Tonight the cast is meeting to run lines, which means they'll recite their lines from memory to get them hotwired into their brains. I hope this helps answer the oft-asked question actors get, How do you remember all of those lines? 

So, I won't be needed in the room, and I'm taking the opportunity to see some theater. I'll be over at the BCA seeing Zeitgeist Theater's production of Bent. 

And with that, I'll leave you with this thought from Richard Schechner's Environmental Theater. You can also read it here on Google Books. 

Apropos of nothing, Boston Public Works should market a Turtles drinking game, and every time a character says a kind of animal, you have to take a drink. Turtles, coyotes, owls, rabbits, hamsters, and amphibians all are prominent in the play.

Tonight, Jeff worked with Nicole Dunn, who is playing the roles of El Diablo, Vern, and Emanuel, and they worked on characterizations. Obviously there is gender bending in Turtles. Not only Nicole, but Mal Malme and Elle Borders all play male roles, and the problem becomes how do women depict men without it becoming drag? 

I wrote the play this way because I wanted to give women the chance to play men in their lives, and I was curious to explore what they would do with the roles theatrically, and also how audiences would react to the results. 

A lot of tonight's conversations revolved around what kind of men Nicole's parts were, their situation in life and how it influenced who they were. Jeff is steeped in a lot of disciplines including movement, and a lot of what he and Nicole discussed were how each character moved, walked, and even stood still. It's easy to lapse into caricature or stereotypes; think about the stereotypical man who talks gruffly and swaggers around, and you understand that that was exactly what we were trying to avoid. 

The following pictures show Jeff and Nicole talking, and the final picture is her playing El Diablo. What do you think?

I've always loved this iconic image of Sammy Davis, Jr. taking a break during a rehearsal. It shows how draining the work can be, and at the same time the reason why we work so hard is right outside the window. 

Turtles is rehearsing in classrooms at Berklee College. We're lucky to have access to the space, because one of the daunting obstacles every young theater company in Boston has to deal with is rehearsal space. We don't have NYC outside our window. But we do have loud street noises reminding us we're in a city, and we have the inviting(?) Rice Bowl just below us. 

This week we're working on specific spots in the play. Tonight we concentrated on that key scene in the second act where Bella and Jesus discuss (argue) what it really means to be human, while Finn, in his wonderful boyish way, shows us instead. Tonight it was just Alex and Elle in the rehearsal space, with Alex heading upstairs to work with Dialect Coach Lorena Calderon while Elle stayed downstairs to work with Jeff on Finn's metamorphosis into a bird. 

Translation: 
A polar bear grows its thick coat to keep warm. Grows sharp claws to be the supreme killer where food is scarce, where being a supreme killer is the difference between life and death. The polar bear has adapted. We are a species capable of destroying ourselves. There is a reason we have developed emotions such empathy, kindness, and hope. We developed them out of survival. If we hadn’t, we probably would have destroyed ourselves long ago. Can you imagine a polar bear feeling remorse for killing a seal? And while you are not perfect, you love and care for your children –you love another human being. I maintain, through your actions, there is a very good chance that you are further along the evolutionary scale. You might very well represent a higher form of the species, while others will go the way of the dodo. That is what it means to be human.

We've now finished two full weeks of rehearsal. The rehearsal room is a strange and wonderful place, and it is also one of my favorite places to be. 

It is in the rehearsal room where the real work happens. The actors, the director, and the playwright talk a lot about the play and what's happening, and how things are and perhaps how they should be. This is where we see what works, and more importantly, what doesn't work. 

The actors move a lot, try different things, different actions, different ways of saying a line based on an internal motivation. They explore what causes them to say a line this way, rather than this other way?  I'm in the room to give guidance (this is what I was thinking when I wrote this scene or this line) and also to gain even more insight into the script as it develops. This is new work, not something that's been staged time after time. Just for the record, some of think that's what makes it so much fun and exciting. 

There is a lot of laughing and joking around in our rehearsal room. Part of the reason is that everyone likes one another and gets along. I also think it's because a lot of the material in Turtles in very deep and serious, and the actors need release from all of the emotional work that is demanded of them. 

Because I am also acting as the artistic director on this project (the Boston Public Works' model is that each playwright works as the artistic director on his/her show), this particular production would reflect what a theater would be like if I ran it. Some playwrights simply want the actors to say the words they wrote, but in my artistic theatrical world, I want to hear from the actors and the director what is and isn't working for them. I like a more collaborative effort. You have to trust and respect the other artists in the room, and that their insight on a moment in the play is genuine and comes from a place that is grounded in their talent and theatrical expertise. 

Already we've changed, deleted, or added a number of lines, and in one case about a half of an entire scene has been rewritten based on input from the actors. Sometimes a line just grates on me, and I know then and there it needs to be cut. Sometimes the input comes from me noticing how an actor might always stumble on a line, and I'll ask them what's up. In the case of the scene, I knew it wasn't really working, and I'm so glad that our rehearsal room seems to be a place where the actors feel safe to not only try bold choices in their work, but open up and share their own lives with all of us. It was in this manner that I was given a clue about how this particular scene would work better. 

Like one of those islands that suddenly arises from an underwater volcano in the middle of the ocean, The Kilroys have emerged on the American theater scene. Just like the analogical island, though, they obviously have been at work for awhile, out of sight, except to maybe 127 theater professionals who they quietly worked with. 

On their home page they write, We make trouble. And plays. Their first act of troublemaking was a list composed of 46 plays written by women. They compiled this list to combat "the systematic underrepresentation of female voices in the American theater." 

Forty-six plays that I'm going to check out. I feel like a starving man who has just been ushered into the world's most exquisite buffet. 

Though it's not the list of plays that caused me to stop everything today and blog. Rather, it was this phrase from the About section of their site that resonated with my values: "The Kilroys are a gang of playwrights and producers in LA who are done talking about gender parity and are ready to act."

I'm tired of all of the talking, too. 

As many of you know, I am the co-founder of Boston Public Works Theater Company, a group of playwrights modeled after 13P. I formed this group with Kevin Mullins because, as much as anything, we were both tired of listening to playwrights complain about the traditional American theater system, and we decided to do something about it. 

To appropriate a corporate slogan to our own use: Stop complaining and just do it. 

Do. It. Don't talk. Do.

Those of you who are familiar with the 13P model know that each playwright acts as her or his own artistic director. In essence, each production would be a glimpse into what a theater would look like if that particular playwright ran it. In the case of Turtles, written by me, this is what the theater would look like. 

I think gender parity is an important concern for theater makers across the United States. In Boston, I think race is a particularly important issue, perhaps even more important than gender. I think all forms of inclusion are important, including gender, race, sexual preference, and age. The latter is one that, as a man in his late fifties, I am particularly attuned to, and feels it is a category that is neglected. And how many times do you hear the double whammy from actresses of a certain age that there are no good roles for older women? 

Every play I've written, except one, encourages diverse casts, and that one odd play just needs the cast to be the same race, but for years I've been going to Boston productions, almost always wondering why the cast and production team is white, except for perhaps when the script specifically calls for a non-white actor. You couldn't have cast a bi-racial family, I wonder? There are no blacks in the U.S. military? I didn't know that. There are no black or Latinos working at the Fulton Fish Market? That's news to me. It's pretty much an endless parade of white people here in Boston, no matter which theater you attend. 

But you know, I've also always felt uneasy talking about the demographics of people who I know, care about, and work with in the theater. Seriously, what difference does it make what color their skin is (I'm white, but prefer to be called swarthy; that's a joke, for the ironically challenged), who they sleep with, or what year they were born? I've always been uneasy talking demographics, until today when I saw that line on The Kilroys' site. 

I'm done talking. And I'm going to let my actions talk for me. 

I've been done talking for awhile, I just didn't know it. A few years ago, a theater was interested in doing a reading of Turtles, but couldn't ethnically cast it. So I pulled the script. Do you know how much that hurt for me to do that, just out of grad school, and taking away an opportunity like that? But today, I'm proud of myself for doing that, and I wonder how many other playwrights would be willing to say to an artistic director, if your theater isn't diverse, all the way down through the production team, I'm pulling my plays? My bet is that very few playwrights would do that. 

But I think that's one thing that theater artists can do to make real change. People will say anything. It's so easy to talk the talk. It's walking the walk that's hard. Actions speak a lot louder than words, we're taught. Don't support theaters that don't promote parity and diversity. Period. Don't buy tickets. Don't send them your plays. (Do them yourself!) You wouldn't support a business that wasn't. Why support theater that isn't either? 

Today is Father’s Day, and the usual post like this one goes on to extol the writer’s own father, with a list of all the lessons learned from the old man, wrapping it all up with a flourish of sentiment. But, I’m a father, with both daughters grown, and somewhere along the line I’ve become that person who my children, at least today, are supposed to slobber over.

I am lucky that two wonderful female children each grew up to be the two wonderful women whom I am so proud of, despite them having me for 50 percent of their parental unit. I’m self-deprecating in this way, because being a father continues to be, in my own words, the best gig in the world. Frankly, I think I got more out of the experience than either of my kids did. I’ve told them both, more than once, that the one thing I was absolutely sure of when I was young and starting out was that I wanted kids. I actually wanted a family of five children, but after two, I, with little reluctance, settled with just the two. 

I spoke to Allison today, who lives in Brooklyn and is following her dream of working in the music industry, and Kathryn stopped by long enough to drop off a card and finish stuffing a backpack on her way to JFK and Europe. What better gift for a father than two amazing young women who are living their lives, pursuing their passions and traveling the world. 

Some of you may know that I have co-founded a theater in Boston--Boston Public Works Theater Company. We're in the middle of fundraising, and a couple of weeks ago Allison wrote a blog post entitled, When Your Dad's A Playwright And He Starts A Theater Company. She's got my back--both of them do, I know; Kathryn, as a Father's Day gift, donated to the campaign today--and I think Allison's post is worth a read. She knows the value of a dollar, the importance of passion in your life, how hard work is the road to success, and not to be afraid to ask for help when you need it. Hmm...I wonder where she learned all that? 

I spent way too many years in the corporate world, trying to fit in. I'm not going to say I wasn't grateful for the money I made, or what I learned. But it wasn't always so easy, because you had to conform. Even now, with the gig that I have, I have to dress a certain way, wear a tie, such a useless piece of clothing. I don't understand the fascination for ties. It seems to me if men have to wear something as useless as a tie, women should have to wear something equally as useless; say, a hat. I've never understood the business culture's desire to force someone to look and act a certain way. Cut your hair, wear our clothes: conform, just another day in the white man's culture, bend yourself into a predisposed process when every bone in your body is screaming, Let's try something different. As much as the business world gives lip service to thinking outside the box, my experience was that it was a rare day indeed when you were aloud to try something different. And the corporate world was never a place where I, at least, could find self-fulfillment. I tried and tried and tried, and finally gave up, realizing for a person like myself, who craves originality, it just wasn't going to happen in an environment populated by people who, for the most part, valued the tried and true and the safe over any form of risk-taking. 

According to the Hufington Post, which is actually a fairly reliable source, Facebook has banned the photographs of Cuban artist Erik Ravelo.

You can read about it here on the Huffington Post. 

From the online article: "Los Intocables," which translates to "The Untouchables," is what Ravelo refers to as a "human installation," featuring a variety of issues plaguing children around the world. "The right to childhood should be protected," Ravelo writes on his website, a theme driving the visually disturbing works.

Each work features both a child and an adult posed to demonstrate a contemporary evil, whether it be gun violence, molestation or the threat of nuclear war. Each work features a child being crucified on the back of an adult, each scene attempting to tell a different story about the loss of innocence. The human sculptures are then photographed with the child's face blurred, resulting in images as visually jarring as they are conceptually saddening. "It's art, it's communication," Ravelo explained.

I think they are wonderfully simple and elegant images that get a message across, and should be seen, which is why I'm posting this here. 

If you want your play produced, sage playwriting advisors will tell you, make it simple. No big cast. No outrageous tech. Theaters love those black boxes (both the theater and the set pieces). Crazy tech scares theaters. Also, theaters like funny, but that's a topic for another blog post.

I think one of the best pieces of advice on the subject of writing big for the theater that I ever heard came from one of my professors in grad school at Boston University, Ilana Brownstein, who said, if you keep writing small casts and simple sets, that's all you'll ever get produced. So now, if I write simple (see The Master Switch of the Universe) I write simple for what I consider very good reasons.

Ilana went on to profess that theaters, especially small theaters, are looking for big amazing works that they can take on to make a big name for themselves. Go back to the idea that if all you produce are small, cheap plays, that's all you're going to be known for. Btw, the class was discussing The Kentucky Cycle that day. Imagine serving that sucker up to some lit managers. 

My objective whenever I start a new play is to remind myself that I am writing for the theater. It's not a novel or any other print form. It's not film, though I find the criticism that a play is "cinematic" so annoying; it reminds me of people who will only drink white wine with fish, and red with meat. Why can't art forms merge? But, if I'm writing for the theater, I try think about and include as many dramatic elements that I have at my disposal, and I don't understand people who want to leave all that in the wings, or in some theater's basement.

And sometimes I get heat for how I write. First, I also write for all theater artists on the project. Not just the actors, but the director and all the designers who will be collaborating. They want to be stretched as much as the actors, so why not challenge them? 

Once, I had a someone at a theater get furious with me because I had written this stage direction: the entire theater floods with water.

Do you think I literally mean the theater fills up with water? I asked.

Well, that's you wrote, she fumed. 

In Highland Center, Indiana, I have mole traps set on the stage. How in the world can we place mole traps on the stage? a reader wondered, as if I was actually suggesting ramming metal traps into wooden floor of the stage. I don't know, but if you can make an angel fall out of the ceiling, you can certainly figure out a way for metal(like) traps to be set on stage. 

Yes, these people exist in the theater, and I'm finding there are more of them than I ever thought possible. But I'm also finding there are plenty of theater artists who love scripts that challenge their theatrical talents, sensibility, and whimsy. The big thinkers. 

Gulp. 

That's how I always approach these things. Gulp. These twenty-four hour play fests. I try not to put any pressure on myeslf, which is a lot like saying, just don't think about the word, elephant, and then there's nothing else you can think about except the word, elephant. 

Still. Elephant. 

Oh, what am I blathering on about now? You don't know? The Mad Dash, a twenty-four hour play fest. A collaboration between Fresh Ink and Interim Writers. I mean, where the heck have you been? It's been plastered all over Facebook, for goodness sakes. 

Tonight, sixteen, count 'em, sixteen playwrights will be paired into eight teams, and eight directors will be matched with the teams. The writers (wrighters?) will be given a prompt, one line of dialogue to include in their play (that was provided ahead of time by evil audience members), and will be told how many actors they're writing for, and roughly eleven hours later--by 7:00 the next a.m.--the bleary-eyed playwrights have to deliver a ten-minute script. Then the director works it and actors memorize their lines and blocking and motivations, and at 8:00 tomorrow night (July 13) the plays will be produced at the Cambridge YMCA. 

If you want to know who's crazy/brave/fun-loving enough to do something like this, here's a list of the artists. 

And some amazing prizes will be raffled off. See them here, on Fresh Ink's Facebook page. If you're not friends with them, well, wtf?

As for me, well, people ask me how I prepare for something like this. You don't. You just let it happen, let it wash over you, make a pot of coffee and a bowl of popcorn, and give your id full rein. 

The Edge did a really nice write-up. (Yo, thank you so much for writing so many nice words!) You can read it here.