Just Wrought

Recovering playwright, once won a STRANGER Genius Award for theater. Now writing a bloated novel about… G-d help me! Theatre.

Tag: John Langs

  • Day 6 / Reason 6 for Going Back to the Theatre: John Langs

    Day 6 / Reason 6 for Going Back to the Theatre: John Langs

    Yesterday I called out A Contemporary Theatre (ACT) as a reason for my going back to the theatre. What I didn’t include in that short essay is a disclosure of my profound bias, namely John Langs, who has been ACT’s Artistic Director for the last five years, and served on its creative staff since 2013.  You should know that for even longer than that, John has been my artistic collaborator and very good friend.

    I first met John when we were vetting candidates to direct my play Louis Slotin Sonata at Seattle’s now departed Empty Space Theatre back in 2006. He was living in Los Angeles but had directed some shows up here, including a very well received King Lear at Seattle Shakespeare Company. Before I even met with John, let alone hired him, I did my due diligence and asked around with theatre artists, mostly actors, who had worked with him. The praise they gave was effusive. To hear it from them, Langs was like some sort of directing savant always drawing the best out of every performer while making them want to do better. Their unadulterated adulation made me nervous. I get suspicious whenever I hear actors heap praise like this on a director. Stage directors have a tendency to build cults around themselves, with actors serving as acolytes. This arrangement can be deadly for a playwright trying to get a “clean” production of their play, unplagued by high concept and schmaltz . So I insisted on meeting the guy over beers. He seemed normal enough, offering questions and concerns about the script that were sharp and incisive without being arrogant or overbearing. And an additional fact helped weigh the scales in his favor: we didn’t have a lot of other options. Langs went on to give me the best production of the play it has ever had. And so when it was time to hire someone to direct the world premiere of my play The Sequence, his name was at the the top of my list. Since then John has served serious time with me in the trenches of new play development, and has became a treasured friend, remaining so long after I retired from the art form in which he continues to toil.

    From what I hear, Langs is catching some flack for ultimately deciding to open ACT back up to live audiences with the theatre’s beloved annual cash cow A Christmas Carol. As I understand it, the argument goes something like this: “In this moment of radical artistic re-envisioning and reorientation, when the theatrical slate has been nearly wiped clean, why on earth would someone restage a dusty old play based on a dusty old book by a dusty old white guy about a dusty old white guy?”

    I would love to avoid wading into the current quagmire of cultural revolution, while also pointing out that it was me calling for radically new work since the inception of this blog in 2010. So I’ll bite my tongue and offer the shortest riposte possible: theatre is an art form which feeds on repetition. And it is precisely those plays most familiar to us that can sustain the most radical re-thinkings and reimaginings, while still offering the “clean” essentials of their stories. Rob Weinert-Kendt, editor-in-chief of American Theatre explained this better than I ever could in a eulogy for the recently departed giant of American stage, Stephen Sondheim.

    This, after all, is what a canon is, if we must have canons: not invariable paragons of perfection, necessarily, but works that somehow stay alive with surprise, with the shock of recognition, with argument. The musicals Stephen Sondheim wrote with a handful of deft collaborators remain among the most teemingly alive works anyone has ever composed for the stage, and it is hard to imagine a day when they won’t feel that way. As he put it in the second volume of lyric collection/memoir, Look, I Made a Hat, “The very thing that makes theatre impermanent is what makes it immortal. In a sense, every night of a show is a revival.”

    Revival.

    The word takes on a much deeper meaning in the context of the vast challenges Seattle Theatre now faces.

    Langs understands that in order to get back to telling new stories with force, he has to let us have the old ones, with love. I don’t doubt for a second that John Langs’ future holds huge opportunities for him far beyond his work as the creative leader of downtown Seattle’s flagship theatre complex. He personifies that rare blend of cultivated charm, raw talent, and confident leadership that allows someone to excel in pretty much any career they choose: business, politics, the law. John chose the theatre— God help him— and the collective life of my plays has been bettered by that decision. The least I can do is go see this show he’s producing.

  • THE STARTING GATE for Father’s Day

    THE STARTING GATE for Father’s Day

    The idea came from my good friend and former theatre collaborator, John Langs, when I handed him his copy of the limited first edition hardcover version of The Starting Gate and he grinned and said, “Oh, man. I gotta get a copy of this for my dad!”

    Lightbulb!

    Of course this is a good book for Father’s Day. Not only is there a chapter (or two) that zeroes in on my relationship with my own step-father, but also the entire book is dedicated to my boyos, Declan and Keelan. In other words, this book was written as a father, in an attempt to capture moments in my life that my own sons might not otherwise be able to conceive of: simple things, like telephones being attached to walls, and having to go out and look for a job by walking up and down the boulevard and sticking your head in ever business you passed.

    Here are a couple of the things I am doing to promote The Starting Gate as the perfect Father’s Day gift (though a good bottle of bourbon never hurt either):

    • Bought a week’s sponsorship of The Seattle Review of Books. (This excellent new site founded by Martin McClellan and Paul Constant provides substantial, thoughtful reviews of books of all kinds, as well as blogging about the literary scene here in Seattle and beyond. It is a growing force for good in Seattle’s literary scene and wider world of arts.
    • Slashed the cost of the Kindle version in half. It’s now $4.49 (that’ s 82% off the hardcover version!) Available here.
    • Released the paperback version. It’s available here: https://www.createspace.com/6282351
    • Will give away free Audible downloads of the audio book to the first 10 people who message me. (So message me! Auctioning the limited first edition hardcover version of the book over at eBay. It’s currently bidding at $12, which is over 40% off the $25 cover price.

    If you can think of another way I can make the book easier to get in time for Father’s day, please let me know!

  • Better Dead, But Rich’ll Do

    Better Dead, But Rich’ll Do

    I don’t even have a dog in the fight that Brendan Kiley’s pulled me into here, but I think I might have to rent one.
    Me on Face Book yesterday
     

    * * *

    Before I retired from theatre nearly two years ago I liked to write essays about the art form’s problems (“On Institutional Arrogance”), and what made it great, (“How Can I Talk About the Borrowers?”), but I never did manage to write all the essays I wanted to. By the end, I had a whole file full of titles I would never flesh out.  I even wrote an essay about that (“Surplus Titles”). One of my favorite leftovers was “Better Dead”, under which I intended to provide an explanation to the uninitiated that despite the image they might hold in their minds of playwrights being central to the making of theatre in modern America, the fact is, our absence is the usual and preferred state of engagement, and if we can manage to be dead, preferably for a long enough time that our work is in the public domain, then we are even more popular among our non-playwriting theatre colleagues.

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  • Live Blogging “Swing Time” – The Sunday Run-through

    Live Blogging “Swing Time” – The Sunday Run-through

    I’m watching the first act of Sandbox Radio LIVE!: “Swing Time”, which we will be performing live tomorrow at ACT in downtown Seattle, but will also be broadcasting via podcast as soon as we sweeten the sound.

    I can relax a little for the moment because my two bits aren’t until act two.  As per usual, I’m Sam in episode 12 of Markheim, but I also got drafted as a concessions vendor in our staging of the classic baseball balladry, “Casey at the Bat”.

    There’s an intense ambient confusion to late process rehearsals—cue-to-cues and dress runs, etc.—that I find deeply unnerving, even though as a playwright I usually had absolutely zero responsibilities. Amidst the tumult, I am grateful for directors in a way I usually don’t admit to. I recall, at these times, my deep admiration for anyone who can handle chaos—indeed choreograph it— with expertise and élan. Two names leap to mind, Leslie Law, the director and producer of Sandbox Radio, and John Langs, who directed the Seattle premiere of my play Louis Slotin Sonata and the world premiere of The Sequence, my staging of the real-life race to decode the human genome. I offer you this memory of John, utterly out of context to protect the innocent and guilty alike, after having sat through 10 hours of tech as cool as a cucumber, then suddenly shouting: “Would someone please muzzle that fucking dog!”  The show’s mascot Jack Russell Terrier had apparently rubbed John’s last nerve raw.

    For now, I get to sit and blog to you, gentle reader, about how much I love Juliette Pruzan’s particular whimsy, which you’ll be able to witness yourself in her original piece, “Swing Time Swing Set” written especially for this show, and performed with delight by Seanjohn Walsh, Kathryn Van Meter, Amy Bush and others. I pride myself on knowing where the laughs will come in a new work.  I’m not always right, but I can assure you there are plenty in this one. Probably some you’ll surprise us with when you come see tomorrow.

    If you haven’t already, get your tix here.

  • My Last Play Reading

    My Last Play Reading

    You might rightly judge that title to be half fib, depending on how you read it.  The upcoming public reading of  Philosophical Zombie Killers, happening on September 14 at 7:30 pm at Freehold Theatre, will certainly, and happily, not be the last public reading of a play of mine. The Sequence is scheduled to be read on October 12 at 2pm at the Bathhouse Theater at Green Lake.  (More details here.)  But Philosophical Zombie Killers is indeed my last full-length play. I have no plans to write another, and no great prospects for future full production of this, or any other play I have written. On September 15, the day after this reading, I will officially step away from the theatre. I have no plans to return. Of course threads of sadness run through this decision, but it is also interwoven with hope, and anticipation of new adventures. I hope you’ll wish me well. And if you can, I hope you’ll come see this reading. Here, below the fold, is the press release with all the info:

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  • This Change is Playwright Approved

    This Change is Playwright Approved

    Theatre tradition runs rife with jokes, sayings and funny stories about actors and playwrights, and their divergent natures.

    Question: How many playwrights does it take to change a light bulb?

    Answer: The light bulb doesn’t need any changes.

    * * *

    Question: What’s the difference between a working Seattle actor and a large pepperoni pizza?

    Answer: A large pepperoni pizza can feed a family of four.

    * * *

    “The average actor craves approval; the above average playwright craves disapproval.”

    These clichés occasionally harbor a smidgeon of truth, but persist as mostly empty stereotypes. However, I do hold one difference between playwrights and other theatre artists to be true and fundamental: we tend to have a keener long-term view of the theatrical environment. This only makes sense. Our work cycle runs to years, whereas most other theatre artists live tactically, month to month; at most, season to season. Playwrights simply scan a farther horizon. (So no, I was not using my psychic powers when I predicted earlier than most the demise of the Intiman as we know it.)

    All this is to say my eagle eyes tell me that ACT just made an exquisite choice by appointing John Langs to the position of Associate Artistic Director, and thereby giving him and his family a reason to make Seattle their permanent home. (You can read a detailed run down of John’s new duties here.)  Unlike other hotshot directors who have been recruited from afar to fill similar roles at Seattle Big Houses, Langs is no elitist carpet bagger. His roots run deep here in Seattle, at Big Houses and small, with him directing work by writers running a gamut from Shakespeare to, well, me.

    Seattle actors love Langs, and he loves them. Seattle playwrights respect Langs, and he respects them. (A dual-facing fact I wish were true for more Seattle Big House administrators.) I won’t tell you John Langs can single-handedly drag Seattle theatre to excellence—he can’t; but he is the piece that perfectly fits a missing part of the puzzle here. Langs has shepherded more excellent new plays to world premiere than any other director I know. He gets why new work is so vital to Seattle’s health as a World Class theatre town. He also gets how nurturing it can help his own career in a way that staging the latest New Yorker-approved off-Broadway hit never could.   

    ACT’s choice is a win for everyone. Langs will grow his already formidable career here instead of elsewhere, and he will grow his fellow Seattle artists with him. For John, Seattle isn’t a stepping stone.  It’s the destination.

    Confidential to John:  carve an hour out of your swamped schedule and let me be one of the first of many to buy you a congratulatory cocktail so I can properly say:

    “Welcome, welcome, a thousand times, welcome. 

    Now… get to work!”

  • Mark Chamberlin: World Class Theatre Artist

    At 11:30 AM this Tuesday, Seattle theatre lost one of its leading lights when Mark Chamberlin died from injuries sustained in a bicycle accident on Sunday. Our city still has one remaining print daily newspaper, and Mark was famous enough to rate a fine obituary therein, but for my own selfish sake, I need to stand here and share my particular thoughts.

    Mark made this city a better theatre town. He did so by being an immense talent as an actor but also by being generous with that talent, because theatre is the art form wherein, by definition, nothing be accomplished alone (including mourning). Mark had a rare soulful sensibility as an actor, an enigmatic quality difficult to describe. Yesterday on Face Book my colleague Allysa Keene captured it better than I ever could:

    It’s a delicate dance to assert perspective and accept critique. It’s tricky to know when to lead and when to follow, but wisest artists don’t allow their accolades or their insecurities to eclipse the fact that it’s simply that: a collaboration, a dance. They acquiesce to all the paradoxes and graciously give their “yes.” MC, I am honored by your deference and will miss that twinkle-eyed “yes”…

    Perhaps my favorite turn of Mark’s was as Antonio in the Seattle Shakespeare Company’s recent production of The Merchant of Venice directed by John Langs.  While strictly speaking Antonio is the title character of the play, the role is enigmatic and largely thankless; and– due to its subtlety– nearly always ends up drifting into the background, until by Act IV the actor on stage becomes little more than a flexi-prop from which Shylock might draw his pound of flesh. Chamberlin, however, never ceded his ground. He made his counterparts Portia and Shylock fight for the focus that they can usually simply assume. And how did he do this?  By living and breathing on stage, deep in the life of his character.  You believed Antonio. You didn’t always know why he did what he did or exactly what he was feeling, but Mark as a consummate actor understood that it is a rudimentary performer who lays these things bare for all to read. He subsumed Antonio’s mystery and made it his own, such that you had to watch to see what would happen next. Such a simple order; and so so difficult to fulfill.

    Many people in our business, myself included, need at times to make a second show of their talent, advocating for it outside the theatre, either literally on the sidewalk during a furtive smoke, or in the bar, or, yes, on blogs like this. Mark let his work speak for itself. And he shared that talent for free with the likes of me, doing readings of new plays of mine and others’, when he could have just as easily stayed within the safe confines of Seattle’s Big Houses. The fact that Mark was rehearsing to appear as “the Goat” in New Century Theatre Company’s  upcoming production of O Lovely Glow Worm just adds evidence to the incontrovertible case for the man’s eagerness to remain on the cutting edge of theatre in this town. I understand that New Century will be dedicating their upcoming season to Mark.  By doing so, they honor not only him but all of us who had the pleasure of working with Mark or enjoying his work as an artist.

    Just recently Mark read something of mine which was part of a quarterly public evening of prose pieces written for performance. A week or so ago I was asked to submit another piece for the next quarter’s offering. I began crafting it with Mark’s voice in mind. This is just a habit I have. I start to shape words for a particular actor’s mouth whether or not I know they will be ultimately speaking them. It helps me hear the music. I have worked on the piece since learning of Mark’s death, and I am still, sadly, writing it with him in mind.

    And that brings me to what actors like Mark Chamberlin do for theatre. Beyond making plays possible by being in them, great actors make new plays conceivable by being the living suction that draws the words and stories out of the playwrights who know their talent. Mark was one of my many muses who live, and yes, die in this city. This is my selfish understanding of Mark’s inestimable loss. Muses are hard to come by. And while I have many here in Seattle, the loss of one so generous and so fine leaves me shaken and humbled and, also, strangely somehow more determined to carry on. After all, I believe that is what Mark would do.

    * * *

    PS:  Mark’s good friend and colleague Ian Bell has already set up a lovely campaign called Mark Chamberlin Memorial Bicycle Rack Project which will raise funds to install stylish bike racks in Mark’s honor in front of all of Seattle’s major theatres. You can check that out and help by clicking here

    PPS:  Note on the picture above: I particularly love this production shot of Mark, not just because it is from one of my favorite performances of his, Antonio in The Merchant of Venice, but also because it makes me happy to see him surrounded, as he most certainly is at this moment in spirit, by his fellow players. Plus, it shows him as what he was in real life: a cool, confident leader: an example to the younger talent of how to be a great artist, and more importantly, a good man.

    * * *

    PPPS:  Apologies to all. I decided to remove the aformentioned photo as I understand that doing so  most closely conforms with the families wishes.  PM  3/25/11 12:03 pm.

  • Chicago Posts: Dead and Alive

    Three nights ago my old friend Louis Slotin and I each got one of those chances that only theatre can offer.  He got to be alive while I got to be dead.

    Everybody loves a dead playwright.  The deader the better.  Living ones are prickly and unpredictable.  Actors and directors assume, sometimes rightly, that living playwrights have special insight into their plays because, well, they wrote them.  Such insight can be resented as often as welcomed.  Rehearsing a play is a process of discovery.  No one wants to do an Easter egg hunt with someone they suspect knows where all the eggs are hidden.  Smart playwrights understand when it’s time to walk out of the rehearsal hall so everyone else can breathe a little.  They do this even though they know that they do not in fact have all the answers and really might like to stay and hunt for a little treasure too.  In other words, a smart playwright knows when to roll over and play dead.

    As I confessed in an earlier essay installment of these Chicago Posts, I have seen every full production of every play I have ever written.  Often I have been part of the development process, even if the play has already had its world premiere.  For Louis Slotin Sonata’s second production which was staged off–Broadway at Ensemble Studio Theatre I rewrote substantially, adding at least one scene, which I would later cut.  I was living in New York at the time, so I could attend as many rehearsals as I wanted (and thought wise.)  The same was true for the third production at the now dead Empty Space Theatre.  By then I had moved to Seattle with my wife and kids and was able to work with the director, John Langs, to touch up the script, and most importantly, completely swap out the second act song, replacing it with the utterly original “Sodom Saki Shuffle” for which I wrote all new lyrics which the incomparable Mark Nichols then brilliantly scored.  (Click this to hear the Seattle version of the Sodom Saki Shuffle.)

    For this fourth production of the play at A Red Orchid Theatre in Chicago , I had nearly zero input.  I answered a few small script questions via email from the director Karen Kessler, but otherwise I really might as well have been blissfully departed.  So I had no idea what I was in for when showed up at the storefront theatre in Old Town two nights ago.  I have sat through productions I had nothing to do with that blew me away with their unforeseen brilliant interpretation of my script, and I have sat through shows so awful, so utterly antithetical to the play I imagined that I was struck quite literally catatonic with horror, rage and shame.

    Louis Slotin was just about to leave Los Alamos when he had his accident.  His bags were packed.  He was showing the “crit test” to Alvin Graves, his replacement at Pajarito Canyon labs.  The next day he planned to fly out to the South Pacific to see the Navy explode the very plutonium core he held in his hands.  From there he would head to the University of Chicago to continue his studies in his original field of biology.  Of course, Slotin never made it to Chicago.  He never made it out of Los Alamos alive.  They put his radiation-ravaged body in a lead-lined casket and shipped it to Winnipeg, Manitoba, his hometown.

    Two nights ago I saw Louis Slotin alive in Chicago.  He was occupying the body of an actor named Steven Schine, who through happy happenstance looks a hell of a lot like him.  I watched as that long-ago dead man was forced to, via long distance phone call, break the news in Yiddish to his father Israel Slotin that he was dying.  Israel was inhabiting the body of an eminently accomplished veteran Chicago actor named William J. Norris.

    I watched those men relive a pain that no one should even have to live through once.  I watched and I wept.  But I also felt a great strange satisfaction.  After 64 years Louie had arrived where he was going.

    Maybe I should play dead more often.