

I found the thing today while I was digging Christmas trivia out of a closet.

I know, I know. This wee tale sounds suspiciously like a writer over/under stimulated.

Could be. But how, then, do you explain this dumb thing?

j

Three Oh Nine AM

Why is it we always get together at these strange hours of the night?

I got a new computer - can you tell? I was going to buy one, but a friend who loves me gave me this one, and I've literally spent the entire day moving files and arranging little icons like ducks in a row ... (Now isn't that a silly statement? My mother used to raise ducks, and I'm reasonably sure she never tried to put any of them in a row. An annoyed duck is not a pretty sight.)

Yesterday I finished re-writing the second of three plays I'm contracted to direct. The play is called "Zack," and is set in England in the year 1916. It pretends to be a comedy, but much of the dialog aimed toward and about women was, to me, offensive, so I changed it. I've discovered that I'm strongly in favor of woman's liberation and equality. Some of the better influences in my life have come from truly smart women ... (Unfortunately I didn't marry any of them, but that's a story for another time.)

Tomorrow - later today - I may actually get back to writing on any one of the three plays "in progress" and neatly stored in Documents. Or I may not. I have a small antique cabinet in the basement, partially restored. Maybe I'll partially restore it a bit more,

I had forgotten what it's like to be between shows, The sun still comes up and goes down. My neighborhood is in color - I had forgotten. A squirrel waits for an offering of bread. I think that when a squirrel is not afraid of you, why, that's a pretty wonderful thing.

j

Where are my children?!

I’m sitting in an empty auditorium.


I look around at the darkened seating, a program or two occupying spaces where people had staked out territory only fourteen hours ago. Around the edges of the stage are the folding chairs used to seat the overflow of enthusiastic late comers … students mostly, I think, taking notes at first, and then caught up, caught up, pens laid aside, forgotten.

Every night it was the same.

RICHARD III closed last night. Six performances. An inordinate amount of work for just six performances, don’t you think?

It’s cold in here. You know the feeling – the kind of dry chill that reminds you of just how large the room is, and how minute is the portion you occupy. Last night it was warm in exactly this very spot. Did someone forget to turn off the air conditioning? It really doesn’t matter.

I stare at the stage – empty now. They dismantled the set this morning. Men came in – and a few women. With power screwdrivers they came, with ladders and furniture covers and dollies and in no time at all they took everything away – the throne, the platforms, walls windows doors everything.

But in the comforter of darkness I still see them – figures claw out of the darkness and stand resolutely on stairs that are no longer there and say “I am here! I am ANNE and MARGARET and BUCKINGHAM and GREY and CATESBY and RICHMOND …

And in the shadows, RICHARD … always in the shadows Richard …

People are coming. They are at some distance, but this is a theatre, after all. Sound is encouraged to carry. I suspect they are the crew about to turn the stage into the home for JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH.

Oh well.


jb

For My Friends Who Have Been Following ...

Our production of RICHARD III opened Friday to a literally packed house (and stage. We ended up placing folding chairs around the fringes of the acting areas. That was interesting ...) On Saturday night not only were all these seats filled, but we sold a fistfull of "standing room only" tickets. So many people filled the theatre that we had to turn on the air conditioning ... in the middle of November.

The other production of RICHARD (being offered by another company in direct competition to ours) was panned by every media critic, and we are now listed under "Best Bets In Entertainment" in the city guide.

Never - NEVER - in the wildest stretches of my imagination would I have envisioned this reaction. I have now been interviewed three times, by serious people, seeking inspired enlightenment.

(And - let me tell you - it's difficult to appear guru-like when you are laughing so hard that it hurts.)


jb

A Ton And A Half Of Ham

RICHARD III opens tomorrow night to the general public, tonight to a select audience.

We've been working on this play since April - planning, building, casting, rehearsing - I don't think the invasion of Normandy had greater preparation.

And it promises to be a pretty good show. Seasoned adult performers and precocious juveniles explore complex characterizations. The drama is intense.

I'm starting to develop a grudging respect for the playwright. Although his work is a tad or two wordy, I think he definitely has potential.

And after combat with managers and producers, the play is being produced the way I envisioned it. Hopefully that will be a good thing. We will know very soon.

In a day or two the reviews will be in.


I'm already in pre-prep for the play I'm directing in the Spring.


jb

Weary ...

It gets that way sometime.

It's again late at night ...

Huh. Not really. It's twenty after eleven. Seems later. Much.

The play opens in six days and suddenly the theatre and others want to make changes. The producer, a woman with dubious talent and the uncanny ability to spout inane pedantic and totally cloying advice, sweetly suggests I count to ten, and then everything will be just fine.

I want to count to one and then kill her. It's the humane thing to do - I want to put her out of my misery.

But I won't. Instead I'll watch my vision pecked by people who do so in order to advance their own agendas ,,, It's happened before, and eventually I dropped away for ... years ... because I wanted something pure and was optimistic enough to think that next time I would get it.

But next time was no different from the last time, or the time before that, or the hundreds of times before that ...

So I will count to ten and tell myself that everything will be just fine because what I really really really really want is to be really really really mediocre.

Are there enough pills or drinks or drugs in the world to allow me to believe that? Dear God, why did you plant in me the desire to create - to reflect something of You - and then surround me with morons?!

Or maybe I'll just drop away again.

For good.

RICHARD III

The Play's The Thing

Last night I didn’t come home wondering why I had ever agreed to direct a production of RICHARD III.

For most of my adult life I’ve been drawn to this play – first as an actor and later as a director. It’s far more fun playing a bad guy than a good one. There are an almost infinite number of ways to express satisfaction bordering on breathing heavy while following even the most simple of inclinations (like taking a sledge hammer to the screaming car radio next to you at the traffic light, or shoving a cell phone somewhere after listening to half of an inane conversation in the elevator.) In any case, when RICHARD says “Off with his head,” (and he says it often), there’s an empathy there. Admit it.

So I wanted to play RICHARD. I even had half a dozen or so words memorized. “Now is the winter of our discontent …” That was good, and made me sound so so cultured. And then there was “since I cannot prove a lover, I’m gonna be the best villain you ever saw in your life…” (or words to that effect.) Honesty here. I respected that.

But when the opportunity came along, I shied away from auditioning for the role. After all, this was Shakespeare. (See? Even his name pops up in italics.) I mean, this was like playing God, and only Morgan Freeman and George Burns played God, and look what happened to them!

Eventually I fell into directing and playwriting. (No fool here. As an actor I played a role. As I director/writer I played ALL the roles.) That’s what I told myself. The truth was, I was never comfortable memorizing lines at the best of times. And. getting older, I found I wasn’t healing as fast as when I was younger, and actors will gladly throw themselves in front of the Avenue C Bus if someone asks them to.)

So I directed stuff – lots and lots (and lots) of stuff. I was most successful in directing comedies and musicals, but I also directed dramas that were considered respectable. Please understand that none of this was ego driven as ego is normally regarded. I like dealing with concepts. When I see that an idea will work, that’s enough, I’m happy. Everything that follows is simply a necessary part of the job. (Frankly, even confiding my thoughts and motivations to you feels uncomfortably close to bragging.)

So I never directed a Shakespeare play – until some fool theatre asked me to. Actually the conversation was more along the lines of …

    Me: Richard the Third? You’re doing Richard the Third?! I’ve always wanted to direct that play!

   Theatre Rep: Okay.

That was it. See where blind rhetoric can lead? Let that be a lesson to you.

So here we were – first rehearsal, second, third … Actors approach reverently, eyes lowered (And when was the last time you saw THAT happen?) And I fake them around the stage, and I’m surrounded by living bobble heads thinking I actually have some kind of clue about what I’m doing. (Note to Malmesbury. You’re the only Brit I know. Do you understand this stuff? God, you really do come from a superior race.)

And then we came to last night. At some point the blah blah blah became passionate dialogue – surprised everyone, most of all me. People were caught in the moment of discovery. I could see the excitement. Where did it come from?

The question is, will it be there again tonight?

j