Pandemic theatre (no likes, but still . . . recommended?)
I seriously doubt anybody’s tuning in to my little website for my deep thoughts, or for a diary of my exploits. If you’re here, I’m glad you are. If nobody’s here, I’m just one more dog barking at the stars on a crisp, winter night. But I will say this: I am heading home to NYC after making a play in Utah and I am tired.
I mean, like, really tired.
Not of making the play. Writers get to do it so few times in our lives, so I’m not tired of it. I want to do it again. And again. And again. But I am aware of (and humbled by) the fact that I’ve gotten to do it several times in my life, so I shouldn’t be greedy. Knowing that I shouldn’t be greedy doesn’t preclude me from wanting to be; but that’s a thought for another day. Let’s get back to the main thought: I’m tired.
The reason? We made a play that I never intended to be about a pandemic in the middle of a pandemic, and the play, it turns out, to some (most?) of the people who see it is about a pandemic. Or the beginnings of one. And I am here to say that making a play right now is NOT. EASY. I mean, it never is, but right now? It’s nigh on impossible.
But we got there. The wheels were rumbling very near to the ends of their axles almost every day, and yet, we got there. It’s a testament to every single person involved, both inside the room and outside it, that we did. And when I say every single person, I mean literally every single one. Wes Grantom (director) was juggling knives wrapped in barbed wire the entire time . . . Yoon Bae (sets and costumes), Samantha Wootten (wigs and makeup), Brian Tovar (lights) and Will Van Dyke (original music) spent the entire design/composition process slalom skiing down a hill made of ice, and still crossed the finish line without ever hitting a flag, all the while creating one of the most beautiful worlds for a play I’ve ever seen . . . Ora Jones, Meredith Holzman, Mark H. Dold, Barzin Akhavan, Turna Mete, Grayson DeJesus, Alexis Grace Thomsen, Victoria B. Wolfe, Marco Say and Connor Mamaux-Patridge (the phenomenal acting company) somehow stayed focused, positive and intensely, brilliantly creative every minute of every day in ways that I still can’t quite believe . . . Jennifer Gregory and Emily Griffith (the stage management team) herded all the kittens through the piles of string without a single kitten ever getting lost . . . and that’s just the rehearsal room.
The institution itself - Pioneer Theatre Company, the resident theatre of Salt Lake City - is a remarkable place. The staff has been THROUGH IT. Yes, like every theatre in America, but also . . . so much more. Their last couple years have been full of heartbreaking challenges, and yet they remain diligent and supportive and, most importantly, kind.
Kindness, is turns out, is the cure all. Or, if not the actual cure, at least the remedy that keeps everybody looking ahead instead of behind. Which is, it turns out, all we can ever do. Look ahead.
So, we made a thing. It opened. It’s running. People are coming. And even though the play is, through no intention of the geeky little playwright who dreamed it up, possibly a little too intense for the current moment, since it feels like it is ABOUT the current moment . . . even though an audience member told me after seeing it the first weekend that after seeing it she wanted to “run away” - she didn’t. She stayed. She talked to me. So, she didn’t run at all. And that is a reflection of her bravery, for sure, but also an indication to me of the thing that I keep coming back to:
What we do matters.
It’s hard to remember it when it’s tough. But it’s worth trying to. We don’t get rich doing it. We are often saddled with conditions, both emotionally and practically, that can challenge us in ways we never anticipated. But, when all is said and done, if we can get to one person who feels like running away and help them feel slightly less alone, slightly more engaged, slightly more . . . you know . . . more, it matters.
The stories we tell matter.
So, I guess I’m recommending it - all of it. Doing it during a pandemic. Doing it about a pandemic. All of it. Because it matters.
And I desperately hope I get to do it again.
