A Christmas Carol Adaptation (Stave 2)

On this Christmas day, I give you one more of the recently discovered playlets of Barnaby McScrivener. (If you are new to this blog, you may learn more about Mr. McScrivener and read the first of his Christmas carol adaptations here). Appended to the original script was a letter from one of Berlin’s leading theatrical producers, Mannheim Von Sturmroller, who wrote: “I regret that while your playlet is immensely entertaining, it cannot possibly be produced in its present form. Have you considered an adaptation of Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!? I am confident it would be quite the success in Bohemia next season.”

JINGLING ON THE HEATH

Personae Dramatis:

Percival P. Peckingwood III: A fancy man of means, dressed in the latest London fashion.

Miss Fanny Eloise Toppenham-Bacon Bright: A handsome young lady of middling birth.

Others as available.

The scene opens in the ballroom of a fine manor house, aglow with festive candles and a finely decorated holiday tree (at least 20 feet high). Two score of actors of diverse ages and amplitude are seen dancing and gamboling merrily, while a chamber orchestra plays a jaunty tune of the day. Another lively group plays a game of “Pope in the Pulpit,” while a gaggle of young children cavorts through a rousing round of “That’s My Frigate!” A particolored Greyhound (an Irish Wolfhound or Moldavian Lurcher are acceptable substitutes) adorned with deer antlers crosses the stage, to the amusement of the party-goers. In the corner of the ballroom, a dwarf from the Isle of Borneo demonstrates the mystic art of Tam-Tam. The aroma of figgy pudding wafts over the audience.

The scene having been set, the entire set rotates slowly on an immense turntable until we find ourselves, miraculously, on the exterior of the country estate. The party continues, now seen only in glimpses behind fogged windows. We hear muted sounds of merriment. Snow begins to fall, gradually becoming heavier as the action proceeds throughout the play (ultimately reaching a depth of no less than two hands). A dozen carolers enter, singing joyously. The front door is opened by a footman wearing a Welsh wig who invites the carolers to join the party. They enter, accompanied by great cheers and huzzahs. After the carolers have entered, our two protagonists emerge, dressed in Victorian finery, bundled against the bitter cold. The play begins.

Percival:
[pointing off stage]
It’s just over there, waiting for us. Let us not tarry. If you are quite ready, milady, we shall climb aboard and begin the merriment.

Fanny:
[joyously clapping her hands]
Oh, what delightful fun! I’ve never done this before.

Percival:
It certainly will be jolly. Methinks you’ll be laughing all the way.

Fanny:
[Suddenly concerned]
Oh my! Where in heaven is the other horse?

Percival:
[Confused]
Whatsoever do you mean?

Fanny:
I see only one horse. Don’t sleighs usually require two horses?

Percival:
No. I don’t believe so. I’ve always used just one.

Fanny:
[Gesturing broadly in the direction of unseen fields]
Pray tell, what about the fields?

Percival:
Yes, the fields. Now, what about them?

Fanny:
We will be traipsing across fields, is that not so?

Percival:
[A little annoyed]
Well, of course there will be fields to cross. That’s really the entire point.

Fanny:
But will we not need two horses to pull us across these fields? What I mean is, to pull us at a reasonable pace. A dashing pace? It seems to me that one horse will be fine for favorable conditions, but crossing fields?

Percival:
Ho, ho! Now I understand! I am such a silly ass. I see that you wish to move at a brisk pace. Yes, of course. A dashing pace it shall be!

Fanny:
Dear sir, there is no need for you to apologize. It is I who was being obtuse!

Percival:
You are far too gracious. Let me explain: You see, this sleigh is especially designed for just one horse.

Fanny:
Yes, I do see that now.

Percival:
You will also note that this horse is both lean and lank. These are adequate attributes for a speedy jaunt through the snow.

Fanny:
[looks closer]
Oh my! What about its tail?

Percival:
Tail?

Fanny:
He doesn’t seem to have one.

Percival:
Not a long one, no.

Fanny:
That seems dreadfully odd.

Percival:
It’s a question of fashion, my dear. His tail has been bobbed, you see. Moreover, I’ve bestowed bells upon it. Such is the rage in London. I find the style raises my spirits quite high. I expect you will find the same.

Fanny:
I am ever so sorry to doubt you, sweet Percival. It’s just…

Percival:
Yes, dear?

Fanny:
It’s just … oh dear … I fear the poor beast will …

Percival:
Will what?

Fanny:
Well, that misfortune will be his lot. What with the bobbed tail and the silly bells.

Percival;
My dear Miss Bright, what possible harm could befall us?

Fanny:
My greatest fear is that we will become entrapped in a bank of snow. I shudder to imagine an even more dismal outcome!

Percival:
And what might that be?

Fanny:
That our conveyance will be upsot, and we shall be tos’t upon the icy drifts. Moreover, that I shall never wed a proper gentleman.

Percival:
Oh, you supercilious little scamp! T’is not the season for such imagined concerns. Let’s be away. The faster we journey, the quicker we will again be snug and cozy near the welcoming hearth. I have been led to understand that we will be partaking in a wee bit of wassailing upon our return.

Fanny:
[Sighing, resigned]
Away then.
Across the fields.
I shall endeavor to laugh the entire way.

Percival:
That’s my girl.

END OF PLAY

A Christmas Carol Adaptation

Alas, no theater company in Portland has mounted a production of the Charles Dickens holiday chestnut, A Christmas Carol, this year. Nor is any company producing an evening of playlets written by Mr. Dickens' contemporary, Barnaby McScrivener (pictured at right). Indeed, no theater company has ever produced a play by Mr. McScrivener, despite his having been at the cutting-edge of his generation's carol-based stage adaptation movement.

Recently, I was delighted to discover a rich trove (is there any other kind of trove?) of Mr. McScrivener's wee theatrical gems tucked away in a moldering trunk for over a century. These dramatic arts niblets tell simple stories--nay, morality tales--drawn from popular holiday carols.

So, without further ado, I invite you to gather the family by a crackling fire, fill your nog mugs, and enjoy one of Mr. McScrivener's Christmas Carol playlets. Better yet, host a staged reading for all your friends. (Please silence your cell phones now.)

Christmastime: It’s Coming

Personae Dramatis:
Abelard McChuffery II: A portly fellow with muttonchops.
Milton Harcourt Fishpicket, Esq: A thin, reedy, elderly man with common features.

Note to Directors: Do not rush the conversation. Pauses should carry as much dramatic freight as the very words themselves.

Setting:
A country road. Snowdrifts. We hear the whistling of the wind and the occasional honking of geese. It is evening and bitter cold. The drear light should fade gradually through the course of the play.

The lights rise on two men wearing ratty overcoats, heavy work boots, and fur hats. They are cold. One of them, Milton, is staring off stage. He leans forward, squinting toward a distant spot.

MILTON:
Do you see that?

ABELARD:
What?

MILTON:
The geese.
Over there.
Look at them.

ABELARD:
Yeah.
Canadian Geese.
What about them?

MILTON:
Canada Geese.

ABELARD:
What?

MILTON:
They’re Canada Geese, not Canadian.

ABELARD:
No kidding?
That doesn’t sound right.

MILTON:
It is.
You can look it up.
Canada Geese.

ABELARD:
I will.
What about them?

MILTON:
Fat.
Can’t you see that?
[looks again, and points]
You can see that, can’t you?

ABELARD:
What are you talking about?

MILTON:
[pointing insistently]
The geese… over there.

ABELARD:
I hadn’t noticed.
What about them?

MILTON:
They’re getting’ fat.
[He looks more closely]
Fatter.
Yeah, they’re fatter than they used to be.

ABELARD:
You’re right.
They are getting fat.
Fatter.

MILTON:
You’ve seen them before?

ABELARD:
Sure I have.
But never that fat.
They really are quite fat ... for geese.
You know what that means don't you?

MILTON:
No. What?

ABELARD:
Christmastime is coming.

MILTON:
What’s that got to do with it?

ABELARD:
You said the geese are getting fat. And they are. That’s what.

MILTON:
Yeah?

ABELARD:
They get ...
They get fatter.
Geese do.

MILTON:
Geese? When?

ABELARD:
You know, when Christmas is coming.
When it’s Christmastime.
When Christmastime is...well...when it’s coming.

MILTON:
That makes no sense.
You’d think they would be getting thinner.
All that flying.
Migrating.
All that migrating.
[turning to Abelard]
Hey, how did you know about the fat thing?

ABELARD:
[shrugs]
I don’t know.
It’s just something I heard.
Something I heard about geese.

MILTON:
I guess.
I just think it’s weird.
I don’t like it.
I don't like it at all.

ABELARD:
I get that.
Nobody likes fat Canadian geese.

MILTON:
Canada Geese.

ABELARD:
You sure?

[Milton shrugs. They stand in silence for a full minute, getting colder--stamping feet, rubbing their arms and hands, etc. The sound of honking geese recedes in the distance while they continue to look offstage]

ABELARD:
Say, Milton, have you got a penny?

MILTON:
What?

ABELARD:
A penny.

MILTON:
I thought you said something else.

ABELARD:
No. I said "penny."
Do you have one?
[he gets no response]
Milton?

MILTON:
[annoyed]
Why? Why do you want…
What was it again?
A penny?

ABELARD:
I’ve always wanted one.
More would be nice, but one is what I need.
Have you got one?

MILTON:
[He starts to check his pockets]
I might. Just a second.
[He searches quite a while]

ABELARD:
No hurry.

[Milton keeps searching, pulling diverse items from his pockets. A parasol, a live dove, and an anvil should be among the items retrieved. Eventually Milton collects a handful of coins, which he examines carefully.]

MILTON:
Sorry, I don’t have one after all.
[He puts the coins back in his pockets]
Will anything else do?
[He pulls a banana from his coat pocket and shows it to Abelard]
Fresh fruit?

ABELARD:
[Thinks about it]
A ha’penny?

MILTON:
What’s that?

ABELARD:
I think it’s half a penny.

MILTON:
There’s no such thing.

ABELARD:
Just look.
Humor me.

[Milton searches his pockets until he has a handful of coins again. He sorts through them one-by-one]

MILTON:
Quarter…quarter…nickel…dime…peso…another quarter…Canada dime…
[surprised]
Hey, what ho?

[Milton holds up a small coin, then searches frantically through his pockets until he finds a jeweler’s loupe, which he uses to examine the coin.]

I’ll be damned!
It says half penny.
I thought it would be like…you know…
like cut in half or something.
But it's not.
Do you still want it?

ABELARD:
It’ll do.
If you don’t have a whole penny, that is.

MILTON:
Okay then. It's yours.

ABELARD:
[removes his hat and holds it open, shaking it at Milton].
Put it in the hat.

MILTON:
What?

ABELARD:
I think you’re supposed to put the ha’penny in the hat.

MILTON:
In that hat?
Okay, old man.

[He tosses the coin in the hat. We hear it striking several coins already in the hat.]

ABELARD:
God bless you.

MILTON:
Is that all?

ABELARD:
I think so.
It’s getting dark.

MILTON:
You're right.
It is getting dark.
Hey, Abelard?

ABLELARD:
What, Milton?

MILTON:
I lied.

ABELARD:
About what?

MILTON:
The penny.
I lied about the penny.
I had one.

ABELARD:
I know.

MILTON:
You knew?

ABELARD:
I knew.

MILTON:
Do you mind saying it again anyway?

ABELARD:
What?

MILTON:
That thing you said.

ABELARD:
God bless you?

MILTON:
That's it.
You too.
God bless you.
[He looks out into the field again]
Canada Geese?
[shakes his head, chuckling]
No kidding.

[Fade to dark]

END OF PLAY

NEXT UP: The Jingle Caper

Shameless Promotion Edition

Excuse me while I plug Oregon Children’s Theatre, the performing arts company with which I am associated.

Tickets for the season opener, “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” are flying out the door like winged crepes at the annual All You Can Eat Flying Hotcake Festival . OCT’s Artistic Director, Stan Foote, has loaded the show with fun gags and whiz-bang effects. The characters are familiar yet distinct from what you remember from the two famous movie adaptations. The set is a knock-out, as are the incredible costumes created by Sarah Gahagan (equal to her Drammy Award-winning costumes for last year’s “James and the Giant Peach”). Two 5:00 shows have been added on November 14th and 21st.

Read the Oregonian review, which called it a "sweet dream of a production." We also loved this review from NW Kids, including an interview with a six year old audience member.

Tonight is opening night for the thespians from OCT's Young Professionals program. A cast of ten talented teenagers will perform “Dis/Troy” in the company's black box studio at the Galleria. The play by Yokanaan Kearns is a contemporary adaptation of Homer’s Iliad that blends silly humor with lots of physical action. This production features some kick-ass fight scenes choreographed by John Armour, the aptly named fight director who has been responsible for much of the violence and mayhem you may have seen on Portland’s stages over the years. The production is directed by OCT’s own Marcella Crowson, who manages the Educational Theatre Program in partnership with Kaiser Permanente. Theater folks in town know and love her from her time as a stage manager for many productions at Portland Center Stage. Marci describes “Dis/Troy” as “not your eighth-grade teacher’s version of the Iliad.”

The show plays this weekend and next, with 7:00 p.m. performances on Friday and Saturday and Sunday matinees at 2:00. Location: Galleria, 600 SW 10th Avenue, Third Floor. $5-10 Admission. Box Office: 503-228-9571. “Dis/Troy” will also be performed in the rotunda of Hatfield Hall (1111 SW Broadway) as part of the PCPA’s “Brown Bag Lunch Series.” That show will be free.

On Monday, November 9th (7:00-8:30) Marketplace Money and Oregon Public Broadcasting will be taping an episode titled, “Financial Futures: Talking money with your tykes, tweens and teens,” in the Winningstad Theatre. What does that have to do with OCT? As part of the reporting on kids and money, the show’s host, Tess Vigeland, will talk to the young actors from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and from OCT's youth improv troupe, Impulse. Folks from Live Wire! Radio will be on deck as well. More information, including how to get tickets can be found here.

Speaking of money: OCT just learned that it will receive a $20,000 grant from the National Endowment for the Arts in support of its commission and production of a stage adaptation of "Small Steps." Novelist Louis Sachar has been working with Stan Foote to adapt his sequel to "Holes" for the stage. The play will feature original music by Karl Mansfield. I'll tell you more about it later. The money from the NEA is very helpful for the project, but so is the validation that the company is playing in the big leagues.

Laramie Project: Ten Years Later

Tonight (October 12, 2009), Portland will be one of at least 150 cities to participate in a project to premiere “The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later, An Epilogue.”

The play is being performed on the same night on stages in all fifty states, Canada, Great Britain, Spain, Hong Kong and Australia. Portland’s edition will be a reading held in the Newmark Theatre, with a cast comprised of a “Who’s Who” of theater artists. Stan Foote, Artistic Director of Oregon Children’s Theatre is directing and Byron Beck, Portland's biggest gossip hound, will serve as narrator.

You all know the story, but here’s a recap: In October 1998, Matthew Shepard was beaten and left to die in the outskirts of Laramie, Wyoming. A month after his murder, playwright Moisés Kaufman and members of the Tectonic Theater Project traveled to Laramie, where they conducted interviews with residents. Out of those interviews, they wrote the play “The Laramie Project,” which was later made into a film. The play and film have been seen by more than 30 million people.

Ten years later, Kaufman and the Tectonic Theater Project returned to Laramie to conduct new interviews. How had the community changed in the intervening decade? How is the event being reinterpreted over time? In addition to re-interviewing many residents, the team interviewed Matthew Shepard’s mother, Judy Shepard, and his murderer Aaron McKinney, who is serving two consecutive life sentences. The resulting play examines how the murder continues to reverberate in the community. Tectonic Theater Project has set up an "Online Community" website to collect blog posts, videos and photos of the event.

Tonight’s performance at the Newmark will be a reading without staging. Stan has assembled a cast comprised of many of his colleagues and talented theater artists and local figures. In addition to Byron Beck, the cast is:

Allen Nause (Artistic Director, Artists Repertory Theatre)
Scott Yarbrough (Artistic Director, Third Rail Repertory)
Beth Harper (Artistic Director, Portland Actors Conservatory)
Dan Murphy (Founding General Manager, Broadway Rose Theatre)
Rose Riordan (Associate Artistic Director, Portland Center Stage)
Helen Raptis (Host of AM Northwest, KATU)
Chris Murray
Paul Glazier
Sharonlee McLean
Troy Lakey
Kelley Marchant
Kathleen Cafiero
Jake Michels
Katie Sundt

The reading is a fundraising benefit for The Matthew Shepard Foundation and Basic Rights Oregon, and is sponsored by Bling Dental. The New Century Players, based in Milwaukie, Oregon is a producing partner. The New Century Players will be presenting a three-week run of the original production of “The Laramie Project” from October 16-31st.

When: Monday October 12, 2009

Where: Newmark Theater, PCPA, 1111 SW Broadway, Portland OR 97205

General Admission: $20, Student Discount Available, $50 VIP Ticket includes entrance to BLING VIP Party at Ten 01 with food by Tabla Mediterranean Bistro.

Tickets are on sale in person at the Portland Center for the Performing Arts Box Office and all Ticketmaster outlets.

By phone: call Ticketmaster at 1-800-745-3000. Or online at www.ticketmaster.com

Massive Costume Sale!

I try to avoid shilling for the arts organization that employs me, Oregon Children's Theatre. That's not what this blog is about, plus I don't want readers to think that the malformed opinions and potty mouth language that I spew under the guise of Mighty Toy Cannon have anything to do with that fine cultural institution.

With that caveat out of the way, allow me to promote the most stupendous, gargantuan costume sale that you are likely to ever experience in the entirety of your existence on this planet, may you live into a ripe old age.

Oregon Children's Theatre is selling off much of its costume inventory next week. No, this isn't being done out of economic desperation. We're doing just fine, though you might consider sending a donation. (I'll wait here while you write a check).

The company simply has too many great costumes that it will never use again. Why is that? It's mostly a matter of changing aesthetics and artistic vision. We're not about big, furry animal costumes, and we're no longer producing for the humongous barn of Keller Auditorium, a venue which required outsized costuming so that a six-year old in the top balcony could actually see a little of the action.

Over the past few weeks, staff and volunteers have been sorting through the inventory to get ready for the sale. We've been having fun seeing all that there is--and there is a lot. As official videographer, I've assembled three short films to entice you. Watching all three will eat up no more than five minutes of your busy life.

The first shows our staff trying on costumes:



We couldn't resist staging a staff meeting with some of the masks:



Finally, Stan Foote willingly abased himself for this video showing a fraction of the crazy party wigs that will be available.



Our landlords for the Galleria Building have generously allowed us to hold the sale in the now-vacated storefront on the corner of SW 10th and Alder (formerly occupied by Made in Oregon).

Friday, September 25th, 5:00 to 7:30

We're holding an exclusive pre-sale sale, with a $10 entry fee (kids free) to weed out the riff-raff and give the elite early access to the plunder. Not only will you get first crack at the inventory, we'll have a live jazz band* and beer and wine. Stop by after work and have some fun. You'll have plenty of time to dash over to the Armory for opening night of "Ragtime" at Portland Center Stage. (If you're going out to dinner or to the theater that evening, we'll hold your purchases until the next day).

Saturday, September 26th, 10:00 to 6:00

The big sale!

Also, watch for us on Good Day Oregon (KPTV Channel 12) throughout Friday morning's broadcast.

* Friday night's cool jazz stylings will be courtesy of the Mayfield 4, featuring the upright bass of Matthew Jones, long-time friend and colleague and member of Bourbon Jockey, the band with which I have been known to embarrass myself.

The Yobs Cometh

Whether we’re sunning on the deck of Culture Shock’s Worldwide Headquarters atop Valhalla View Tower South, driving around town in our Toyota Emasculas, or pounding down boilermakers and eating jo jos at the Coff-Em-Up Club, one question your correspondents are always pondering is this:

How can the performing arts attract new audience members in this age of media saturation, economic meltdown, crumbling infrastructure, global jihadism, melting icecaps, rampant greed, unbounded sloth, celebrity idolatry, and booze-soaked, devil-may-care, willy-nilly nihilism?
Twitter?

We’re trying. Lord knows we’re trying. But do we really understand the risks we’re taking when we try to “engage” audiences? A recent story in the London Times Online may serve as a cautionary tale by bringing attention to a potential downside to attracting new audience members—particularly those who may not be familiar with the refined manners we’ve grown to expect during our high-brow cultural outings.

The article, titled “Mind your step: It’s a yob’s night at the theatre,” starts:

“Coming to a theatre near you: sex, violence and drunken high jinks — and that’s just the audience. A number of West End theatres are now employing bouncers to cope with intoxicated patrons who fight, fondle one another and even urinate in the auditorium. The yobbish behaviour has led to theatregoers being ejected during performances and police being called to some of London’s most successful shows.”

Now I can abide with alcohol-fueled hi-jinks, and I can tolerate the urinators, as long as they're downstream from me. But fondling? One another? I'll have no truck with such shenanigans. Is this how far the western world has fallen?

Where does the blame for these “vulgar antics” lie? Some commentators attribute the hooliganism to low ticket prices instituted to draw the youngsters through the doors. Others say it’s the liberal availability of the devil’s nectar before and during performances. One might argue [not me] that the rowdy behavior now on constant display at every West End theatre [emphasis added] simply harkens back to the age of Shakespeare, when unwashed stinkards would mill about during performances, quaffing flagons of poultrouse, eating fried currcakes and wiping their greasy, sugar-encrusted fingers on each other’s fobkins and pendergrasts.

All I’m saying is let’s be careful and not get too crazy with the audience engagement initiatives. The Law of Unintended Consequences, what ho and all that.


NOTE: If any of our readers found this post disturbing, rest your eyes on the picture below, found while searching Google Images for “yobs.”

Mighty Toy Mamet Covers the Beer Summit

This morning's paper reported on yesterday's so-called "Beer Summit," at which President Obama tried to lay some healing hands on Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and Officer James Crowley. Vice President Joe Biden joined the festivities.

The article concluded with this line: "The four men munched peanuts and pretzels out of small silver bowls." That was a prompt I couldn't possibly resist.

Warning: Contains Adult Language. All characters and dialogue are fictional.

A BEER IN THE ROSE GARDEN

-A One Act Play-

by Mighty Toy Mamet

SCENE:

A picnic table in a verdant garden. In the background we see a white, colonnaded mansion. The table is set with small silver bowls filled with pretzels and peanuts. An ornate silver punch bowl with ice is on a side table. We see the necks of beer bottles sticking out of the ice. Four men are seated at the table drinking beer from glass mugs. They are casually dressed, as if preparing for a round of golf. A man in a white jacket stands at attention next to the punch bowl.

BARRY:

Hank...Hank...Hank. Okay. Hank. Look.

[taking a long pull on his beer, holding his hand up to halt the conversation]

Give Jim a chance to speak his mind, Hank. He’s a good man. We know what he is. He's fine. All I'm saying, Hank, is it looks like he made a mistake ... wait, wait, wait… that’s all I’m saying is give him another chance to explain here.

I don't want to tell you your job. I’m no professor, and I don’t want to pretend like I know what happened that night.

HANK:

That’s bullshit.

BARRY:

All that I'm saying is this. Things get set. I know. You know they do, you get a certain mindset... A guy gets a reputation. We know how this...all I'm saying, let’s get this thing beyond us and move on from here.

HANK:

Look, Barry. You may think this is going to blow over. Blow over and, what, be forgotten? Maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be ...[pause] Shit. Never mind ...

BARRY:

... No. Hank. C’mon. What are you saying? Are you saying I don’t know what it’s like to be ... What? I mean, what are you saying here? Are you ...

HANK:

... No, no, no, no ...

BARRY:

... back up a second here. Because I’m where I am now, that means I ... what? I don’t remember where I was before? That’s just bullshit, Hank.

JIM:

Hey. Listen. I appreciate the beer, but I told the kids we’d see the space museum before we go home. Hard Rock Café too.

JOE:

Listen you little cocksucker. Excuse me, but Jesus H. Christ. Do you know who you’re talking to?

JIM:

What the fuck?

JOE:

Wait just a god-damned minute. I mean, look, Barry’s trying to say something. He’s saying something important, and if you don’t shut your piehole… I mean, I’m literally going to crawl in your face and ...

BARRY:

... Joe, Joe, Joe.

JIM:

Is this how this is going to happen? Is that why I’m here? What? So you can give me ... All of you can just ...

HANK:

... See. There. That’s what I’m talking about. Right. There. He’s doing it...

BARRY:

What do you think Tyrone?

TYRONE:

Excuse me, sir. What do I think about what?

BARRY:

You know, about the thing that happened. What do you …

TYRONE:

I try not to think about it much, sir.

JOE:

Look, I think Tyrone ought to sit down with us here. It doesn’t look right for him to be serving. Not today ...

HANK:

It doesn’t LOOK right? Is that what this is about? Looking right?

BARRY:

Well, no. Not exactly. No ...

JIM:

[Standing, fists clenched]

Look, this is bullshit. I don’t care who’s watching…

BARRY:

... no ... wait ...

JIM:

... or what kind of way it looks ...

HANK:

... I only ...

JOE:

... What the ...

HANK:

... wanted somebody to say he’s sorry and move ...

BARRY:

... okay, let’s calm down. Just chill out and enjoy the beer fellas ...

TYRONE:

[opening more beer and filling their glasses]

It’s cold. That’s what I think. It’s cold and tastes good.

BARRY:

How about those Sox? Let’s just talk about the Red Sox? Would that be okay with you? If we talk about baseball a little.

JOE:

Shit on a cracker, Barry. Look, I’m telling you it WAS a stupid thing for him to do. It was done stupidly. Why can’t we just say that. Stupid.

BARRY:

... no, no ... wait now. Joe.

JIM:

... Bullshit. It’s me. That’s who you’re talking about. And my family. My family waiting for me. Shit.

[pause, wiping his brow]

Due respect, I thought Boston was hot in July. Give me another one of those fucking beers. I don’t care which kind. Red Stripe, Blue Moon. I’d even drink some of that yellow Chinese beer. What’s it called? Ching Chong? Good with chow mein though.

[During the following, Barry is intently watching a fly buzzing around the table]

HANK:

Look. I mean, speaking of China. China, that’s the whole problem. I was tired after, what? 20 hours on a plane. You would too. You ever flown from China? No. No, I wouldn’t expect you would have been to China. Not lately.

JIM:

Lately. Kiss my ass lately. Like I don’t ever go nowhere. I don’t go nowhere ‘cause I’m just a cracker cop from Southie. Is that it, professor?

HANK:

I’m not saying ...

JIM:

Yeah? Seems to me you always got something to say. Shit, you get paid to talk and write and that shit. Write books and talk on television.

HANK:

It’s not ...

JIM:

What’s that? You call that work? Bullshit! You're burning my ass with that bullshit.

JOE:

Look. This is what you need to know. When I was growing up in Scranton, we all lived on different ...

JIM:

All due respect sir, you can shove Scranton up your pansy ass.

[Joe stands up and takes a step toward Jim. Barry suddenly smashes the fly on the table, startling everyone but Tyrone. He picks the fly up and drops it in Joe’s beer mug]

BARRY:

Now look. You two can either sit the fuck down and shut your fuckin’ mouths, or I can call an agent over to bust you down so motherfuckin’ fast you’ll be crying like pussies.

[They sit]

You think I like this? You think I like sitting here drinking beer with you fuckbags? There are people looking this way. Some of them can hurt you very badly.

JOE:

Let ‘em look. Like my old mother used to say ..

[Barry grabs Joe by his collar]

BARRY:

You think. What? You think I don’t have anything better to do? Nothing better than drinking this pisswater beer? Is that it? What you think?

[He holds Joe down and forces him to drink the beer with the fly in it. The others at the table drink their beers, avoiding eye contact. Tyrone chuckles quietly]

You see that bowl there? That bowl with the beer and ice?

You know who made that bowl? Paul Fuckin’ Revere made that bowl. You know who that is?

JIM:

Please tell me you’re not askin’ me who is Paul Revere. Where do you think I’m from? Revere? Like I don’t know he’s like the guy on the horse with the declaration of independence. From Boston.

BARRY:

So, you know then. You know that I’m a guy who has a friggin’ punch bowl made by Paul Revere? What does that make you think?

JIM:

Well, I guess ... I dunno. What?

BARRY:

That’s right. That’s what it means to be the guy who brought the beer in a motherfuckin’ museum piece. It means you’re listening to me now.

And, here’s what we’re going to do. You listening, Joe? Hank? Jimmy cracker boy?

[They nod]

What we’re going to do is this. What we’re going to do is make happy. You know how to make happy? You know how to make nice? Let’s just call it our happy ending. Tyrone, what’s the word Carter called it?

TYRONE:

Détente?

BARRY:

That’s right ...

TYRONE:

Rapprochement?

BARRY:

That too. We’re going to ...

TYRONE:

Agree that this was a candid but friendly discussion between honorable men?

BARRY:

Yeah. That’s it. Thank you, Tyrone.

Then Jimbo here is going to have his picture taken with my lovely wife. And then some TV reporter is going to kiss his ass to get an interview tomorrow morning. Right? A big hero and martyr. Another Captain Sulley. Until some grizzly bear is caught on video with his head stuck in what? Stuck in a friggin’ can and the cable news guys decide to run that instead of this story. And then ...

JIM:

I was thinking that, also ... I mean, maybe ...

BARRY:

... and then he’ll get a six figure deal book deal for his memoirs. Right? Don’t think about seven figures, cracker. Don’t start thinking you’re worth that.

JIM:

But. But. The helicopter ride?

BARRY:

... and then what? Then, he’s going to shut the fuck up until he’s an old man. That’s what he’s going to do. And when he’s an old, old man with withered nuts, you know what he’s going to do? I’ll tell you what. That’s when he’ll tell his grandkids all about it. He’ll be drooling in a cup, and he’ll be telling ‘em what a big deal he used to be. That’s what he’ll be saying. But you know what? You want to know what? Nobody ... I mean nobody is going to give a rat’s ass about any of that. They’ll be thinking about how bad he smells. He’ll tell them what a big man he was and they won’t be listening. They’ll be looking at the door.

Are we good here, boys? Everybody?

[Jim nods]

HANK:

Now. What? What am I getting? I’m getting jack, I think. A beer? That’s it? That's all I'm getting out of this? I’m the one. I’m the one who’s had his dignity, what? Taken. Stripped away? I guess that’s always the deal, isn’t it? I walk out of here and make the apologies. “I regret the misunderstanding.” Is that how it goes? I say, “I welcome this learning ... this ... what? This teaching moment?” Is that my cross to bear?

BARRY:

Yeah. No. No. Wait a minute Hank. What do you want, Hank? You want Jesse and Al to have a beer with you too? You got me doing this. Do I want to be doing this?

JOE:

You know what I think we ought to ...

BARRY:

You think we care what you think?

JOE:

I just ...

BARRY:

This is what you’re just going to do, Joe. You are not going to say anything about this thing we’re doing. You are not going to. No. It’s like you weren’t even here. Right? Right? Drink your beer and shut the fuck up.

HANK:

Hey ... that thing. What?

JIM:

Can I go now? Leave, I mean? Maybe take a beer with me? For my wife. She’s waiting. She's somewhere, waiting for me.

BARRY:

Get out of here. We’re done. Don’t forget to smile for the fuckin’ cameras on your way out.

- END OF PLAY-

Goin' Meta on Ya

Yesterday, I participated in a teleconference sponsored by the Theatre Communications Group on the topic of using Twitter to build audiences. The coordinator reported that 150 lines were registered, representing an estimated 350 listeners for the hour-long presentation. Interest in using social media to move tickets certainly abounds.

To test my savvy, I tweeted while listening to the teleconference (as did many of my colleagues). I also kept tabs on my Twitter feed the whole time. One of the tweeps I follow tweeted a link to an article about how to use teleconferences effectively. So, while participating in a teleconference about Twitter, I read an article about teleconferencing (discovered via Twitter), while tweeting about doing so. How meta is that? I blew my own mind.

Following the conference call, I read an article about how arts organizations are using every means possible to promote their work and build audiences. The article also mentioned that “offbeat and non-traditional programs are becoming more frequent.”

One example: In London, the Mammoth Music Theater presented 'Flatpack: An IKEA Opera' in a local IKEA store. The cast dressed in IKEA colors, and musicians used furniture and IKEA products such as glasses, saucepans and cheese grater as sets and props.

“This show was particularly hard to assemble,” said the director. “We cast a few extra parts which we never figured out how to use."

Critic Bjorg Flergssen wrote, "The production looked absolutely fabulous, but the whole thing collapsed shortly after the intermission." Following its premiere run, the production will be appearing on a sidewalk near you. Check Craig's List for show times.

NOTE: I made that last part up. It was an IKEA joke.

Also circulating around the interwebs is a link to an interesting article from Vancouver (the interesting Vancouver) titled, “How to Expand Our Arts Communities.” If you’re interested in that kind of thing, it’s a nice synopsis of ideas. If you're not interested, move along.

Mondays aren't all bad

Although I have recently proclaimed my affinity for Fridays, I realize that’s so very predictable, and I wanted to say that there is something to be said for Mondays. First of all, it’s the day that The Oregonian’s arts and culture coverage, printed, shines most. Four great features on this particular day:

• "Portland's creative class at an economic crossroad," by D.K. Row
• "Arts groups might want to invite Shiva to take a meeting," by Barry Johnson
• "Oregon Cultural Trust awards grants," by D.K. Row
• "Festival finale charms with diverse playlist," by David Stabler

Mondays also tend to be the most friendly morning in the office, as people visit with each other a little longer than usual before delving into their email boxes to delete all of the spam that came in over the weekend. Today there seem to be two primary topics around the water faucet (we don’t have a water cooler): How are you surviving the heat, and did you see anything at JAW?

I was there in the crowd that filled the lobby of the Gerding Theater on Friday afternoon, one of 400 who came for the 4:00 reading of Marc Acito’s new play, Birds of a Feather. It was a who’s who of the theater and literary community, and I counted at least 25 of my facebook friends there -- happy to see that some of them really existed.

When they finally let us in, Chris Coleman welcomed the crowd and gave some nice kudos to the talented staff who had developed this festival from its humble beginnings. Twelve years ago, Robin and I wrote the first grants to the NEA and the Paul Allen Foundation to help get things started, and eleven years ago the first festival took the stage in the Winningstad Theater under the guidance of Jim Nicola of the New York Theater Workshop. That first year really was pretty darn exciting for a company that had focused intensely on mostly classics in the past, and subsequent years have had their ups and downs. But my, how far it has come -- to have 400 people sitting in the theater at 4:00 on a Friday afternoon. And not just any 400 people, but a great cross-section of the creative community in general, and the theater community in particular. Very nice.

The play itself proved perfectly fun for a Friday afternoon. Ripped from the headlines of the New York Times and elsewhere, “Birds of a Feather” concerns the curious nature of two gay penguins and a few other related story lines woven it – but like Central Park Zoo itself, we really came to see the penguins, right? And yes, for those of you who wondered, Marc did change the ending in real time to reflect last week’s news that one of the world’s best known gay penguin couples, having nested together for 6 years, “broke up.”

Now if you’ve read any of Marc’s novels, or heard him on NPR, then you know he’s got the one-liners down pat. There were a lot of hearty belly-laughs, and the story also nailed some of the catharsis you want in an evening of theater – the gentle affection of the opening scene, for instance. But I couldn’t help feeling that sometimes subtlety would have worked much better than the overtness on display in the middle of the play. Perhaps it’s a matter of understanding your audience a little better and not trying to appeal to the masses – I venture to guess that 95% of the audience who would pay money for a play about gay penguins already knows that homosexuality is not a violation of nature, so I was surprised at the amount of time we spent investigating this. Or perhaps it’s just that a more interesting theatrical device could be used rather than having the characters deliver the most obvious of statements out loud (like, a zookeeper who says, “nearly every animal species has been known to have gay sex!” or something roughly that plain). Perhaps what I liked most about the play was how nature forced and Marc delivered a nice ending that wasn’t so black and white – and without being tempted by the “homewrecker” storyline possibilities.

I didn’t stay for the talkback – the coast was calling me – so I don’t know if this was addressed, but my biggest concern is that for some reason when Marc Acito writes about certain sexual acts, the audience groans uncomfortably. Some of it’s poor word choice on Marc’s part; a few adjectives and nouns that were intended to shock us felt cheap instead, and had the unintended consequence of undermining the poetry that was on display elsewhere in the script. Now I like good sex talk as much as the next guy, but I’d urge for a little more careful crafting. On Sunday, for example, we heard a play involving sex with swans, and fantasies about cats, that had us rolling the aisles with guilty laughter because of the playwright’s keen awareness of human reaction to every carefully chosen word.

In opting for the coast I knew I’d be missing some gems, and since my return I have heard very good things about several of the readings, “The Japanese Play” (Translation: Concerning Strange Devices from the Distant West) in particular. Curious to hear from any readers who have any impressions to share. I did return from the cooler coastal temperatures and migrating whales in time to catch 99 Ways to Fuck A Swan, written by Kimberly Rosenstock and directed by Rose Riordan.



Inspired by the Greek myth of Leda and the Swan, and Michelangelo’s lost painting of it, Rosenstock possesses an aforementioned command of dialogue and storytelling that turns art into sex and sex into poetry, helping build a play that is classical fantasy and modern realism all at once. Pure storytelling at its best, and it didn’t hurt that the company of actors were both poignant and hilarious. I quite liked it, although I must confess that I along with many in the audience got a little drowsy toward the end. The play might have been overlong by about 15 minutes, or maybe we all had just had so much darn art in one weekend that we couldn’t really sustain it much past 10:00PM on a Sunday night.

On a final note this Monday morning, we join the rest of the arts community in mourning the loss of Merce Cunningham, who passed away overnight. I feel extremely lucky to have experienced first-hand his expressionist style of movement that was so different than all the rest, only because White Bird brought the company to town. Stephen Marc Beaudoin has covered this nicely over at Blogtown, including a nice remembrance by Walter Jaffe.

100 Years of Blogging Dangerously

Gather ‘round me youngsters, and I’ll tell you a wee tale from old timey-time. You might even call it a legend, ‘cause it’s the story 'bout how your great-great-grandpappy became the blogger known ‘round these parts at that Mighty Toy Cannon.

Before I git started, one of you tykes might just top up my glass there. Don’t be stingy now. Fill it up to the top and plop another one of those olives in there. Oh yes indeedy! That’s what I call tasty. Okay, simmer down now and pay attention.

It was the long, hot summer of 2008 as I remember it. I wasn’t doin’ nothing what amounted to anything. I was just a lost soul sitting outside of the social network peering in through the window like a hungry dog lookin’ at a pork chop. Everybody those days was startin’ to blog and facebook and twitter and twatter, and all kinds of crazy things they was doing. I could hardly keep up with it all. It was just one big mess of intercommunicating that would raise hackles on the head of a hoarhound in heat. You see, we was all learnin’ to get along without having to look each other in the face.

One day that fellow you know as Uncle Jeffy sent me what we used to call an e-mail message. The “e” stood for “electrozimbonic,” and it was the way we used to talk to each other. That was the time right before holographic iBrain implants made communicating as simple as sayin’ “Howdy do?” to your neighbor. Nowadays y’all are used to communicatin’ using jes’ your brain waves. Back then we had to flap our lips or use our fingers to make words.

Well, I remember that July day when Uncle Jeffy (we called him Culture Jock) sent a message to a mess of us that read, “Hey. I need some help making this here Culture Shock blog more interesting and entertaining.” There was another word he used--it’ll come to me in jes’ a second-- provocatitious? I’m not sure if that’s right, but it’ll have to do for now.

Ol’ Culture Jock asked, “Would you be willin’ to lend a hand?” He said it would be like an old-timey barn-raising. The way he told it, we’d all pitch in and drink lemonade and eat biscuits when we was done. Everybody else … I forget their names now … jumped in right away, but I was naturally skeptical. You might have even called me dubious.

Well, I said to Culture Jock right off, “What the heck would I have to say ‘bout anything?”

Right back at me, he said, “Go on! You say interesting things all the time! Everybody says so, they do.”

Then I said to him, “What if I want to stay 'nonymous ‘cause I don’t want nobody finding me out and learning my secrets?” I didn’t really have secrets, but we had this thing called “privacy” that we used to let our heads worry ‘bout back then.

Just like that, he answered, “Heck. You could just make up some crazy old name and nobody would ever know the difference.”

So I threw one last thing at him: “What if I get in one of my moods for weeks at a time and jes’ stop writin' anything?”

You see, that was a time when this old fellow you're listenin' to had important work to do. There was grants that had to be written and arts that needed to be administrated. That was before the Council of Overlords passed the Oxygen Tax on Breathing, givin’ us a dedicated funding source for all the artistic and cultural stuff you now enjoy for free. Nowadays, if you’re born a Creative, you get all kinds of special mollycoddling, and you live the life of Goldman Sachs, looking down on regular people from atop your highrise units over at the South Waterfront Protective Compound. Back then, we was underappreciated and never got squat from nobody.

These days, things are good as pudding for artists, that’s for sure. I still regret that we couldn’t stop the robots from replacing human actors though. That was the one battle in the Great Culture War we lost. I gotta admit, after that happened, theater got more … what’s the word? … consistent. But we still have the ballet!

Anyways … where’d that martini shaker git to? Pass it over here quick, ‘cause I’m starting to feel parched with all this story-tellin’. Ahh, now that’s what I call a pleasing refreshment!

As I was saying, it took a bit of jawing, but Culture Jock finally convinced me to give it a go. “Don’t worry about writing posts on any kind of reg’lar schedule,” he said, “Nobody ever keeps up with blogging! Shoot, most bloggers give up once they realize nobody out there gives a hoot what they got to say.”

I guess that must have convinced me 'cause the next thing you know, I done posted something! My very first blog post. Jes’ like that, I was on the Internet Highway plying my trade as a gol’darned blogger by the handle of Mighty Toy Cannon.

By the end of that very first year of blogging, I had published 168 posts on Culture Shock, not to mention another 42 on a darn site of my very own, Mighty Toy Cannon (which I named after myself on account of it was all mine). I was as hot as a meth house on fire with a basement filled with kerosene! I could scarcely believe how much time I was wasting writin’ up some of that crazy stuff most every night. Lookin’ for the pictures to go with every post was half the fun! Lord knows, I was pleased to use that word “published” all the time, ‘cause it sounded so awfully important and all.

Those were good times back then. We was all posting things left and right and willy-nilly. Sometimes we got all serious and grim about topics, especially when some politician was actin’ bat-shit crazy. Some called us high-and-mighty and smug, on account of us tellin’ folks how things ought to be. You woulda thought we were in charge of the world! And you know what? We shoulda been, dammit!

Other times, we was jes’ a bunch of cut-ups, jokin’ around, trying to make people laugh and forget their troubles. We was bustin' people up like they was chifferobes! Lord knows, them was troubled times back then. People wanted a good laugh and we gave them what they needed!

I know, I know. Truth be told, we didn’t have a clue in heaven what our Followers wanted or liked. Most times they just read things and kept real quiet, like hidin' in the woods from a grizzly bear when your hands is full of fish heads dipped in honey. When that happens, you try not to jerk fast so as not to be noticed any more than you already are. But we knew they were there.

We always figured our brilliant writing had them readers cowed. That’s right, I said it, they was cowed by our extraordinary show of intellect. Every darn one of them readers wanted to comment, you know they did. But did they? No! They was scared to say nothin’ on account of we set the bar so goddamned high! I know it’s a grievous sin to be prideful, and I expect I’m gonna burn in hellfire and all, but it’s gotta be said before everyone forgets what it was like back then!

No, I’m not cryin’ sonny boy; I just got a piece of dust up in my eyeball. Which one is you anyway? Little Baby Cannon the Third? That’s sweet. Now why don’t you just get me a little more ice while you’re up and about. Might as well pass that bottle over too. That’s a good boy.

Now where was I? Oh, sure there was some posts I’d just as soon forget. Some of them still sneak up and haunt me now and again, makin’ me wonder what the heck I was thinking. But, other posts still make me kind of prideful to this very day, I have to admit in all modesty.

Pretty soon, me and my Culture Shock pals were startin’ to draw a little attention to ourselves. People were even admittin’ in public that they were Followers. Every now and then, other respectable folks would notice and comment about the crazy things we wrote.

You want to know who? Well, for example, people like those brainy guys at Art Scatter. They said a thing or two now and then.

You don’t know who I’m talking about? Well they were those fellows what won the Pulitzer Prize for Excellence in Cultural Blogging ‘round about 2022, the year Culture Shock was disqualified due to the Incident.

Yeah, that’s right-- they're the folks whose heads are on display down at the old Memorial Coliseum Museum and Fun Time Center. Why that Barry Johnson fellow was the last journalist left at the Oregonian when it was finally sold to the owner of the Pyongyang Gazette. Barry once wrote that one of my book reviews was the “best book review of the year” back in '09. Now I’ll grant you he wrote that after the year was but a week or two old, but it sure was a nice thing to say and he didn't have to go doing that.

Now quit all that wiggling or you’re gonna knock over my beverage and there’ll be hell to pay! I’ll be done soon enough and you can go back to gathering up sticks and twigs.

Pretty soon, more people knew me as Mighty Toy Cannon than by the name my folks bestowed on me at my birth. They was callin’ me things like “MTC” and “Toy Cannon.” Sometimes they’d mash it all up together as “mightytoycannon” and sometimes I'd called myself “MTCannon.” I’d be walking down the street and people would shout, “Yo! It’s the Cannon!” and give me the thumbs-up (when people still had thumbs), and they’d say, “I liked that post you posted!” I’d tip my hat and go on my way, holding my chin up a little bit prouder.

Well I tell you, that first year of blogging was something else. Some credit my series of "Election Countdown" music video posts in October of that year for having put Barack Obama over the top in that final election. Others say we were doling out hope at a time when hope and a million shares of General Motors wasn't enough to buy you a shot of Stumptown coffee.

I still have a hard time believing how quickly that first anniversary came around. You know what’s ironic? The traditional gift for a first anniversary used to be paper! You kids don’t even know what paper is, do you? That goes to show you something.

Shoot, at times that year seems to have flown by just about as fast as it took for Major League Soccer to fail in Portland! Other times, I remember it going as slow as being stuck in a hovercar on the 48-lane Nike River Crossing and Cyclocross Bridge to Vancouver before the Great Reckoning severed our relationship with our northerly neighbors.

You want to know what happened after that first year of blogging at Culture Shock?

Well, we’ll just have to save that for another time. I’m startin’ to think this glass isn’t going to fill itself. Skedaddle you little muskrats! Give this old man some time to think his thoughts by hisself.

Closing the Books on Another Year

For all nonprofit organizations with fiscal years ending at midnight tonight, congratulations on making it through a tough year.

Now that you’ve managed to stanch the hemorrhaging, drain the festering wounds, and stabilize your vital signs, we can go ahead and take a look at that broken bone. This won’t hurt a bit.

We all know that there’s really nothing magical about the start of a new fiscal year. Our accountants just need to place a marker to signal that one period is done and another is beginning. Art organizations will not wake up tomorrow morning to find that their bank accounts have been replenished by the Funding Fairy*. We just start up all over again in the unending struggle to meet budget goals.

*Note: The Funding Fairy unwisely invested funds with Bernie Madoff, ending up in the condition seen below.

In a recent article, The Chronicle of Philanthropy reports that nonprofits are feeling the “stress” of the recession. According to recent studies, the hurt has been felt most in small organizations; 70% of those with revenue under $1-million reported that finances had worsened in the past six months (compared with fewer than half of larger organizations).

More troubling is the finding that nonprofit leaders working at theaters and orchestras are sweating the economy the most. Whereas only 13% of all respondents said they were worried about organizational survival, the percentage of pessimists among orchestra leaders was 24%, and among theater managers a whopping 33%. Let me repeat that last figure: One-third of leaders of nonprofit theaters surveyed said they were worried about survival.

(More troubling is that 97% of artistic directors reported being "Very Concerned" when asked "Are you concerned that there won't be enough affordable one-person shows available to fill your season?").**

The co-author of one of the reports, William Foster, looked for the silver lining in all this: “The economic tightness is forcing nonprofits to do things that would be healthy habits in any economic time. If we’re going to come out of recession smarter than we came in, it will only be if tough decisions and thoughtful economizing has taken place.”

Tomorrow morning, tune in to OPB (91.5 fm) at 9:00 when the “Think Out Loud” topic will be “World Class Arts?” The question mark at the end of the title implies that there is debate about Portland's ability to sustain the number of top-notch arts institutions we now enjoy. Barry Johnson wrote about this at Portland Arts Watch a week ago, reporting that Doug Stamm, Executive Director of the Meyer Memorial Trust, had posed the question as to whether Portland can support all five of our top arts groups ... or even try. (The top five are the Portland Art Museum, Oregon Ballet Theatre, Portland Opera, Oregon Symphony and Portland Center Stage).

It’s a legitimate question, though I find it troubling that the head of one of the region’s major foundations would ask it in a way that implies the answer might be “No.” How about if we rephrase the question to give it a more positive spin: “What do we have to do to sustain the arts at a level that Portland deserves?”

Barry followed his original post with an interesting thesis about the role of true democracy in how we run arts organizations. It’s a thoughtful post packed with arguments and contentions worthy of lively debate. It’s long, but not “Infinite Jest” long if you're one of those people who are participating in "Infinite Summer" and have committed to read the David Foster Wallace opus in its entirety between June 21st and September 22nd.

** This part isn't true.

Snubbed

Welcome back, Mighty Toy Cannon.

One thing I neglected to mention it my coverage of the Drammy Awards was Marc Acito's comment toward the end of the evening. He, being invited to present some awards from the podium, remarked how disappointed he was that the Committee wasn't recognizing any playwrights this year for original script, and I knew this irritant was festering somewhere under his skin because he also noted cattily that the award-announcing slides all misspelled the word "achievement," implying that a lack of literary knowledge was evident throughout the entire affair. Might this also explain how two musicals won for best production of the entire year?

Anyway, today we find that Acito and 30 other playwrights have sent an open letter to the Drammy Award committee protesting the committee’s decision not to bestow a playwright's award for the second year in a row and the fourth time in eight seasons. Without further ado, here is their complaint:

On Monday, June 8th, the Portland Drammy Awards once again celebrated every aspect of theatre from actors and directors, to sets, costumes, sound, music, even going so far as to acknowledge the ushers and folks who work in the box office. One category, however was noticeably absent: the very people who create theatre from literally nothing and without whom there would be no theatre, save a few stray mimes and improv events. That’s right, the playwrights.

Portland had many productions this year that were either world premieres or written by local playwrights or both, including Apollo, Cooler, Holidazed, Crazy Enough, Live Nude Fear, New Believers, and Pylon. To snub this group is not only baffling, it’s an insult in the extreme.

Other cities, many less literate and writer-friendly than Portland, honor writers in their regional theatre award ceremonies: notably the Tony Awards in New York City, (awards for playwrights, as well as writers of the books for musicals); the Jeffs in Chicago (two writing awards for original plays and adaptations); the Barrymore Award in Philadelphia for a world premiere play; and three writing prizes from the San Francisco Bay Area Theatre Critics for new plays.

Portland has the biggest and best bookstore in the country. We have one of the largest writing organizations in the country, Willamette Writers, with 1,600 members. We have more best-selling authors than demographics would dictate (Jean Auel, Chuck Palahniuk, Chelsea Cain, Philip Margolin, to name a few). We have the Wordstock literary festival. And two new play festivals, Fertile Ground and JAW.

So why is it that one of the most literate cities in America, with one of the healthiest theatre communities, chooses to overlook playwrights for the second year in a row and the fourth time in the past eight seasons, ignoring such critically acclaimed world premieres as Celebrity Row and Another Fine Mess, the latter of which went on to become a nominee for the Pulitzer Prize? We the undersigned writers urge the Portland Drammy committee to wake up and acknowledge the source of great theatre.

Because the pen is mightier than the plastic stage sword.

It is signed,

Marc Acito
Adam Bock
Michael Thomas Cooper
Sandra de Helen
A.J. Doherty
Steven Drukman
Andrew Golla
Ciji Guerin
Wayne Harrel
Jordan Harrison
Michael Allen Harrison
Theresa Hernandez
Rolin Jones
Bill Johnson
Nancy Keystone
Sherry Lamoreaux
Storm Large
Susan Mach
Ellen Margolis
Christine McKinley
James Moore
Itamar Moses
Steve Patterson
Ebbe Roe Smith
Andrea Stolowitz
George Taylor
Molly Best Tinsly
Dan Trujillo
Cynthia Whitcomb
Eugenia Woods
Matt Zrebski

I think that's pretty well said. Any theories on why the Drammy Committee has ignored this essential ingredient of theatermaking?

And the Drammy Goes To...

Circumstances, either real or imagined, have prevented me from attending the Drammy Awards for the past five years. What a pleasure, then, to arrive at the Crystal Ballroom on a balmy Monday evening to find hundreds of festively-dressed artists, administrators, and enthusiastic theater groupies celebrating no fewer than 110 stage productions of the past theater season. The unofficial theme -- from comments on stage to the tagline in PCS's ad in the program -- was "a year of kick-ass theater."

My blogging collaborator Mighty Toy Cannon successfully lobbied for (or predicted?) several of the winners, including Sarah Gagahan for costumes in James and the Giant Peach, Sharonlee McLean for best actress in The Receptionist, and Chris Rousseau for sets in How To Disappear Completely and Never Be Found. In fact, How To Disappear shone in all of the technical categories, winning for sound and lighting to boot. Sadly, no awards were given for nudity.

A complete list of winners can be found here, with required follow-up reading here in the form of Alison Hallet's pertinent commentary. (Had I known you couldn't liveblog, Alison, I might have been tempted to do so myself, but in the end I must say it was nice to just sit back and "enjoy.") Within Alison's post there are some good critiques, both small and sweeping. Two comments in particular seem to be part of an age-old debate in the local theater community, so I will regurgitate them here:

1. Risky Theater vs. Safe Theater. This year's awards for outstanding productions went to Les Miserables and Into the Woods. I know it's not as simple as the straightforward dichotomy that some others have suggested (popular theater gets rewarded at the box office, and edgy theater gets rewarded by the critics), but really, what are we rewarding here? I recognize that the Drammy Committee does not need to share their criteria with all of us, but I'm curious what they're grading on. These awards would seem to indicate only an appreciation for execution, and no matter how good the execution was, I would recommend taking other important factors into account, such as, oh, showing me something I haven't seen before. I'm not saying that tried and true musicals should be removed from consideration, nor that these productions don't deserve the accolade. I'm just surprised they were the only two citations in a year of what we all seem to agree was a "year of kick-ass theater." Which begs the question, then: what made it so kick-ass?

2. Established artists vs. New talent. Or worse, shipped-in talent. This debate has been raging since the early days of Portland Center Stage -- ie, the 1990s -- when producer Dennis Bigelow, and Pat Patton after him, and then Liz Huddle, routinely shipped in talent from other communities. You could make a case that such a practice was warranted then because so few Equity (union) actors lived in Portland. Now the theory seems to be that there are so many extraordinary professional (and semi-professional) actors in Portland that we don't need any more, and we certainly don't need to ship in more talent to produce our plays, thankyouverymuch. The trouble with this theory -- for me -- is that it doesn't take the audience's experience into account. When I go to the theater, I want to see the best damn actor you could find for that role. I don't care if he's established or emerging. I don't care if he's a professionally-trained actor or a lawyer who plays in a garage band at night. I don't care if she's from Portland or Peoria or New York City. What I don't want is to live in a city that performs 110 plays in repertory with a company of 50 "resident" actors who sometimes do and sometimes do not fit the bill. (We've had a version of this discussion here.)

I feel strongly that actors like Lisa Renee Pitts and Storm Large, who gave us undeniably some of the most extraordinary theatrical moments of the year, are uniquely qualified and deserve to be recognized accordingly. That's no disrespect to the actors who live and work here -- and I believe that many of them can and do perform in other cities to critical acclaim elsewhere. Should they not be eligible for critical awards in those other places? Or if the sentiment is more blatantly xenophobic, that local talent is somehow entitled to every role and award that's available, and our very survival is threatened by the invasion of newcomers and imports who are stealing these things away, well, obviously I don't buy that. In fact I believe that the local arts community has gotten much stronger over the past ten years as a direct result of greater exposure to, and sustained influx of, bar-raising talent.

Being less of a comment whore than my aforementioned blogging collaborator, I heartily encourage Culture Shock readers to comment on these and other critiques of the Drammy Awards on Blog Town if not here. (Although you are welcome to do both!) And if any of you can consider Alison's plea for a better local theater blog... I concur! (Thanks for the related compliment, by the way.) I'd really love to know what's going on more of the time in the local theater community, both behind the scenes and on stage, and god knows we can't all make it to 110 productions a year.

It's not quite the lifetime achievement award, but...

As we head into the home stretch of the theater season and prepare to celebrate numerous theatrical accomplishments at the Drammy Awards on Monday night, I would be remiss if I didn’t take a moment to sing the praises of Portland Center Stage.

I truly believe that any proper theater season ought to have its hits and misses, so I will be frank: I didn’t much care for the season opener, Guys and Dolls, and felt like the entire community coasted through other earlier installments of R. Buckminster Fuller and Christmas Carol. Solid productions all, but nothing really blew up my skirt until Apollo came along -– which sort of knocked me around and rustled me up a bit. There were parts of the production that I truly loathed, but I also was intrigued with some of what I saw, and ultimately I appreciate that the production demanded that I take notice of it, and of modern theater in general.

With momentum, the theater spun out How to Disappear… (which I quite enjoyed despite some shortcomings in the script) and The Importance of Being Earnest, which I missed seeing but heard often how solid it was. Frost/Nixon was certainly worthy of all the critical accolades it received.

But then the crazy kicked in. Unlike some of the veiled public comments to earlier posts, I for one love me some Storm Large so I was tickled to see that Daniel Stern recently wrote to Chris Coleman saying that Crazy Enough was “one of the great nights in the theater that I have ever had.” I’ll be sure to see it again once or twice again during its extended run. And Grey Gardens is, to me, both thoroughly entertaining and hauntingly intriguing. The reviews have been mixed-to-positive, but I think I agree with Marty Hughley most when he calls the season finale “the most fully realized and well-executed musical to grace the Gerding stage.” From top to bottom, headdress to heels, this really is a fantastic production.

Jerry Likes My Corn from Portland Center Stage on Vimeo.

So my hat is off to PCS, which has had its share of challenges along the way this year. I confess that I track PCS more closely than any other organization in Portland since I worked for the theater through most of the '90s (did you know that that’s what all Culture Shock authors have in common??) and I pause for a moment to recognize that lots of really talented people had to be let go this year. That means that the rest of the staff had to work extra hard and make other sacrifices to keep things moving forward both on the stage and behind the scenes with fewer resources and less manpower. But I trust that continued excellence, matched with ongoing prudence, is going to help PCS (and by extension the rest of the arts community) recover very soon. Hell, they will probably be even stronger organizations in the long run given all that they have learned and accomplished this year.

Yes, let’s save the ballet, and let’s also recognize that many organizations, including PCS, are doing a lot of things really well right now -- and they need your support too. We’ll accept guest columns recognizing the extraordinary accomplishments of other arts organizations, and there’s still lots of room to comment on Mighty Toy Cannon’s post about your theatrical highlights of the past year.

Drammy Awards

Another season of theater in Portland is wrapping up and the annual Drammy Awards are upon us. The Drammy Awards party is an amalgam of celebration and seething resentments, lubricated by drink. I’ll be on vacation next week, so don’t expect me to be there.

In previous posts, I stuck my neck out with a few predictions and/or recommendations, though this list is far from complete and is not based on careful consideration of the competition.

Best Costumes: Sarah Gagahan, "James & The Giant Peach"
Best Ensemble: "Biloxi Blues"
Courage in Full Frontal: Tim True, "Dead Funny"
Actor: Bill Christ (“Frost Nixon”)
Actress: Sharonlee McLean (“The Receptionist”)
Direction: Rose Riordan (“The Receptionist”)
Choreography: Amy Palomino (“Fabuloso”)
Sets: "How to Disappear and Never be Found"/"Frost/Nixon"

Who do you think deserves recognition for "Outstanding Achievement" this year?

Here’s the official announcement:

WHAT: 30th Anniversary Drammy Awards
WHERE: Crystal Ballroom
1332 W. Burnside St.
Portland, OR
WHEN: Monday, June 8
6:00 PM Social hour and slide presentation
7:00 PM Awards presentation
COST: FREE ADMISSION, no-host bar and pizza
DRESS: Theatrical, elegant, innovative. Costumes are encouraged.

Welcome to the biggest all-theatre cast party’s 30th anniversary celebration. Mark your calendars and spread the word. Last year’s ceremony, featuring theatrical exuberance and flamboyant décor, drew well over 600 attendees. So plan to attend this year, because even if you don’t come with a group, there are sure to be people you know to sit and chat with.

The Masters of Ceremonies this year will be Portland favorites, actor/director Philip Cuomo and actress Maureen Porter. Expect a fun, joke-filled evening. The ceremony includes a slide show retrospective of the 2008-2009 theatre season. This year, in honor of the 30th year of the awards, we will be honoring 30 “unsung heroes” of the theatre scene, who have been suggested by area theatres.

PATA will present their “Spotlight Awards” in the main ballroom during the Drammy ceremony this year. The Spotlight Awards honor the important individuals who work behind the scenes to create great theatre. These awards are nominated and voted on by the theatre community.

The ceremony is free and open to the public, young and old.

The Drammy awards, a program of the Portland Civic Theatre Guild, are organized by the all-volunteer Drammy Committee, a group of theater artists and administrators, journalists and academics who review well over 100 productions in a season that ends May 24. In order to be considered for a 2009 Drammy Award, a production must be locally produced and has to have run at least eight performances (not including previews) by May 24. Because the awards are presented for “outstanding achievement” rather than “best of”, there is no list of nominees and from 0 to 4 awards may be presented in each category in any given year. Award categories are flexible in order to reflect the work presented in any given year.

Acting!

Following up on my recent post about the Theatre Communications Group, one of the grants the organization administers is the “Resident Actor Fellowship” program of the Fox Foundation, an initiative designed to "provide substantial support for exceptionally talented actors to further their artistic and professional growth and to encourage theatre organizations to deepen their relationships with actors.”

The application, for which the deadline is June 15th, requires actors to self-identify and apply in either of two categories:

(1) Extraordinary Potential--Exceptionally talented, early- to mid-career actors who demonstrate a strong interest and a commitment to continued training; or,

(2) Distinguished Achievement--Exceptionally talented actors who have demonstrated considerable experience in professional theatre, with a substantial body of work.

You could probably translate those into "Young" and "Old" but that would be ageist. The bigger question is whether those two choices unfairly block many fine actors from getting fellowships. Personally, I’d like the Fox Foundation to expand the program to include a few more categories:

(3) Fading Prospects—Talented actors who demonstrate a strong interest in continuing to work on stage, but for whom roles are getting hard to find because, frankly, we love your work but you're not quite the look we're going for this time.

(4) Unfounded Optimism—Mediocre actors who demonstrate unwarranted hope of sustaining a stage career such that a small fellowship will sustain the dream another few months.

(5) Limited range—Exceptionally good actors with considerable experience who have been playing essentially the same role for years and years.

(6) Dialect challenged—Otherwise decent actors who just need a little help to keep from slipping in and out of an Irish accent when the role calls for Cockney.

Can our readers suggest any additions? While you're thinking about it, enjoy this video of singer-songwriter St. Vincent (Annie Clark) singing “Actor Out Of Work.” She’ll be performing at the Aladdin Theatre on Monday, May 25, 2009.