A play of movement. A play of possibility. A play of accusations and attack. A play that forces change. A play that exposes the underbelly of racism and prejudice and the danger of role-playing. Yes, Baraka takes the title from both the famous ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman, as well as the slave ship of the East India Company to indict racist white culture. And the subway setting creates an eerie, seething world in the entrails of the city. But the term dutchman also refers to the simple, theatrical muslin gauze that connects two stage flats and gives the appearance of a seamless wall. These walls, therefore, are easily ripped apart. As easily as Baraka rips apart the identities of Clay and Lula who treat each other as objects, things, others. They project their images onto each other, but as things, not real people. And it reminds us, as Baraka says, “The imagination is the projection of ourselves past our sense of ourselves as ‘things.’ Imagination (Image) is all possibility, because from the image, the initial circumscribed energy, any use (idea) is possible. And so begins that image’s use in the world. Possibility is what moves us.”

My dear friend Beth Henley gave me the best advice about staged readings. “Invite friends. Read the play. Pour the wine.” It’s so easy to get stuck in what I (dis)like to call Playwright’s Purgatory. That is, permanent development. You get reading after reading of your play, but no production. And to make matters worse, you suffer through talk-backs that are not only useless, but quite damaging. I have made point of refusing to participate in talk-backs at a reading. This is not “Dancing with the Stars” or “American Idol” or any other variety show that allows audience voting. And even then, they are voting on a so-called finished product. It seems to me that audiences expect to have their say even before a play is produced. If that’s the case, they how does anything ever get produced? It’s one thing to hear a draft before an audience, but quite another to solicit feedback (or be forced into feedback) while still in the act act of writing. It makes no sense, and only leads to frustration. Talk-backs are for Q&A sessions after a production, not “let me tell you how I would write the play” torture after a reading. So, last night, I had the best reading of my career so far. Private home. Private guest list. No more than 25 people in attendance. A mishmash of furniture. Bread and cheese and a lovely spread of light dinner. Spectacularly talented actors. A remarkable and rare director. A gracious hostess. And all in a large living room. Having had important readings in major venues, I can tell you, this was by far the most productive and enlightening step in the development of a new play that I have ever had. The night was about the play, not the playwright. The night was about the characters, not the audience. The night was about the possibility of production, not the end-road of a reading. It was not stacked with sycophants. They were smart, talented, experienced, and honest listeners. But don’t get me wrong. They were opinionated and passionate. Point is, rather than offering an opportunity to grandstand, we finished the reading then socialized. I (the playwright) and the director, merely moved from conversation to conversation. Listening. Asking. Listening. Answering. Listening. No one had a ‘turn at mike.’ And it was the most productive, exhilarating, enjoyable reading of my life. So, for those of you fellow playwrights out there struggling to get readings done at theatres, or those of you who feel stuck in Playwright Purgatory, try this: Invite friends. Read the play. Pour the wine. It might be as simple as a dinner party. With your words.

I’ve never been so jealous of a title.  Or a play.  I’m always in search of that elusive two or three-hander with a single set.  Simple.  Real.  Breathtaking.  This is that play.  Besides being struck by the depth of the characters, the richness of the plot, the conciseness of the dialogue, I am also taken with the minor stage directions.  Throughout the script, the playwright inserts little directions like (With tremendous simplicity), (With a quiet fervor), (As delicately as possible), or (With enormous tenderness).  We all know the cliche of “the first thing a director crosses out are the stage directions,” but these would not threaten a real director.  In fact, they protect the playwright from overwriting, which is important in a play about larger than life ideas and loss of life realities.  This is a quiet play.  A hushed play.  One that asks some of the most important questions an individual can ask of self, other, and God.  And in a beautiful way, it does not offer a tidy answer.  All three characters are searching for something they can neither find nor understand.  But in the end, they found each other.  And I am just so happy I found this play.

Less the American Dream, and more the particular dreams of a particular American family. So much has been said and written about this landmark play that I really only want to focus on a few minor moments I’ve only recently come to understand. The first is a line in the famous first stage directions: “On a shelf over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands.” I always knew this trophy represented Biff’s youthful glory, Willy’s expectations and the like, but I always glossed over the fact that it is silver (i.e., second place). And as we know in America, coming in second means losing. And perhaps it is because I recently blogged about Oedipus, but line 28, after Linda reminds him he never went for his glasses, Willy says: “No, I see everything.” Of course this is ironic, but it is also a tragic moment of admitting he really believes what he sees, including his past and his dead brother. Thus, a few lines later where he describes his long drive back into the city: “But it’s so beautiful up there, Linda, the tress are so thick, and the sun so warm. I opened the windshield and just let the warm air bathe over me. And then all of a sudden I’m going off the road!” As we later find out, they no longer even have a car with an opening windshield, but that is irrelevant because it is truly what he “sees.” And it is this error — this longing — that sets the play in motion. Finally, I’ve always felt like the play belonged to Biff. He is the one who finally recognizes who he is (”I’m a dime a dozen,” “I’m a nothing.” Then why isn’t the play called “Life of a Salesman’s Son?” Well, I think the beauty of the actual title is it works for both Willy and Biff. After the humiliating visit to Oliver’s office, where Biff steals his pen, Biff finally recognizes (and admits) “Who ever said I was a salesman . . . I was a shipping clerk . . . I was never a salesman.” Here, too, is the death of a salesman; the death of Biff’s false sense of self. For him, there may still be time. For Willy, not. Already “the woods are burning.” The same woods that Willy “saw” out the open windshield as “so beautiful . . . so thick.” And yet, even if they are a dime a dozen (the 10 of 12), that means they are the same. Or if they are the the lucky and unique pair out of that dozen (the 2 of 12), they are still the same. Either way, it is both a comfort, and a tragedy.

Short. Poignant. “I Love Lucy” and 9/11. Sanchez offers a moving example of what all good monologues should do: approach their subject from the side, not head on. It’s the key to avoiding sentimentality. The young character Tomas can only come to terms with his father’s death through the seemingly unconnected memory of the re-runs constantly playing in his house. His imitation of Lucy’s cry “Wah!!!!!!” quickly changes into “real pain” then “silence.” It’s a well crafted shift on the part of the playwright, and a subtle entry point for this character into real grief and commemoration. Good monologues should have a certain tension; a sense of reluctance on the part of the speaker to actually talk about the subject at hand. So they often pick an arbitrary, random, unlikely departure point. But good monologues also make sure we end up where the speaker doesn’t really intend to go, but certainly needs to. And we appreciate it.

Comedy equals contrast. And this delightful little monologue is the perfect illustration of that equation. It also has the most brilliant set up: “(In the darkness, we hear an announcement.) Due to the unfortunate fencing mishap in the scene previous, the part of Robert Keyes will be played the remainder of this evening by assistant stage manager, Morris White.” Then lights up on the terrified ‘fish out of water’ upon whom everything now depends. Unfortunately for our hero, the show must go on, even though he desperately wants it to end. This gem is an hysterical curtain raiser, a great audition piece, and a downright hoot.

Often everyone’s first classroom introduction to drama, and the reason so many then turn away. Why is it taught so often and so poorly? It is not about “man being a puppet in the hands of the gods” or there being “no free will.” It is not a moral lesson against pride. It is not an attempt to answer the question “Who am I?” but rather a desperate inquiry into the uglier question “Why am I?” We often think of Oedipus’ hubris as trying to solve the riddle of himself without the help of others or the gods, but he knows who he is. He says so within the first ten lines: “I am Oedipus.” Now, just because he learns the truth of his past does not change who he is, but rather, why he is who he is. And his true arrogance is actually quite noble. He says to his suffering people, “I am ready to help, I’ll do anything.” That is where the tragedy begins. In truth, it is often our best qualities (helping, listening, loving) that get us into the most trouble, and our worst qualities (insert yours here) that save you in the end. If only Oedipus had a good defense attorney, because the reasonable doubt is right there in the text. Over and over again, the story of Laius’ death reveals “a whole band, not single-handed, cut King Lauis down.” Over and over again, the reports say he was killed by “robbers” or “thieves” or “bandits.” All in the plural. Yet over and over again, Oedipus puts it into the singular: “robber, thief, bandit.” He knows he was alone, on his own when he killed that man where the three roads meet. Yet he also knows a good king must sacrifice himself for his people. Whether he really killed his own father, and as a result married his own mother, is cast into doubt. And ironically, that is of little real interest. What matters here is that this lone individual, in his attempt to figure out why he is who he is, learns that such inquiry always comes at a great cost. His true strength is pursuing that answer regardless of the expense, finding the truth, enduring it once found, and accepting the responsibility for all of his actions — both unthinkable and innocent. It is a great testament to the human intellect to discover happiness is built upon an illusion, and to go on living with — and in spite of — this knowledge.

If there is one thing Reza does well (and she does many things well when it comes to playwriting) is she cuts right to the chase without it feeling cheap, melodramatic, or false.  The question I constantly ask myself with this play is, “How does the playwright get us from A to Z so quickly?”  How do we go from “Those tulips are gorgeous” to “Children consume and fracture our lives.  Children drag us towards disaster, it’s unavoidable.”  I think the answer is simple.  ”What did you mean by that?”  That question, asked by one character to another, cuts right to the heart of whatever matter is at hand; whatever dialogue is being inferred but sublimated.  ”What did you mean by that?” doesn’t let the questioned character get away with passive/aggressive or flippant remarks.  Moreover, their response often merits a “What’s that supposed to mean?!”  In other words, some playwrights reveal a character’s truth very slowly, like undressing someone in fifteen layers of winter coats.  Reza, on the other hand, allows her character to flay one another like at a cat-skinning party.  For her, “What did you mean by that?” really states “I know exactly what you meant by that and I won’t pretend I don’t.”  For example, this exchange: “Gingerbread, delicious . . . Well, at least all this has given us a new recipe.” “I’d have preferred it if it hadn’t cost my son two teeth.”  ”Of course, that’s what I meant.”  ”Strange way of expressing it.”  It’s all quite civilized, and fairly simple.  She won’t let her characters off the hook they’re hanging themselves on.  Why?  ”You’re far more authentic when you’re showing yourself in a horrible light.”  Audiences want to see characters squirm in this horrible light because, like them, we more often than not know exactly what we mean when we say it.  We just hope the other person doesn’t make us prove it.

“Tartuffe must be approved, or all plays condemned.”  So wrote Moliere after years of the King denying production for fear of religious, political, and cultural backlash.  Why?  Because if drama is a mirror, the image being reflected was hypocritical, corrupt, and too close for courtly comfort.  But this play is about more than religious attack.  It is about reflection.  Each character is a mirror of a particular type.  The shrewish mother in law.  The cuckolded husband.  The adulterous wife.  The saucy maid.  The young lovers.  The hypocrite.  Yet each has a self-awareness that their identity depends upon the identities of others.  Each knows they are playing a part.  Each knows the part the other must play.  And each must play their role even if they wish to play against their type.  The only way Elmire can prove Tartuffe’s hypocrisy is to play the role of adulterous wife.  The only way Mariane and Valere can earn permission to marry is to play the role of quarrelsome lovers.  The rules of comedy call for it.  Moliere, however, has his cake and eats it too.  On the one hand, this is a brilliantly constructed comedy, adhering to the rules at every predictable turn.  On the other hand, it is a savage retaliation, not only on the religious group protesting the content of the play, but on the King himself for being so swayed.  In order for a mirror to reflect, it needs the light of the sun.  And in order for these characters’ identities to reflect the truth (however unseemly), they need the light of the Sun King.  All light emanates from him, and all identity depends upon it.  If, however, he is swayed, then all identity shifts throughout the court.  So in the end, what appears to be a lengthy and self-aware ode to the King’s power to force a happy ending is also a warning.  Moliere will not hesitate to turn the mirror on the King himself.  But playwright beware.   As Moliere writes himself, ”We easily endure reprimands, but not being laughed at.  We want to be wicked, but not ridiculous.”

Today I started a new play. It’s a strange feeling. I would never compare it to pregnancy (my wife would laugh loud enough for the neighbors), but there is this odd lump in the throat. Not that babies are born from our throats, I know that (believe me!). I’m just saying, there’s something about to be born. I know an “idea” has been brewing, stewing for months, but today I actually sat down, pulled out a new notebook (always a good sign) and said, “Ok. What’s your lead’s name?” Why the hell do we care about this person? Why are they in jeopardy? What’s the opportunity they have today that they didn’t have yesterday (or ever)? What the hell do they want? And what’s in their way? I know it will be a four person play (so eager for a small cast after a year of working on ‘Banished Children of Eve’), and I know it will pivot around a single event. I won’t give it away because, well, perhaps I don’t know what exactly I have to give away, but the lump in the throat is real. And then there is the fear. I only know this as a dad, but there’s no other way to compare a new work (for me) other than the elation at knowing it is finally coming, and then the fear of “Oh God, I have to actually raise this child without screwing it up!” Don’t get ahead of yourself. Slow down. Have a cup of coffee (decaf). Think about what it is your main character wants, and are you willing to give it to them in the long run. Decide what you would do in the first situation you put them in. Then have them do the opposite. And we’re off.