Tag Archives: Annie Baker

New Plays, like Sex: Is Faster Better?

by Barry Martin

Two recent distressing experiences compel me shout from the rooftops to producing companies and directors – “Take your foot off the gas!” But since shouting from the rooftops would probably only get attention from SWAT teams, I think I’m better off posting it here.

“Venus in Fur”

In both of these situations I came to the theater excited, looking forward to seeing a play that I had read and loved. Case #1 was Annie Baker’s Body Awareness at the Aurora Theatre in Berkeley. Case #2 took place on Broadway—David Ives’ Venus in Fur at the Lyceum. I loved these plays on the page because of their enticing tensions, the interplay of characters with conflicting desires, their peak moments of humor and drama. I couldn’t wait to watch great actors make this text even more compelling for me. In both cases, I left the theater feeling cheated. It reminded me of my dad’s story of when he made a special trip to see Ted Williams play in a doubleheader and they walked him every time he came to the plate. Delicious anticipation without the payoff.

I will save several people the trouble of saying, “But wait, both of these productions have been highly successful, with large audiences, great reviews, and nominations for awards! These are top professionals at the peak of their talents!” All undeniably true. And yet these playgoing experiences were disappointing for me. Why? These plays failed due to the breakneck pace at which they were presented, especially in the first twenty to thirty minutes.

Allow me to digress long enough to say that when I am directing, I am obsessive about pace and rhythm. These are the two areas where I feel a director, working with skilled actors, can do the most to make the show sing. I am thinking about pace and rhythm from the first read through and I get demanding about it as soon as actors are off book. Most of us would agree that a good play is tight, there’s no flab. No one wants to see a play that drags, right?

At the opposite end of the spectrum, however, is a play that plunges forward so relentlessly that all sense of believability is lost. How can these people on stage possibly draw me into their characters and their story when they don’t seem to be listening to each other? Shouldn’t I be feeling that their words are born out of a natural human thinking process, rather than just pouring out in unblinking torrents?

I have formulated two theories in an attempt to explain this phenomenon:

  1. As old hands of stage work, we all know the best, juiciest stuff comes later in the play, so we’re eager to get past the boring first third that we’ve become overly familiar with while working up the production. We get lazy from that over familiarity and forget that most of the audience members will be hearing this for the first time, and they need to hear the words, absorb the meaning, and get into the flow of the story.
  2. We have become obsessed with the eighty to ninety minute play with no intermission because it’s hard enough to get people to buy a tickets in the first place and you won’t want them leaving thinking, “Wow, that was too long,” and we keep producing this way even though we know that’s really too long to make people sit without a break, and we worry that people’s bladders will explode so we race through the dialogue so the audience can see we’re moving it along as fast as we can. Besides, people really don’t want to be in the theater in the first place when they could be comfy at home watching reality television

What is the cure for this franticness?

  1. Put yourself in the shoes of the person seeing this play for the first time. Is the exposition being given the right amount of weight, so that the viewer will care when important things happen later? Are there natural pauses and silences in the dialogue where they belong when you’re “holding the mirror up to nature?”
  2. Get over the fear of boring the audience, or the fear of intermission—whatever it is that is causing the speed-of-light style. These people have paid a lot of money for a night at the theater. Do they loathe your play so much they just want it to be over as soon as possible? Most of the audience will not sneak out! Some plays are written as long one-acts and there is no natural act break—fine. Do it that way but give each scene, each moment the time it’s due. In each of the productions I described above, allowing for the proper amount of natural pauses and silences could not have added more than five minutes to the overall length of the play. Five more minutes might cause them to pee their pants, true— so maybe that old-fashioned intermission is not such a bad idea after all. There is no correlation between the number of acts, the number of intermissions, or the length of a play and its quality. I’ve looked at my watch five times during a ten-minute play, and been mesmerized for three-and-a-half hours by August: Osage County. Conversely, there may be a correlation between the length of time an audience can sit at one stretch and their ability to enjoy the play. Give these people a break! Literally!

I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t say I’ve been in more than one dressing room where the most enthusiastic post-show compliment shared between the actors was “We took three minutes off of it tonight.” If every meaningful moment was given its due, that’s sweet. But I wonder about our level of self-respect as theater-makers when we present our work as if it is something painful, to be done with as quickly as possible, rather than something to be savored.

And besides, if there’s no intermission how can I get a drink?

Barry Martin is a writer, actor and director in the San Francisco Bay Area. 

Invisible Women in the White Male World of Theatre

by Jill Dolan

Jill Dolan

I’m coming late to the controversy over the resoundingly white male-written and -directed season announced for the Guthrie next year, in part because I’m tired of hearing myself rehearse the same old indignities at these repetitive insults to women’s artistry and integrity.  Reading the many smart excoriations of Guthrie artistic director Joe Dowling’s defensive protestations about why it’s okay to ignore gender and race in season selection, I’m simply reminded, yet again, of the supreme arrogance of white men like him (not all white men) who are accustomed to seeing and remaking the world in their own image.

I was deeply moved by Polly Carl’s essay, “A Boy in a Man’s Theatre,” on HowlRound (4/28/12), in which she eloquently admitted, “I am compelled to talk some truth about finding yourself ‘other’ in a white man’s world—about the importance of insisting on being seen.”  Describing her reaction to watching a rehearsal of Lisa Kron and Jeanine Tesori’s adaptation of Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, Carl realized that although the new musical isn’t her “exact” story, “it was my story.”  The power of recognition—of seeing a life that looks like yours on stage—was overwhelming for Carl.  And if I’ve done my math right, Carl is in her 40s.  She’s been feeling invisible for a long time.

Polly Carl

I wish someone like Joe Dowling could imagine what it feels like to go to the theatre or the movies, or turn on the television, and never see yourself represented.  If you’re white and male, and especially if you’re straight, it must go without mention that something that at least looks like your life will be part and parcel of the story told of an evening.  I can’t imagine the privilege of just assuming that the world will look like you, and that if it doesn’t, it’s because affirmative action or some other “self-serving” quota system (as Dowling accused protests over the Guthrie season of being) has allowed the riff-raff of gender, race, ethnic, and sexual difference to sneak in.

Even the conservative Wall Street Journal published an article called “Lots of Guys, Too Few Dolls,”shortly after this year’s Tony Award nominations were announced, in which the reporter—Pia Catton (a woman)—noted that “one is reminded of a sad truth:  While Tony’s are equally bestowed on male and female stars of the stage, there’s a colossal gender gap in the honors given to the men and women who create the shows.”  Catton went on to report that the percentages of plays written and directed by women on Broadway has barely changed over the decades, quoting experts like Susan Jonas, who co-wrote the 2002 New York State Council on the Arts report on the status of women in theatre, and mentioning the recently established Lilly Awards (named after Lillian Hellman), which turn their backs on the Tonys’ snubs by giving their own honors to women working in theatre.

On a much brighter side of this ubiquitous story, this week I received by snail mail the new season announcement from Arena Stage, in D.C., and was reminded that the gender and racial diversity in play and director selection that Dowling considers impossible or beneath him (or both) happens as a matter of course at other U.S. theatres.  In a market bigger than Minneapolis, with subscribers equally as august and long-standing, Arena artistic director Molly Smith regularly programs seasons that include a majority of productions written or directed by women and people of color (and both).

Molly Smith

For 2012-2013, Arena’s eight-play season includes three plays by women, two of which are by women of color: Pullman Porter Blues, by Cheryl L. West, and The Mountaintop, by Katori Hall, as well as a revival of Metamorphoses, written and directed by Mary Zimmerman.  West’s play will be directed by Lisa Peterson, who, along with colleagues Zimmerman, Jackie Maxwell, Kyle Donnelly, and Smith herself, comprise a roster of five women directors out of the eight productions.  Of the remaining three shows directed by men, two are directed by African Americans (and Tazewell Thompson also wrote the play he’ll direct).  The one show written and directed by a white man is One Night with Janis Joplin, so its content counts as gender diversity, if part of the issue is whose stories are told and whose bodies are seen on stage.

Good for Molly Smith and her artistic staff and her board, who no doubt ratified her progressive vision.  Smith is directing My Fair Lady at Arena next season, the Lerner and Loewe musical she mounted last summer at the Shaw Festival in Canada.  That production was a terrific, high energy, multi-racial cast production that rivaled her 2010 reimagining of Oklahoma! in its rejuvenated vision of the classic American musical.  Smith takes the American canon—part of Arena’s mandate—and refashions it to speak across identity communities, instead of sequestering it in presumptively white enclaves and preserving it for white people.  That narrow vision—Dowling’s vision—doesn’t reflect or do justice to the complex race, gender, sexuality, ethnic, and class composition of contemporary America.  Dowling’s vision is former presidential candidate Bob Dole’s bridge to the past; Smith’s is a glorious, hopeful representation of a reimagined future.

Playwrights Horizons in New York also deserves a place of pride in this counter-pantheon of progressive American theatres.  For 2012-2013, long-time artistic director Tim Sanford (a white man) offers six productions, new plays all, of which four are written by women (one of whom is African American), and one is a musical adaptation of Far From Heaven (written by Richard Greenberg and directed by Michael Greif), Todd Hayne’s wrenching 2002 film about the wife of a closeted gay man navigating her nuclear family life in the 1950s.  White women direct three of the six productions:  Anne Kauffman directs Lisa D’Amour’s Detroit; Carolyn Cantor directs her frequent collaborator Amy Herzog’s The Great God Pan; and Leigh Silverman directs Tanya Barfield’s The Call.  Sam Gold, who’s proven his sensitivity as a director of women’s work, directs Annie Baker’s The Flick.

Tanya Barfield

Playwrights’ season teaser brochure also includes a clever “key” to the genres and themes introduced by its six plays.  The guide includes symbols that run alongside each play’s title, indicating whether it addresses “comic relief,” “gaiety” (of the LGBT variety), “parenthood,” “race relations,” “impossible love,” “job inequality,” “prophetic vision,” “skeletons in the closet,” “strange neighbors,” “suburban angst,” or “Mormonism.”  Just reading this key made me laugh; what a witty reminder that any production has something idiosyncratic for everyone and that “universality” never means just one thing.

Molly Smith’s “Oklahoma”

Arena and Playwrights regularly stage plays written and directed by women and people of color, not to fill a token slot in each season, but because these productions showcase voices that have something to say across communities.  They make visible populations of citizens alongside all the Joe Dowlings who are too blind to see how these so-called minorities/future majorities are remaking our collective world.  Molly Smith’s Oklahoma! is the state we live in now, thank goodness.

Likewise, Emily Mann’s production of Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire, now playing on Broadway with a cast of people of color, shows us something new about ourselves and the canon of American drama.  Mann knew Williams, and insists he told her that given New Orleans’s Creole population, he could imagine the play with an African American cast.  Mann researched the French Quarter of the period, and found ample justification for casting the Dubois family and Stanley as black, conflicted by the same class differences that propel Williams’s drama when it’s cast with white actors.

“Streetcar” directed by Emily Mann

But critics like Ben Brantley consider this “gimmick” casting, and scoff at Mann and the producers (who also mounted an African American production of Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof) for fooling around with the American canon in ways they, like Dowling, find self-serving.  These reviews sound reminiscent of Stephen Sondheim’s admonishment last summer that Diane Paulus and Suzan-Lori Parks had gone too far in their adaptation and revision of Porgy and Bess.

Underneath all these criticisms that purport to champion good American drama is a warning to women and people of color that they shouldn’t get too uppity, that they should steer clear of white men’s work and stay barefoot and happy—and invisible and silent—in the ghettos of their “special interest” theatres.

The same blatant discrimination was recently called out at the prestigious Cannes Film Festival, where of the 22 films nominated for the 2012 Palme D’Or prize, none were written or directed by women.  The oversight caused a similar online uproar as the Dowling debacle among the film (and larger) arts community, through which petitions circulated for signatures to protest this blatant exclusion.

Have we gone back to the future?  Is it the 1950s again?  In a political moment in which Republicans and Tea Party-ers threaten to reverse every achievement for women’s reproductive rights garnered since Roe v. Wade; when the same politicians inflame xenophobic anti-immigration sentiments about our southern borders (and when similar anti-immigrant racism roils political waters in Cannes’ France); and when LGBT activists have to celebrate when Obama announces that he’s “evolved” into thinking same-sex marriage is okay after all (gee, thanks, Barack), maybe it’s no surprise that the festival director at Cannes, and Brantley at the Times, and Dowling at the Guthrie think they can discriminate against women and people of color with impunity.

Let’s not let them get away with it.  Write to Molly Smith at Arena, and Tim Sanford at Playwrights and tell them how pleased you are with their 2012-2013 season announcements.  Write to Dowling at the Guthrieand tell him how disappointed you are that he’s such a Neanderthal.  Sign the petitions circulating protesting the exclusion of women from the prize at Cannes.  And write letters to the Times protesting that white men like Brantley and Charles Isherwood foster a discourse about the arts in which decisions like Dowling’s season are okay and productions like Mann’s Streetcar are dismissed.

Don’t just go to the theatre—respond to it, write about it, protest it, reimagine it.  It’s too important to keep allowing the barbarians to guard the gate.

Jill Dolan writes for The Feminist Spectator