It's the Intermission
A Creative Coffee Break

There was once a time in between my first discovery of theatre, that moment when I fell in love with it, and the period when I committed myself to my writing. There was once a time when I hated or resented every play I saw, good or bad. This was a kind of limbo time, gestation as a person time, when I did not allow myself to express my art, or when I did, still didn’t believe in myself as an artist. The time before I dared to “own” myself as a writer. That was a painful rite of passage for me, as it is for many of us. These days, I learn more, appreciate more, love more, am interested more, in what I see.

This month’s issue of The Dramatist finds Theresa Rebeck proclaiming, in a sea of mainstream playwrights’ articles, “My interest in storytelling has been, at times, sadly controversial.” I am not in any particular playwright camp about what kinds of play, what kinds of theatre are better than others. The divison among playwrights, or theatre folk, was neatly laid out in the NY Times article, You Must Go On After Beckett. I Can’t Go On After Beckett. Go On. I’m not vested in debating forms, although I also believe it is helpful to “Theatre” when those who desire to enter the fray, to do so. Myself, I believe the proper style, form, length, language for a play is the one the play dictates. Whether we like it or not, the play and its form dictates the audience it receives, as well, for good or bad.

I love a broad range of theatre. I love musicals. I am a Sondheim freak. I broke my teeth on Beckett. I will see anything written by Albee. Or Caryl Churchill. Caridad Svich makes me sit up and take notice. I believe August Wilson is our generation’s Eugene O’Neill. And as much as I love O’Neill, it would take a lot, today, for me to sit through a production of one of his plays.

And why do I insist on writing “theatre” when that’s the anglophile version of “theater?

There’s one thing I find unforgiveable. Okay, two things. What I find unforgivable in a play is a playwright’s reckless disregard for its audience, whether that be, simply enough, poor writing (did he or she not listen to anyone?!), or worse, a belief the audience is too stupid to “get it” and not worthy of the writer’s attention. Again, the play and its form dictates the audience it receives, welcome or not.

I love new work, and I sit down in a theatre believing no ill will is intended by the playwright. It is always my desire to be taken in by the play, and to suspend my “self” and writer’s brain. Often I am pleased. Often I am forgiving, especially if I feel the writer is still finding his or her way through the process. When I cannot suspend myself, it is usually (though not always) the fault of the writer. We are not always a good match for each other. And, I feel, that’s how it should be.