20th Anniversary Memories - Unauthorized Magic in Oz

The houses from Unauthorized Magic

Rarely do I get to feel like a rock star.

However, with one small production, a toy theater piece called Unauthorized Magic in Oz, I did.

Unauthorized Magic was a rare instance where I crossed my children’s books with my theater.  It was created for Great Small Works’ Toy Theater Festival, at St. Ann’s Warehouse.  It existed in two small but beautiful houses, built by Barry Weil and Berit Johnson and based on Eric Shanower’s illustrations of my Oz books.  Unusually, I performed a role, along with fellow cast members Tanya Khordoc, Barry Weil, and Talaura Harms.

The experience with Great Small Works is a great one.  There is a new Toy Theater Festival coming soon (featuring frequent collaborators Tanya Khordoc and Barry Weil’s play, Secrets History Remembers), and I highly recommend it.  We were in an evening with Brian Selznik’s play about Christine Jorgensen, which I loved.

The audiences oohed and aahed appropriately at the puppetry flourishes, but the Oz references escaped many.  Then we were asked to bring the show to the Munchkin Convention, the East Coast gathering of Oz fans being held in Princeton, New Jersey.

An audience full of Oz fans, many of whom had read my books (Paradox in Oz and The Living House of Oz), was a very exciting event.  They were enthusiastic about and responsive to every reference.  Eric, and the publisher David Maxine, also had a chance to see the work.  If a play ever had its ideal audience, it was then.

Tempus fugit!  Tanya Khordoc puppeteers.

Later, we brought the show to the Looking Glass Theater, and it received a wonderful review from Laurel Graeber at The New York Times ("exquisitely ingenious!").  But having an Oz audience who knew my work so intimately was really my ideal experience.

You can see a performance on YouTube—not, I think, the same as in person (and that particular show had definite glitches), but still, worth checking out, especially if you are a fan of Oz!

The Tragedy of the Village Voice

The Village Voice introduced me to New York theater.

In 1990, when I was a college student, I saw the first show in New York that was somewhere other than Broadway. It was well beyond Broadway—in the Lower East Side, in a tiny venue called House of Candles, produced by the Independent Theater Company, one of the originals in what many of us now call indie theater. I went because I had read a short blurb in the Voice, and they were producing one of my favorite shows, Ionesco’s Rhinoceros.

The cab driver that picked me up at Penn Station refused to drive me all the way to the theater. “Why do you want to go into that neighborhood?” he asked. “I’m seeing a French absurdist play,” I told him. “Drugs,” he concluded. He let me out at the corner of Houston and 1st Avenue.

When I came to New York, the Voice was the one publication I was sure to read to know what was going on in downtown theater (and the downtown art scene in general) It was more important to me than the Times. I didn’t always agree with Michael Feingold, but I always respected and enjoyed his reviews and the fact that he valued deep critical analysis. But the Voice was not just Feingold, it was a host of reviewers engaged with downtown theater: Charles McNulty, Alissa Solomon, Alexis Soloski, Jorge Morales, and the many freelance reviewers (like my friend Trav SD) who covered the independent theater scene.  I am grateful to them all.

And of course there was the OBIES, the awards ceremony seemingly made to celebrate that scene. Thank goodness, I thought, we have an advocate. The OBIES championed the lesser known but valuable artists such as Richard Foreman, Vaclav Havel, Ellen Stewart, and all who struggled to create art without a giant budget. Foreman told me that the only reason he survived as an artist is because of one Voice reviewer who continued to believe in his work. This is for us, I believed.

The Voice was the first paper to review my work, back when I directed a show at Nada, just around the corner from House of Candles. The Lower East Side was slightly more respectable, by then—cab drivers would drive in, though the nightclubs and hipsters hadn’t yet arrived. It devoted a full page lead article to my first downtown festival, the Ionesco Festival, at a time when few other publications bothered to cover it.

In fact, thanks to Joe Holladay, the Voice sponsored the festival, as it did my next two festivals as well, providing advertising at a very discounted price because they believed in the importance of the work.

A few years ago, suddenly people started getting fired. It started with editors. Then freelancers. Then some prominent names, such as Hoberman in film. Dance was cut out altogether. The Voice stopped reviewing my shows. It stopped reviewing almost any small budget show. The one remaining working reviewer was Michael Feingold, and one man with one column can only review so much. He covered the major productions, but downtown was forgotten.

But I knew the rot had crept in earlier. Because, frankly, the Voice had lost its way. It had lost its identity. Even in the OBIES, which I attended at first enthusiastically, I realized that the ceremony had been transforming to one of glamour and big budget self-congratulation. Occasionally a true downtown artist would slip in, and the recognition would be well deserved and deeply needed. Metropolitan Theater, Peculiar, The Ice Factory. But rare was the show financed under $250,000, and the majority of the work came from theater institutions with multimillion dollar budgets: Manhattan Theater Club, The Public, Roundabout, Classic Stage Company, New York Theater Workshop. Soho Rep seemed small and scrappy by comparison. Movie stars gave out the rewards and often movie stars received them. It has become not so much a celebration of Off-Broadway as it was of Little Broadway.

I have been thinking for a while about talking about what’s wrong with the Voice, why it has lost its way, and what it can do about it. How it can regain its spirit. Its name. It is called The Village Voice. The voice of Greenwich Village, from the time when the village was the home to bohemian artists. What is it the paper now? What has it become?  Who do they expect the readers to be, when it has lost its identity?

I write now even though I suspect it is too late to have a rallying call. The Times reports two chief editors have quit rather than fire the five (of twenty) staff members demanded. On Michael Feingold’s page appeared a status report: “It looks like I may need a job.”

Am I writing an obituary for a once great paper? Perhaps. The OBIES are on May 20. I wasn’t planning to go, I had given up on the spectacle, and I’ll be busy in tech But maybe there’s one last chance for the voice of the village to be heard. Fellow theater artists, if you do go to the OBIES, if by some reason you know an uptown star that will be handed a piece of paper giving him or her downtown cred, it’s time to speak. It may be past time.

New York has too few reporters left that care about the smaller theaters. Recently, I wrote about the demise of Backstage. That was sad. This is a full on tragedy.

20th Anniversary Memories - Cat's Cradle, Brains & Puppets, & Hiroshima

Barry Weil in Brains and Puppets

Hi, Barry Weil of Evolve Company here. My creative partner Tanya Khordoc and I are puppeteers, and our company has been given some amazing opportunities (as well as some really weird challenges) through the work we’ve done with UTC61. When Edward asked me to write a reminiscence of the 2008 Walkerspace plays (Cat’s Cradle, Brains & Puppets and Hiroshima: Crucible of Light), I have to admit that it took me a while to actually come up with anything. Not because it was an uneventful experience – far from it. It’s just that Tanya and I were so involved in all three plays that our memories are a very tired blur.

At one point, while Cat’s Cradle was running, I remember ending an evening performance and heading uptown to Edward’s place to help Tanya cut out Brains & Puppets shadow figures for hours, catnapping on Edward’s couch briefly and then getting up to perform a matinee of Cat’s Cradle. Tanya’s schedule was similar, though she probably wins the crazy award for setting her model of the Trinity nuclear site watchtower on fire in her living room (not out of frustration, I should add, but for filming purposes).

One of many models from Cat's Cradle

Confused? It went down like this: Tanya and I designed and built two huge bakers’ racks full of puppet/models for Cat’s Cradle, which I puppeteered while also having an acting role in the production. Tanya created stop-motion models for Hiroshima, and we each directed, designed and performed one of Edward’s two single-person plays that made up Brains & Puppets. On top of that, I designed the brochure and graphic art for the entire endeavor. Now, when you’re in college, staying up all night is fun, and you can do that amount of work without breaking a sweat. When you’re forty and attempting it…well, you just want to lie down for a few minutes. Or a week.

So why would anyone in their right mind do things like this? Well, the plays were amazing, and we’d have to have been insane not to be a part of them. How often do you get to create a model airplane that mounts to a video camera and crashes into a sand castle, or a pair of elegant Leonardo da Vinci wings? A tiny period UNIVAC computer decorated for a Christmas party, or Matisse and Kandinsky paintings that come to life? A multicolored dragon with an East European growl, or a miniature Caribbean dictatorship with its own flag, buildings, hotels, shantytown and taxicabs?

Tanya Khordoc in Brains and Puppets

We’ve always loved the way UTC61 incorporates puppetry into its work, and appreciates its value as a unique form of theatre. And Edward has always shared our joy in getting to create and use cool things. That’s definitely worth a few days’ sleep. Over the years, Evolve has provided UTC #61 with living houses, electronic sheep and intricate temple arks that contain shadow puppet shows. And we always look forward to hearing a crazy idea and realizing there’s no way we can say no.

20th Anniversary Memories - Lysistrata

Part of the cast of Lysistrata

Lysistrata was a huge and complicated endeavor. It was marked by difficulties with the co-producer and the publicist, difficulties that I won’t be exploring too deeply here but definitely colored my experience. It also had a directorial concept (my own) that proved difficult to fully realize, logistically. But more on that later.

On the positive side, the show included a number of talented actors and a very talented group of assistant directors, including my current Associate Artistic Director, Henry Akona. It also inspired a translation/adaptation I am quite proud of, now printed by Theater 61 Press. The translation has inspired a surprising number of productions, particularly university productions, including shows in Cambridge, Edinburgh, and Aachen, Germany.

I had had a brainstorm about performing Lysistrata with a cast of 100. It seemed doable. The amount of resumes I receive for each show is overwhelming, and it seemed to me that a huge company could be assembled. The chorus would become a huge environmental element that would immerse the audience in the Bacchanalia that was the play.

Part of the cast of Lysistrata

It was a good concept in many ways. I thought it would attract some press, and it did attract some press. And I do think I was right, it was doable. The fact that it didn’t happen as envisioned…well, there’s more to this particular story.

The space we used was actually the basement of a bar in DUMBO, Brooklyn, right next to St. Ann’s Warehouse. At the time it was a large, empty space, except for some distinctive architectural details, like its Ionic columns and two-story wrought iron stairway. It seemed ideal for an environmental production.

For the principal performers, we had a good and reliable bunch. Our trouble was the chorus. We were a non-Equity show, because we had signed on to an open ended run. But attracting enough actors for a non-Equity Brooklyn show to fill out a chorus of 100 turned out to be a logistical problem. Yes, they came. But yes, they went. The turnaround in chorus members was tremendous, and we were in constant state of casting and recasting.

Those we did keep were a mixed bunch. Some were terrific, stalwart cast members with talent. Some had never done a show before, and I remember receiving a call from one after a show saying “I got lost walking from the subway, and by the time I figured out I had walked the wrong way, I felt so upset that I decided to go home.”

Part of the cast of Lysistrata, with Corey Einbinder, chorus leader

By the time we were in opening week, we may (or may not) have had actors who had, at least briefly, called themselves members of the cast, but we certainly did not have 100 cast members onstage, more in the realm of 50. In truth, we needed only about 60 to make the cast seem full, but we were a bit short of that. The program listed all who had ever been part of our cast, and a few who hadn’t, with transparently absurd names like Caveman Coletti. And then the flu hit… On the night reviewers came, I think there were 35 people onstage, and our claims of a large cast had become increasingly questionable.

Still, those who were there did a game job, and a few nights later with the full cast onstage I felt proud a quite a few moments onstage. And I do think that those involved enjoyed their experience. We got some good reviews, mixed in with a scathing one written on the day of 35 actors. Many of the actors have continued to work on UTC61 productions. And the script, as I mentioned, has lived on in numerous productions.

Sometime I would love to do the play again and try to realize my original vision. I remain convinced it can be done...though I don't know when I would have the energy to try to achieve this particular vision, once more.

On Backstage's plan to end reviews, and why it matters

Backstage has announced to its reviewers that after April, there will be no more reviews printed. The reason given, by Executive Editor Daniel Halloway, is the following:

An analysis of metric data by our executive team led to the conclusion that too few readers are engaging our reviews for Backstage to continue to invest resources in producing them. We will be shifting those resources primarily to the creation of additional advice, news, and features content.”

This is why it matters:

Let us put aside the hollow thinking that is behind this “metric data.” Clearly, Backstage is struggling. It did not anticipate the internet age, and as a casting tool, it has been overtaken by Actor’s Access. Few people rely on Backstage for theater news.

It had, in fact, one remaining unique aspect. Its reviews. As a print publication, the breadth of its reviews was unmatched. The only two publications the came close in terms of breadth were The New York Times and Time Out, and even they were not able to cover the number of independent theater productions that Backstage covered. True, there are blogs that cover theater as well. One, nytheatre.com, does an incredible job in its breadth, which no other website or publication matches. But blogs and unpaid reviewers are still not given the same respect that a publication which pays its reviewers, like Backstage, receives.

Who was its audience? Theater people, almost exclusively. Other actors, writers, and directors. Perhaps a grantor or an agent who received a clipping. Other reviewers.  It could be quoted and the quote would be recognized and respected, not as much as the Times but more than a random blog, just because of the brand recognition.

But those reviews meant something. They could be sent to potential audience members, posted on Facebook, on Twitter, linked to on a website or in an email. They could help you a grant, or maybe help to get an agent. They could encourage other reviewers could come. And frankly, they meant something to those in the show. Somebody saw the show, thought about the show, wrote some words, and cared.

Theater may be thrown out like a curse word by in congress, it may be disrespected and underpaid, but at least we cared about ourselves. We were paying attention, we knew we were valuable and this publication, a publication made to be read by those in the industry, cared about the industry

Unlike other theater towns, we have only a few theater publications. The reason the Times is considered so powerful is there is so little competition. When I put up a show, when I am lucky at least, I expect to be in three print publications. The New York Times, Time Out, and Backstage. Once there was the Village Voice, but ironically the publication that still hosts the Obies gave up on reviewing independent theater years ago.

And when shows aren't reviewed, it isn't just artists who suffer, it's the community as a whole.  An artist who practices good work in obscurity is a loss to the art form.  And the documentation of our theater is something not to be taken for granted.  With an ephemeral art form, we need more than any art to be written about in order to be preserved,

I talk about reviews sometimes as if they a toss of the dice. I believe that good shows, that take risks, are not always loved by everyone. They have their adherents, they have their detractors. This is normal, it is that way with good movies and good books. The difference is, the gambling is so much more acute, when there are fewer times to throw the dice. Backstage, gone. Time Out—reviewer got ill, no replacement available. The New York Times—snake eyes.

Three months, six months, a year of work, done.

Next roller.

The Havel Collection: Ela, Hela, and the Hitch

Ela, Hela, and the Hitch is included in the Havel Collection as part of the book the contains The Pig

Ela, Hela, and the Hitch was, in a way, Václav Havel’s first play. It was written for the Artistic Director of the Theatre on the Balustrade, Ivan Vyskočil, as part of a longer evening, entitled Hitchhiking. Along with Ela, Hela, and the Hitch, Havel also wrote a sketch called Motormorphosis. Reportedly, Vyskočil altered Havel’s sketches for the performance, though this text is Havel’s original.

After Havel’s success with his first full length, The Garden Party, these earlier efforts were quickly forgotten. They were relatively recently rediscovered, through the detective work of a Czech theater scholar, Lenka Jungmannová. Motormorphosis was performed at the Havel Festival in 2006, a world premiere of the text as written. Ela, Hela, and the Hitch premiered in English translation following a revival of Motormorphosis at New York’s Bohemian National Hall in 2011.

What is particularly interesting about Ela, Hela, and the Hitch is the way it lays bare Ionesco’s influence on Havel. The rhythms of the play echo everything from The Bald Soprano to Salutations. Like Ionesco, Havel uses comic repetition that culminates in an explosion of language, during which words become meaningless, replaced only by the more visceral meaning one can attach to pure sound.

Another interesting side note is the societal conflict reflected in the main dilemma. Like many older members of the Czechoslovak upper middle class in 1961 (the year the play was written), Ela and Hela spoke German at school, and their behavior is definitely reflective of the German influence on their upbringing. They are separated from society not only because of their age, but because the younger generation had cut its ties with Germany.

So what Havel is doing is using Ionesco’s formal techniques, which Ionesco used primarily to critique humanity’s doomed attempts at communication, and applying those techniques to a societal critique. Which is, in fact, a prelude to what Havel would do throughout the rest of his playwriting career.

20th Anniversary Memories: 24/7 Fest

Dave Hanson looking out at New York

Dave Hanson, a friend and playwright who actually was in attendance in at the first ever UTC61 show, Artist Descending a Staircase (and knows me long enough to call me "Ed"), tells about his experience in our 24/7 Fest, seven straight days of 24 hour plays on different themes.  Dave and I met as interns at New Dramatists.  Now Dave does theater in Kansas City, where I participated in a similar project last year.

Ok, I'll be honest when Ed called me up to participate as a playwright in something called 24/7 I didn't know exactly what to think. You see, I'm not an actor or director or a designer or any of those kinds of theater jobs that would have led me to cross paths with the idea of writing a short play in a night and then fully staging it the next day. I would find out later that lots of people do these things. But at that moment, waiting to get on a plane to go from Kansas City to New York to be in two rounds of the 24/7 festival what I was thinking was who the hell does this? Of course, Ed Einhorn does this. And thank god he does.

I attended the performances the night before my first round came out. I was part of the neuro night. Whatever our play was, it was to be about something in the brain. It also had to include the following: someone had to die, we had to think we were in one place but really be in another, somebody had to sit in a chair, and the last requirement (which was picked from a jar because again it's Ed) was that there had to be a talking animal.

So I go to my room at the YMCA - yes folks, I went to New York and stayed at the West Side YMCA because it was very affordable. I stayed up to like 2 AM that night writing my play - Theater of the Mind. I know the title kind of fit with the whole Neuro theme. I show up at 8 AM at the theater the next morning and that's when all kinds of wonderful and terrible began.

You see it's not just good enough to write a play in less than 12 hours. These puppies were going to be fully staged. You know memorized, blocked, lighting cues, and memorized. I met my director-- Alexander was his name--and my cast. It was a great cast and very, very honest. I'll admit that I wrote a drama and very well difficult scene for the actress who was assigned to my cast. I think it was Nancy Nagrant. She read my play, twice and then ... and I remember this clearly ... looked at the director and then me and said, "You bastard, I'm only doing this part twice. You get once in rehearsal and once in the performance."

Like I said, I'm not an actor but I did know this wasn't the moment to quibble over such things. I remember thinking, I've either written a really great scene or well... it really sucked. We were really too busy to think much about it. Well, to be fair, the director and the cast was too busy. I was floored by what these people could get done. I mean they were really doing it. Well, up to and including complete memorization of the lines. Honestly, the whole memorization thing... well, the cast never actually got through an entire run through of the play before curtain with all the lines memorized. But I liked what I saw and I took my customary seat to watch a play of mine... far back corner on the right with at least two seats between me and anybody else.

The energy in the theater was crazy as the curtain came up. My play wasn't first and it wasn't last, but I still remember when it happened. It truly was the magic of the theater. The performances sparkled. The big scene... memorable. One of those moments when the whole theater goes really, really quiet. Then... then it was over.

The cast and I went to drinks that night and it was clear we had all bonded a bit over the day. Not like I'd donate my kidney to you... although I would consider it - especially for Nancy because you owe something to someone who calls you a bastard. What I think we all realized around that table was there was a feeling that we didn't really want to let go.

Doing theater is one of the hardest things in the world to pull off. You can't fix it in editing. You don't get to redo a performance in front of an audience. Usually, you don't get to do it period. And we did it all in less than 24 hours. Now, it is interesting to note that for most plays the prevailing theory is that they must be developed for months and months before they are ready for the light of day. I participated in two rounds of the festival and can report that both plays received full productions later on in my writing career. Maybe there is something to the madness. A madness that really could only be pulled off by Ed Einhorn. So to Ed, I have only one thing to say...

You bastard. I know it's odd but it really worked out for me last time so it's my new term of endearment.

Thanks Ed for 20 years and thanks for 24/7.