The Tao of Adaptation

            What is the essence of The Lathe of Heaven?  This is my third stage adaptation of a science fiction novel, and I have adapted and translated numerous other works (I connect the two, in my own work, for all of my translations have been adaptations of sorts as well).  My first question is always what is the essence, and my second is, how do I convey that essence theatrically?

            I tend to think that the essence lies in the ideas that behind the content—not surprising, as I run a Theater of Ideas.  Obviously, Taoism is a major influence on Lathe, the title is based on a (somewhat mistranslated) Chuang Tzu quote, and in the novel Le Guin punctuated the chapters with other quotes from Taoist sources.  Buy beyond mere quotation, the ideas of balance, of nature, of inaction versus action, of the value of uncertainty—these are all Taoist ideas.

            So I knew I wanted to drop those ideas in, with a minimum of exposition and a maximum of emotional content.  Music seemed the obvious medium.  The poetic, elliptical nature of Lao Tzu’s writing seemed very much to lend itself to the style of art music that our composer, Henry Akona, often enjoys writing.  So I used Le Guin’s translation of Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching as a major inspiration for the lyrics. And stillness while in motion—what better way to convey that than a static set, put in motion by video images?

            Music and video also answered a practical matter, the complex question of how to portray a dream onstage.  I wanted a set that was a canvas, on which dreams could be painted by video, and music that evoked dream logic and implied a connection to something beyond itself.

            I was particularly drawn by the idea of uncertainty, especially in a work like Lathe that references one of my favorite topics, neurology.  I have been reading a lot about our irrational, neurological imperative towards certainty (I particularly recommend Robert Burton’s On Being Certain).  As Haber says in the play, “The brain craves certainty,” and indeed we are drawn to those who seem to possess it.  How long would a political candidates last if, when asked for a cure for the economy, they simply shrugged their shoulders and said: “I don’t know.  I don’t fully understand money, and I certainly don’t know for sure what to do about a recession.  I don’t think anyone does, and only fools pretend to.”

            And yet, what true, justifiable certainty do we possess on any topic?  Is the answer then to struggle for understanding, or simply to realize that some of the most important questions we have don’t have any knowable answers?

            The belief in our own ability to understand and solve these unsolvable questions has led humanity down many paths, one of the more extreme being failed utopianism.  It is those with the greatest convictions who often can do the most harm.

            That, at least, was my initial connection into this work, and when I found that, all else flowed. The word “flowed “of course evokes water, one of the symbols used often in Lathe and in Taoism. And indeed, when I am connected to a work, it can sometimes feel like a I rafting through a river of words, not exacting guiding the raft but learning how the river moves and how best to look elegant while keeping my balance.

            I hope I will manage to look elegant.  Though I would be thankful if, at least, I can keep my balance.

Ursula Le Guin, Kickstarter, and The Lathe of Heaven

One of my favorite peculiar benefits of working in theater is that I have had the opportunity to work with artists I have admired from afar.  Ursula K. Le Guin is an author I admired even as a child, for I began reading her Earthsea trilogy (it was but a trilogy then...) at the age of nine.  Little did I imagine at the time that one day I would be adapting one of her books for the stage (we present The Lathe of Heaven in June at 3LD), corresponding with her, and flying out to Portland to meet her so that she might, graciously, help on our kickstarter campaign.

This is especially kind of her, knowing, as I do, that she hates the whole idea of kickstarter.

For me, it was a wonderful excuse to meet her in person, to visit her home, and to interview her.  The interview was for the kickstarter video, but of course it gave the opportunity to have a structured conversation about The Lathe of Heaven and her work as an author.  I have to say, I was in no way disappointed.  My only regret is that the kickstarter video allows only a small part of the interview to be shown.  She was charming, good-humored, and sharp in her responses, much as I would have expected.

Her house was cozy, complete with cat and her husband Charles, who was equally welcoming.  Afterwards, we had lunch and visited the Japanese Gardens, along with another guest who was adapting The Left Hand of Darkness for a small two-person production in Japan.

And my nine-year old self has to stop and marvel, as we strolled past the waterfall, the flowers, and the sculptures, that here I was, not only spending some time with the author of the Earthsea books, but discussing my plans for our production.

Anyway, the kickstarter campaign is up and running, and we have entered rehearsals!  More updates from the front soon.

Truth, Fiction, Theater, and Journalism

I am angry with Mike Daisey.

I am not angry that he lied in his show.  I am saddened by that, saddened both for him and for the integrity of his worthy cause, the working conditions of the workers in China. I am saddened that his shows, for me, will now no longer have any power, for Daisey’s artistic work depended on that sense that you were hearing a personal, true account, told artfully.

What I am angry about is that, in an effort to save himself, he threw theater under the bus.

When caught in his lies, Daisey’s defense was, what I do is not journalism, it is theater.  His implication is that theater has different standards for truth, even when it purports to be factual.  That it is OK to lie onstage, even when you are telling the audience what you are speaking is the truth.

Ira Glass brought Daisey back on his show in order to remedy the breach of trust between This American Life and the NPR audience, brought about by their failure to fact check.  Daisey, apparently, has no similar compunctions.  He is willing to implicate all of us who sometimes try to tell the truth onstage, the factual truth, in his lie.

I understand, of course.  I have lied.  I have lied when telling a story, not even deliberately, but because it’s quicker and easier, and hey, it’s close enough.  I have struggled to tell documentary fact onstage, and I have been forced at times to resort to fiction.

In a writing class, I recently gave my students an exercise.  Take down a conversation verbatim, I said, and we will perform it like a play.  They did.  Afterwards, I quizzed them—who had actually written down what was said word for word, and who had fudged and filled in—to make the dialogue flow, or to make it funnier, or to cover up an embarrassing moment, or just because it was actually hard to remember and note the exact words.

Every single one of them had fudged.  Every single one of them had lied.

(..and here, am I lying?  One or two claimed to have told the truth, but reading the dialogue, I didn’t believe them…so was what I just wrote a fudge or a lie?)

I have also been interviewed and written about in a number of different papers, including, on several occasions, The New York Times.   I have to say, not once was the article written exactly factual.  Sometimes the journalist has tried and failed, fact checking but still missing some important details.  Sometimes the journalist hasn’t even tried.  And often, the journalist has wanted to tell a story of his or her own, and skewed the facts to fit into that story.

Is it conscious?  Is it deliberate?  Probably not.  But it is consistent.

Right now, I am General Managing a play called The Soap Myth, a play dealing the question of fact and fiction.  In it, historians reject a certain possible truth about a detail of the Holocaust events, because they feel that even the slightest doubt give deniers power.  When we all went to the Museum of Jewish Heritage downtown, one of the curators was asked, when a journalist writes about what you do, do they ever get it right?

No.  Not once, I was told.

So the truth is elusive.  The truth is hard to define.  And sometimes, even with the best of intention, one lies.

And then there are other times, when one makes the conscious decision to lie.  And rationalizes it.  And tell oneself it is the truth, not because it is the truth, but because it feels like the truth.  Because even if the facts don’t fit, they should fit.  So, it’s not actually lying, is it?

It is.

It’s also very human.  I am not angry at Mike Daisey for being human.  I am angry that his rationalizations will injure the whole field of documentary fiction.

Those denials, those rationalizations, are also very human I realize.  I am holding Mike Daisey to a high standard, perhaps an unfair one.  A higher standard than most of the journalists I have encountered.  That is not despite the fact that he works in theater.  It is because of it.

Remembrances of Václav Havel

Sometimes, you are lucky.

William Niederkorn and Václav Havel

Sometimes, the man you meet is equal to the man you imagined.

I don’t remember the first time I heard Havel’s name.  Perhaps during a news broadcast.  Perhaps when I read Martin Esslin’s Theater of the Absurd.  I do know that I had read and fallen in love with his work by college, and I was overwhelmed by the idea that an absurdist playwright led a revolution and became the president of a nation.

His play, Audience was the first I directed in New York, the first New York production of my theater company.  For twelve years after that, I admired him from afar.

Then I came up with idea, called the Havel Festival.  My idea was, we would do every play he had ever written.  People now knew Havel the politician so well, I wanted to remind them about Havel the playwright.

I approached his agents.  We scheduled it for his 70^th birthday.  By lucky chance, Gregory Mosher was planning a residency for Havel at Columbia at the same point, which meant he would be in town for the full length of the festival.

Havel with the cast and crew of The Memo

He came.

I met him for the first time at a reception being held by Columbia for his arrival.  I remember chatting with Oliver Sacks, another hero of mine, as I stood about four feet away from him, waiting to shake his hand.  Havel turned and graciously shook my hand.  I tried in the noise to introduce myself, and he nodded pleasantly, but seemed too tired to pick up exactly who I was.

Halka Kaiserova, the Czech consul general, explained it to him.  Suddenly, he beamed.  You don’t know what it means to an author, when you do all of his work, he told me.  Thank you.

I saw him at various functions over the next few weeks, and he would always greet me with a beaming smile.  He assured me he would be coming to see the production of the Memo I directed.  Some others, too, he said at the time, though I wasn’t sure what he meant.

Robert Lyons, me, and Havel at The Ohio

When he arrived at the Ohio Theater, he was surrounded by flashing cameras and attending by an entourage of secret service and dignitaries.  The flashing cameras didn’t affect him.  He was used to it.  He assured me his secret service members knew how to behave in a theater and would not disturb the production.

I remember when I watched him laugh.  It was early on, a small visual joke I had put into the script.  I sat anxiously in the back row and watched him with great relief.  And he kept on laughing, all show long.

He came back again, soon after, to see his plays Audience (which I had remounted) and Protest (directed by Robert Lyons, who runs the Ohio).  He was loved them both and was particularly taken with the actor Richard Toth, who appeared in Protest.

Havel and his wife Dasha with cast/crew of Temptation

He came back again.  And again.  And again.  Till he felt like a fixture in The Ohio and The Brick, where many of his other plays were being produced.

Throughout, he exuded a genuine warmth and a genuine enthusiasm about the work.  We had some celebrities who participated in the festival, but he was not impressed by celebrity.  He was as gracious and giving to every actor as he was to Kathleen Turner or Dustin Hoffman.  He did not care whether he was in a small theater or a large one.  He cared that we cared about the writing.  And we did, deeply.

Henry Akona, me, and Havel

On the anniversary of the Velvet Revolution he came again, and listened as Trey Kay’s band, Uncle Moon, did a tribute to the Velvet Underground.  He brought Madeleine Albright with him and they sat in the tiny Brick Theater and drank and celebrated with us.  At one point he same to the microphone and made a speech in Czech.  Halka Kaiserova translated:

Havel with Trey Kay of Uncle Moon

“There is no place I would rather spend the anniversary of the Velvet Revolution.” It was in a small theater like The Brick where the revolution started, after all.

Havel and me at Joe's Pub

We were able to spend the last evening of the Festival at Joe’s Pub together, as Uncle  Moon played again, and Havel regaled me with tales about Lou Reed and his early experiences in theater.  As we sat together it suddenly occurred to me anew that this was a man who I had idolized from afar, whose ideas and writing had changed a whole country.  But now, he felt like an old friend.

We saw each other occasionally after that.  In London, in Philadelphia, in Prague, and most recently in Brno, when he flew me out the see a production of his newest work (or his reconfigured old work) The Pig.  Somehow, every time I saw him, I suddenly had this fear that this time, I would be disappointed.  This time he wouldn’t live up to the ridiculously high expectations that I had for him.

Havel in Brno (in sunglasses) watching a production of Audience

But when he saw me and welcomed me with a beaming smile, those fears melted away.  For Václav Havel was more than a great leader and a great writer and a great thinker.  He was a true and kind person, who lived the philosophies he preached.  He was the man who would beam at me every time he saw me.  He was a friend.

I will miss him very much.

Playing Dreidel with Judah Maccabee, a Hannukah play: the intro essay

My new book, Playing Dreidel with Judah Maccabee (a Hannukah play), is out and available!  For those who want a sneak preview, here is the intro essay to the book:

            Who was Judah Maccabee?

            What was his world like during the time he led a war to take the temple back?
            How did that war become a holiday celebrated by lighting candles, playing dreidel, singing songs, eating latkas, and giving presents?
            When I decided to write a play about Hannukah, I started thinking about the fact that I never really knew the answers to any of those questions as a child.  I knew that Judah Maccabee was a hero, and that his name was mentioned in a few songs.  And I knew he had something to do with getting the temple back.  But beyond that, I didn’t know or really wonder much else.
            So who was he?
            Judah Maccabee lived in a time when most Jews believed that Judaism could not be practiced outside the ancient temple. Yet the temple had been taken away, so those Jews found themselves unable to observe Jewish rituals in the way they felt those rituals should be observed.
            This was before there were rabbis, or the Talmud.  The seeds of the rabbinic movement perhaps started in those days without the temple, but it would take 200 years for that change to truly happen.  In Judah Maccabee’s time, 165 BCE, there were only priests, and priests needed the temple.
            As far as Judah Maccabee was concerned, the survival of the Jewish religion was at stake.  In essence, Judah Maccabee was a soldier, a man driven to lead a rebellion against his Hellenistic rulers because he believed that otherwise, his religion would be destroyed.
            What is remarkable is that, against all odds, he won.  He regained the temple.
            Then, 200 years later, the temple was destroyed.
            So why the celebration?
            According to the Book of Maccabees, an eight-day celebration was held after the altar was rededicated.  This may have been a belated celebration of Sukkot.  There is no mention of lighting candles, or even the miracle of the oil lasting.  But in some ways, perhaps, the Maccabean celebration of their victory could be considered the first celebration of Hannukah.
            It wasn’t until 250 years later, after the destruction of the Temple, that we can find a passing mention of the holiday (just known then as “The Festival of Lights.”) And it was 600 years before instructions about how to celebrate Hanukkah appear in the Gemara (part of the Talmud).
            So perhaps Hanukkah is a reminder of what the Temple once meant to Judaism, rather than a simple celebration of a victory. After all, the menorah deliberately resembles the Eternal Light, a seven-pronged golden candlestick that once stood in the sanctuary. And the story of the oil lasting is certainly another reminder of days when the Temple was the center of Judaism.
            But the dreidels, the latkes, the songs, the presents: they all belong to a different, more modern tradition. A tradition that would be almost incomprehensible to Judah Maccabee if he saw it.
            Would it even feel like the same religion, I wondered?
            That was the question that inspired me to write this play. The answer I came up with involves a common theme, a theme that I feel connects Judah Maccabee’s battles with more modern Jewish struggles.
            In the end, there is no way to truly know who Judah Maccabee was, or what he would think of our world and Judaism today. When grasping at the tiny bits of information that still exist about a man who lived over two thousand years ago, all one can truly do is imagine. I based my tale on facts, but I also based it my own imaginings. Judah Maccabee the character may or may not be anything like the real Judah Maccabee who lived over two thousand years ago. But this is how I imagine him.

Director's note for Pangs of the Messiah

Theater is about building up and tearing down.  It is the most ephemeral of art forms, not just because it only exists live and in the moment, but because it must be literally destroyed after every production.  I have spent weeks upon weeks of 18 plus hour days building a set, only to have to tear it into nothingness when a production is over.

I hate the destruction.  I hate creating something that’s beautiful, that’s mine (or more correctly ours, as theater is also about that collaboration), and then having to demolish it at the end.  I know it will happen, from the time I begin creation.  But when that moment of destruction comes, it hurts.

How much more would that destruction hurt if it were the home I built, that I had lived in for 40 years?  Or my family had lived in for 200 years?  Or 2000?

The West Bank settlers are people who, for the most part, are living out their utopian philosophies.  They arrived believing that they are fulfilling a mission both political and religious, that they are bringing the Messiah and redemption by their very presence.

Some, probably most, still have that utopian hope.  But regardless of what might have brought them to the West Bank initially, houses that have been built cannot easily be destroyed.  It has happened—even recently, during the disengagement from Gaza in 2005.  But it wasn’t easy then, and should the West Bank settlements be abandoned, it will almost certainly be harder.

It seems fitting that one of the sticking points in the struggle for peace is about a much more ancient land dispute.  For if the Messiah is to come, it is believed, a new Temple will have to built, and it will be built on the Temple Mount.  Right now, another building stands there: the Dome of the Rock, built originally in the 7^th Century on the advice of a former rabbi who had converted to Islam.  This too was both a political and religious act, and the relationship to the ancient Temple was no coincidence.

But whatever the circumstances under which the mosque was built, it is now a fact.  It is an incredible building, representing the work and beliefs of people going back nearly 1,400 years.  It is another utopia, one in which only those of the Muslim faith are allowed.

The Messiah waits for the rebuilding of the Temple because the wound from that destruction from 2000 years ago still hasn’t completely healed.   Here in New York, we are only 10 years away from the destruction of the Twin Towers.  That was enough to start a war or two, for us.

When this show is over, some pieces of it will disappear into storage.  And some will be destroyed forever.  It is expected.  My own utopian vision allows for it; I believe in the power of theater, and I know that part of that power lies in its ephemeral nature. 

But if I believed that the destruction of my set would also mean the destruction of my utopia, the destruction of my ability to work in the theater, I don’t think I could bring myself to allow it.  No matter what the general good.  No matter how strong the arguments for it.  I would not allow it.

Even if someone else’s utopia was destroyed instead.

My day in the West Bank settlements

An account of my day in one of the West Bank settlements with Motti Lerner, the playwright of Pangs of the Messiah.  I decided to be deliberately vague about which settlement and the rep there whom we met—since I didn’t tell them I would be blogging, I think it would be unfair print a public account that mentions them by name.

It was an early morning for me and Motti, 6am so we could get to the settlement in time for our 10am meeting.  We drove to Jerusalem and took the bus from there; Motti had had a bad experience once getting lost driving in the West Bank and he thought a bus was safer.

The bus drive went through empty, dry dessert.  Motti said that it could be as green as the roads around Jerusalem if trees were planted, but aside from the occasional olive grove, there was no greenery.  There was also little sign of civilization after we passed the dividing wall.  The road deliberately avoided the Palestinian towns, to avoid creating  further tensions.  Still, the bus was heavy with protective armor and bullet proof glass.

Motti explained that we were on a “Jewish” road, and that Palestinians had there own roads.  Although I understood the reason for the separation, I must admit I found the designation of a road just for Jews disturbing—both for Arabs and in light of my own associations with Jewish history (This is a bit of another subject, but I have really come to realize how Israeli Arabs and Jews live in totally different worlds—different schools, different laws…this is a choice on the part of the Arabs as well)

After driving on the winding road for a while, we finally came to the settlement.  We were early, so we stopped at the gas station and Motti grabbed a coffee.  Four soldiers with machine guns were also on line for a snack.

We headed inside and got stopped at the gate by a guard who was suspicious of my camera. Motti explained...something to the guard, who seemed to eventually accept it.  Then we went in.

The first thing we encountered was basically a trailer park for settlers, making a small neighborhood.  These, I was later told, were settlers waiting to be allowed to build homes.  The government had halted construction, and indeed the Supreme Court had ruled that some recently constructed homes needed to be dismantled.

Then we hit an area of pretty little houses on paved roads.  They all looked exactly alike-- red shingles, white walls, white tile floors.  The song Little Boxes came to mind, and indeed it turned out that the first fifty houses has been ordered en mass, as pre fab housing.  They wanted something quick and utilitarian which also conveyed the idea that here, no one is richer or poorer than anyone else, we are all equal and in this together.

We went to the Community Office and said hello to the secretary there.  She showed us a map of the settlement and we saw that the file on Motti had been pulled; they had reviewed it before he came. The secretary said the whole settlement was in mourning—a  young man from there had been among those recently killed.  The funeral was set for Thursday.

We also saw an exhibit on the Indian immigrants who recently joined the settlement and were in the process of being formally converted.  This particular settlement, we were told, is full of immigrants.  Part of their mission is to bring Jews in from around the world.  These Indian Jews said they had ancient Jewish origins.  The government accepted that and gave them citizenship, but at the settlement they were converting them just to be sure.

We left the offices after that and went to visit J—, a settler activist and former head of the regional council.  The rabbi who had been our original contact had cancelled, using the upcoming funeral as his excuse. Motti suspected the rabbi had simply had second thoughts.

J— was very welcoming and eager to talk.  He reminded me, in an odd way, of the Mormons I recently encountered during my brief stopover in Salt Lake City.  He, too, seemed eager to spread the Word.  The word for him was that all Jews must work together in order for the Messiah to come.

J—’ s home was full of simple, pre fab furniture to go along with the pre fab house.  Utilitarian and modest, except for the many books, mostly religious, that filled the shelves.

J— eagerly grabbed a book and an article about a document that was found, dating back to 500 BCE.  That document seemed to him to predict the Messiah in our age, though God needed all Jews, not just some, to do righteous deeds, and then and only then would the Messiah arrive.

This is why, he explained, it was so important to him to reach out to all aspects of Israeli society.  Some settlers had become isolationists he said, they refused to even pray for Israel, because they were so angry about the disengagement from Gaza.  But he sees things differently—in fact, he has become deeply involved with the general housing crisis.  He thinks the same technique used to build in the settlements could be used to create cheap housing—it is 300,000 to buy a home (was he referring to dollars or sheckels?  I wasn’t sure—take the number and divide by three if it’s sheckels), but it costs only 100,000 to build a new home, he calculated.

What he was suggesting sounded to me sort of like the projects, Israeli style.

Motti asked him what he would do if he had to abandon his settlement, because of a peace accord.  I would leave, said J—, the unity of the Jewish people is more important to me than the settlement, the most important is that all Israel feels like one.  And what, Motti asked, if part of the agreement would be allowing 40,000 Arabs the right of return (this number comes from the agreement Ehud Barak was ready to sign at the summit with Clinton, though ultimately Arafat refused).  40,000 would be too many, J— said at first.  But then he relented.  The unity was all, he said.

But then, he continued confidently, it won’t happen.  The Arabs will never agree.  He hoped instead that Jordan’s King would be overthrown and that the people, who are 70% Palestinian, would make Jordan into a Palestinian state.  Then, why would any Arab want to go to Israel?

There was another solution to the whole problem, of course.  If the Messiah came, it would all be moot, anyway.  But Jews had to be unified and righteous.

J— got a call, one of the unending series of phone calls he was fielding as he spoke to us.  He had to leave, but wanted to drive us back to Jerusalem.

We accepted.  He took the Jewish road, of course, but took a quick detour to a winery in the midst of the West Bank.  I made this, he told us proudly.  My last act as Head of the Regional Council.

It was a beautiful winery, stuck in the middle of the dessert.  He took us down to see the barrels.  Even Motti lit up, with all his doubts (he will not buy any products made in the West Bank, on principal),  Motti’s family has a history of working in wineries, and being in one was exciting for him.

Then, J—’s assistant switched on a film for us to watch.

It was the sort of propaganda film that verged on parody.  Stirring music played, the ancient history of Samaria and Judea was recounted (these being the regions of the West Bank), then the modern history of pioneers who have reclaimed and tamed the land into producing wine grapes was extolled.  Jews toiled—hard work, but so fulfilling.  The future never looked brighter for this land.

The film ended.  That was a bit ridiculous, said Motti.  Yes, said J—.  But he was beaming.

Where were the Palestinians?  Motti asked.  You had a whole film about the history of the region, and you didn’t mention the Palestinians once.

I guess we should have, said J—.  Maybe you’re right.  It didn’t occur to us.

Later, Motti commented, who would believe this film, anyway?  Not even those who support them.

They believe it, I said.  Couldn’t you see how much J— and his assistant loved it, how proud they were?  This film is not to convince others.  It is to convince themselves.

Motti agreed.

After the film, J— asked if we wanted to have a wine tasting.  Motti said he was too sleepy and would have to drive later.  So instead, J— drove us into Jerusalem and offered us a warm goodbye.

Such a nice man, said Motti.  Really nice.  But this is the paradox.  All his life, he has been doing nothing but building settlements  Such energy and leadership.  But he has done more to destroy Israel than anyone I know.