Author: Aislinn

Broadway flops were brought to national attention with Mel Brooks’ film The Producers, in which a producer, Max Bialystock, and his accountant Leo Bloom set out to produce the worst Broadway show possible.  The idea is that it is possible to make more money with a flop than with a hit.  Of course, their master plan crumbles quickly when the show, Springtime for Hitler, enjoys unexpected success.

There have been many composers and lyricists who have accomplished Max and Leo’s goal without even trying.  This year, two of these enormous flops are receiving eagerly-anticipated revivals in New York.  There is an entire subset in theatre culture that is obsessed with big flop musicals.  There was even a book written about these shows, called Not Since Carrie by Ken Mandelbaum.  The title refers to possibly the most famous flop, and one of the two musicals that is being remounted, Carrie.  Yes, that Carrie.  It is a musical based on the novel-turned-movie by Stephen King about a troubled telekinetic teen.

When Carrie was first on Broadway in 1988, it ran for a total of 16 previews and 5 performances.  On this blog, I have often alluded to the innate smallness of the theatre community.  Word of mouth alone seems to have ruined this musical.  It was doomed from its out of town try-out in Stratford, where the public was up in arms that the Royal Shakespeare Company was putting on this show.  Unlike most shows, as Carrie moved forward in development and got closer to its Broadway debut, it got worse.  The revisions and directorial choices weakened the show.  Rather than juxtaposing Carrie’s inner angst and outer powers with a relatively normal society, the show put Carrie’s classmates in costumes that resembled Grecian goddesses and workers at a leather bar.  Carrie’s powers were barely even hinted at, so by the Act One finale, when her hands were literally on fire, members of the audience unfamiliar with the movie or book were perplexed.

While the show failed commercially, it immediately became a camp classic.  Secretly recorded video and audio circulated the theatre community, and those who were not at the show wished they could have witnessed the wreck.  Even now, some salvaged clips remain on YouTube for those fans who never thought this day would come.  They day they can finally see Carrie for themselves.  Mandelbaum says that the thing that separates Carrie from the other flops in his book is that it was so hot and cold as far as quality is concerned.  The mother’s big ballad, “Open Your Heart,” is still held up to be a beautiful piece of music, but there was also a song (which the 2012 review hints may have been cut, or at least pared down) about the pig slaughtering, with genius lyrics like “kill the pig, pig, pig” while oinks resonate through the theatre.  And did I mention the show ended with Carrie ascending an enormous stairway to Heaven?

MCC’s production of Carrie was successful before it even began.  This is the definition of a cult musical.  You go to be able to say you went.  There are those who are avid fans of the pirated cast recording from the 80s, but many audience members just want to see what everyone has been talking about for the past nearly 25 years.  The New York Times review praises Marin Mazzie who plays Carrie’s religious fanatic mother, but otherwise gently condemns the musical.  Many positive changes have been made since the 1988 disaster, but it seems that Carrie is just not one of those shows that works.  Regardless of reviews and actual merit, the production has already extended its limited run an extra four weeks.  Everyone wants to see the world’s most famous flop.  I know I would.

The second revived flop of 2012 is a little more tragic.  Merrily We Roll Along was a show written by Broadway God Stephen Sondheim and originally directed by the equally terrific Hal Prince in 1981.  The show followed the professional and personal journeys of three best friends backward from 1980 to 1955.  This show had a bit more success, but about the same amount of chance as Carrie.  It ran for 52 previews and 16 performances.  And unlike Carrie, Sondheim and Prince made significant improvements to the show during their time on the Great White Way.  However, word had already gotten out and the show was really doomed before it began.  There are tales of walk outs from the first preview, audience members who left completely confused about what story they just watched and who the characters on stage were.  After closing on Broadway, Sondheim continued to make revisions to the show with librettest George Furth.  So when the show opened at New York City Center through its Encores! program this year it was a very different show than that first preview in 1981.

However, it still fell flat.  This production had everything– a stellar, super exciting, young but not brand new cast; a great concept; talented musicians, directors, artists– but it was still missing something.  According to reviews, this seems to be one of those shows that people want to work but it just might not be possible.  Personally, my Merrily cast recording is practically worn through I’ve listened to it so many times.  This is a show I want to see succeed.  But I’ve also never seen it in full production.  Critics acknowledge that the music is beautiful.   It’s Sondheim, for God’s sake.  Unlike the writers of Carrie, who were not entirely inexperienced but certainly did not have the breadth of experiences Mr. Sondheim has, Merrily has everything going for it, except for the show itself.

Sometimes there is just a disconnect between what should work and what does.   That is one of the most terrifying and exciting parts of art- seeing what works.  These are just two examples of when things went terribly bad.  But now they have a whole community willing to embrace them and spend hours online developing fan sites, sharing bootleg footage, and devoting all sorts of time to the shows that didn’t quite make it.  I find flop culture quite fascinating.  I first got into it when dramaturging a show called [title of show].  One of the characters, and the writer himself, has a collection of Broadway flop Playbills.  There is a song that names probably fifty flops, and it was my job to look up each title and find as much information as possible.  It’s an interesting phenomenon, especially in this age of super commercial, decade-long running shows, that there are still these fleeting pieces of theatre that run under 50 performances and are never heard from again.  Carrie and Merrily are the lucky ones, but when will the world hear from Buck White again?  Probably never.

And then I think…how did we let Cats happen for so long?

Dramaturg.  Part two.  New works.

For me, this is the most exciting part of dramaturgy.  While you do uncover really interesting information when doing production dramaturgy, new works dramaturgy is where it’s at.  It’s fast-paced.  It’s exciting.  You see a new play form right in front of your very eyes, and, if the playwright is open to your input, you see your ideas shape the play into its best possible form.

New works are really my bread and butter.  This partially comes from my aspirations to write plays for a living.  If people aren’t interested in new plays, then I basically have no career ahead of me.  So I am an advocate for new work.  This is not saying that the classics aren’t important (I still love Death of a Salesman), but I don’t think our respect for the older works should hinder interest or investment in new, innovative art.  While the plays of Miller, Albee, and O’Neill still hold great meaning and insight into our modern age, there is nothing that can be more relevant to the here and now than something that is written in the here and now.  Many audiences are afraid of new plays, seeing something in its first iteration, but where would we be if audiences hadn’t taken chances on those playwrights I mentioned above?  Or Paula Vogel?  Or Sarah Ruhl?  Or Tony Kushner?

The aim of new works dramaturgy is to take what the writer already has and what they’re trying to say and clarify and strengthen it.  Sometimes, a playwright thinks that his message or even plot points are clear, but what is in his head does not quite translate to the page.  It is a dramaturg’s job to parse out what is being said, and help the playwright discern the most effective way to say that.  Oftentimes, it is taking an image or wording that already exists and giving it greater import.  For example, something that seems to happen frequently is that a playwright creates a symbol in the first half of the play but abandons it after the first few scenes.  Just reintroducing the symbol in the second act could strengthen the theme it illustrates and clarify the overall trajectory of the play.

Some playwrights are resistant to dramaturgs.  This is understandable, especially when the dramaturg is brought into the process at a later stage, like a first staged reading or even first full production.  The playwright has been working, usually in solitary, for months, possibly even years on this work, and then the dramaturg has the audacity to tell them that they need to change it?  What most playwrights come to realize after working with a good dramaturg (or at least we hope they realize) is that the dramaturg does not have malicious plans to change the play into something completely different from what the playwright envisioned.  We want to see their vision come to life in the most effective way.  We are really there to help, not hinder.  While I have met many dramaturgs who also write, like myself, when you are working on someone else’s show you have immense respect for what that writer is doing and you are not trying to push your own agenda or writing style on the playwright.  You are respecting what they do.

In this way, text is king.  As I indicated in my last post, dramaturgs are the biggest word nerds.  The importance of language is magnified ten fold in new plays, because you are still at a stage where you can control the words.  Watching a playwright do on the spot rewrites after being given a suggestion about the character’s vocabulary is one of the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen.  You see the wheels spinning, the motors whirring, and then they produce the perfect sentence.

Dramaturgy is a very personal profession.  The role of the dramaturg in completely dependent on his relationship to the playwright and what that particular playwright needs from him.  For some playwrights, they just need the playwright to tell them things they already know but are too close to the material to decide.  It might benefit the play to cut a character entirely, and the playwright may know that, but because they have spent months with this character, they can’t bring themselves to cut it or convince themselves that the character is necessary.  Sometimes they just need the push and logic of a dramaturg to take that step.  Depending on the size of the production team, the dramaturg can also take all of the opinions of the rehearsal room and really pick out what the playwright needs to hear and what is best ignored.  The dramaturg can eliminate the problem of “too many cooks in the kitchen” that is all too common in rehearsal rooms.

New works dramaturgy is quick and frenzied and thrilling.  There is anxiety and enthusiasm around a new play that you really don’t get with older works, especially if the company you’re working with is nurturing, inventive, and collaborative.  At its best, new works dramaturgy is a partnership between the playwright, possibly the director, and the dramaturg.  Each has the utmost respect for the other, and each is aware of his own aesthetic as well as the playwright’s, so they know how to tailor their opinions to fit the needs of the show.  I was lucky enough to be a part of a process like that this past summer.  Even as an intern, I felt comfortable enough at a table with the playwright, director, and dramaturg to voice my opinions and actually got to see them incorporated into the show. I think the show was better for it.  When the show opened, I felt like an integral part of the team, something that can be missing in production dramaturgy where you have left after the table work is over.  In new works dramaturgy, you are there every step of the way, watching incredible artists do their thing and feeling free to focus on the words and the dramatic arc and symbolism and themes and all of the nerdy stuff that you can’t help but notice.

Even writing about new plays makes me want to delve into some brand-new manuscript, devouring its innovations and hearing the distinctive new voice tumbling around in my head.  I want to help bring works to the stage that we have never seen before.  I want audiences to be excited about new works and not afraid that they might fail.  Because, hopefully, in the hands of a gifted playwright and capable dramaturg, the audience will feel that same enthusiasm and excitement as the lights rise on the career of a young playwright.

A dramaturg.  Webster’s defines us as experts in dramaturgy, which, in turn they define as “the art or technique of dramatic composition and theatrical representation.”  They also spell dramaturg dramaturge, which is common and I’ve never really found why we’ve decided to drop that little e at the end.

As far as dramaturg definitions go, this is one of the better ones I’ve heard.  I guess there’s a reason Merriam-Webster is still in business.  I’d like to shed a little light and give some first hand examples of what has constituted dramaturgy for me.  I think you’ll find most dramaturgs have different experiences, but we all have one thing in common: love for the text.

What that really translates to is that dramaturgs are the nerds of theatre.  If you’re still in high school mode and think of actors as Drama Club dorks, then you would be floored by just how dorkier it can get.  Read some of our Twitter conversations that include playwright puns and heady discussion about artistic responsibilities and new work philosophies and you’ll see what I mean.

In established work, a dramaturg is around primarily to help the director and actors best understand the material and make informed choices regarding their work.  Mostly, a production dramaturg in these situations is like a researcher.  For example, I worked on the University’s production of Spring Awakening recently.  The first thing I do when I get the script for a show is I read it twice.  I read it once for myself and then once to compile a list of terms, people, and places that the actors may need defined.  For some shows I’ve worked on, the glossary has almost reached 300 words, but for a regular show the total is usually around 100, give or take 20.  For Spring Awakening I think it was around 90 words.  I also try to include pictures as often as possible.

Going along that visual route, most dramaturgs also compile a visual research board.  For Spring Awakening this was fun because there are two worlds: 1891 Germany where the scenes take place and the interior monologue space which is based in contemporary pop-rock.  I included images of 1890s Germany, the German countryside, haylofts, expressionistic art, and post-punk to give a feel for the song world.  This is one of my favorite parts of the process, because it’s the one you really see the results of.  As much as dramaturgs and directors know the research is critical, it’s always a crapshoot if the actors actually use it.  Actors are invariably drawn to visual mediums though, and they will undoubtedly take some inspiration from the visual research board.

After those two steps are over, I get to more particulars of the production.  Each play has a few issues that are specific to the play.  For Spring Awakening, there were quite a few.  I had sections in my production binder about Lutheranism, 1890s Germany, Germany in general, abortion, teenage sexuality, and suicide.  This musical was also adapted from a play, so I had a section about the play and its author, Frank Wedekind.  I included the play’s production history and the difficulties it faced getting produced because of the subject matter.  I also always include a section on the writers of the show as well as any previous production history.  This gives the artists working on a show an idea of where they are coming from and what new levels they can take the show to.  It also shows where previous productions may have found difficulty so they know what to be aware of in the future.

Some production dramaturgs are also literary managers at their home theatres, so their dramaturgy sort of ends at the first rehearsal.  They send their research into the rehearsal room and hope it is utilized.  Then they must move onto the next project, starting the whole process over again.  The show in production is just a thought in the back of their mind, save the program article they will probably be asked to write, where they can share a little snippet of their research with the audience.  (Let me tell you, condensing weeks’ worth of research into a 300-word article is a challenge.)

Luckily for me, when working in the university setting, I’ve been able to pop in on rehearsals at my convenience.  I also try to make myself as available to the actors and directors as possible, which is much easier for us in this technological age than it was for our predecessors.  Without fail, new areas of interest emerge in rehearsal, whether it is a product of a new direction the director decides to pursue or an actor’s decision that they need more information on a location their character mentions offhandedly.  You may have included that place in your glossary, but the actor has decided that this location is instrumental in their characterization and they need more information.  This is the part that is fun for me, when the actors really delve into the script and begin asking interesting questions.
We’re also the first people to go to when you want to nerd out about syntax or word choice.  If you want someone to get giddy about script analysis, find yourself a dramaturg.  I could spend days thinking about the repetition of one word throughout a script and the different ways that it operates within the text.  That is my idea of a good time.

So that is one type of dramaturg.  Next week we can talk about new works dramaturgs.  They share a lot, but it is really a different world.  For me, it’s a more fun one too.

Last Thursday, I was lucky enough to see Daniel Handler and Maira Kalman speak as a part of the Penny Stamps lecture series.  I, like many of the others in the audience, went to the lecture because my progression from childhood to adolescence to adulthood was basically charted by new volumes of A Series of Unfortunate Events which Mr. Handler wrote under his pen name, Lemony Snicket.  The lecture was not about that series, and I worried that for that reason it might not hold my interest.  I was happily proved incredibly wrong.  Handler and Kalman were in Ann Arbor to talk about their new book, Why We Broke Up, which charts the relationship and eventual demise of a high school couple through the objects the girlfriend is giving her now ex-boyfriend back.  Handler and Kalman have also started a website where people from all over can share their own stories of “why they broke up.”

Sitting there, hearing about the artists’ own break-up experiences and looking at this art centered around break-ups, I was struck by the idea that there is so much art about heartbreak.  I have a belief that 99% of art is based on love in some form.  Of that, I would say nearly half focuses on heartbreak or a sad or an impossible love.  My first thought was the movie High Fidelity (I know it is based on a book, but I haven’t read the book, and I don’t want to make assumptions about it based on the movie because who knows how much of that adaptation is faithful?).  This is a movie that dissects break-ups of all shapes and sizes.  The main character, Rob, works at a record store where he and his co-workers are constantly making “top five” lists.  In the film, Rob recounts his top five break-ups, and due to the nature of his work, each scene is punctuated by a killer soundtrack.

Probably the most obvious break-up art is the break-up song.  After the lecture and thinking about High Fidelity, I became really interested in the nature of the break-up song.  I sent out a mass text to my friends asking for their favorite break-up songs—they could be that sad, wallowy kind, a “fuck you” vibe, “I’m better without you”—whatever had helped them through break-ups.  Responses came back immediately.  People love sharing their break-up songs.  Generally, there were two types of responses: either someone would send one song that got them through a very specific break-up (these usually included a small story) or they would send a list with the best ones they could think of.  You can tell from the tone of someone’s songs what kind of break-ups they’ve been through and how they dealt with it.  People were telling me things.  Big things that had happened to them.  They have break-up playlists.  They have songs that immediately make them tear up with the memory of that heartbreak, no matter how removed they are from the experience now.

When thinking about the songs that came flooding in, I was surprised.  Most break-up songs are about the other person.  This makes sense, but I guess when I think of listening to music after a break-up it is sort of a self-healing process.

The majority of songs people suggested are about the “you,” the other person. I was going to compile a list of songs, but I am not exaggerating when I say the results were overwhelming.  Here are a few of my favorites/the most popular:

• “Free Bird”- Lynyrd Skynyrd.  This was the first response I got.  I thought he was kidding.  He wasn’t.  He said he can’t explain it, but his senior year of high school, he had a tough break-up and this helped him through.
• “Fuck You”- Lily Allen, for the angrier side of the spectrum, although the uptempo popiness adds a fun element.
• “Somebody That I Used to Know”- both Gotye and Eliot Smith
• “Skinny Love”- Bon Iver.  This one was mentioned a lot.
• “Your Heart is an Empty Room”- Death Cab for Cutie
• Anything by Dashboard Confessional, anything by Adele, anything by Ingrid Michaelson, anything by Joni Mitchell.  These came up often. Broody, mopey, oddly comforting.  Everyone seemed almost embarrassed to mention these guys, especially Adele, because it seemed so obvious, but isn’t that what makes them so perfect?
• “Headless Horseman”- The Microphones.  From my friend who said, “…might be the most heartbreaking break-up song ever, and I listen to some sad-ass music, believe me.”
• “Jude Law and a Semester Abroad”- Brand New
• “Cecilia”- Simon & Garfunkel.  You’re breaking my heart.
• “LIFEGOESON”- Noah and the Whale.  Finally, a hopeful one.
• “You Could Be Happy”- Snow Patrol.  A friend said this was “on repeat forever.”
• “Song for the Dumped”- Ben Folds.  Self-explanatory.
• “Miss Independent”- Kelly Clarkson.  Now that you’re single, here is your anthem.
• “Best Thing I Never Had”- Beyoncé.  Because Beyoncé is always there to pick you up when you’re down.  Let’s be real.  Similarly, “Single Ladies.”  Because…duh.

This weekend, along with hundreds of others, I experienced art at its most complex, gutsy, and visceral.  I saw, listened to, and contemplated Philip Glass and Robert Wilson’s Einstein on the Beach presented by UMS.  This was the first time the opera had been performed in twenty years.  They call this piece an opera, but it breaks any formal structures, including narrative.  The show is devoid of narrative.  This is something both the composer, Glass and director, Wilson, speak to at length and wish for the audience to embrace.

I heard Glass and Wilson speak at the Michigan Theatre last week as part of the Penny Stamps lecture series (which I will be attending again this week to see Daniel Handler a.k.a Lemony Snicket!).  Hearing their thoughts about art and performance were inspiring but also hard for me to wrap my head around.  As much as I try to be open to the avant garde and understanding art outside of my own experience, no matter what I do, my framework for understanding is the theatre.  I have a hard time hearing a director say it’s okay if audience members walk out in the middle of a performance, as Wilson said of Einstein.  Beyond that, he encouraged such behavior.  However, I understood and embraced his point: theatre should be like art, it should be available at all times to be observed as the viewer sees fit.

After hearing the two men speak and seeing snippets of previous productions, I was eager to see the marathon four and a half hour opera performed at the Power Center.  My ticket was for Sunday, so I had heard plenty from friends who had seen it the previous nights before venturing into the theatre, perched in the balcony of a packed auditorium.  No matter how much I had heard, I went in with an open mind, not knowing entirely what to expect, only knowing that it would be different than anything I had ever seen before.

That much was true.  I sat through almost the entire four and a half hours, getting up only once for a bathroom break.  My mind wandered as the repetitive music played on and the words spoken by those on stage merged with other sections and mutated into other phrases.  The most interesting part for me was knowing that while we were all watching the same performance, every single audience member had a different experience.  In this way, the piece was much more like art than theatre or opera.  I wish I could explain what I saw there, but it was almost like a dream.  I was present, I was awake, but everything seemed to be happening on some other plane.

Later that day, with the images and music still fresh in my head and my brain still reeling from the cerebral work-out, I discussed what I had seen with a group of theatre majors, some who had seen the show, some who had not.  One of the girls who hadn’t seen the show sat there silently for a while, and then she finally said, “I didn’t see the show, but it is so funny to hear people talk about it.”  And it’s true.  It is one of those things where your opinions become questions.  If you ask anyone what they thought of Einstein on the Beach, someone who wants to say, “I liked it” will actually end up saying, “I liked it?”  You can’t trust your own mind, and you’re still not sure if this is the type of thing that one likes or dislikes.

Days later, I am still questioning my experience, mulling everything over in my head, hearing the actress repeating, “If you please, it is trees.” I am still beyond impressed by the physical, emotional, and vocal stamina of those actors who perform nearly non-stop for four and a half hours every day.  I wonder what their experience is, what their understanding is.  I wish I could have been in the room to hear how an opera with no meaning or plot is made.  Every scene was disconnected but the experience was felt as a whole.  The experience is the point, and while I may never entirely understand why I watched a blindingly bright beam of light rise from a horizontal position to a vertical one with a nonsensical aria scoring the movement for probably ten minutes, I appreciated it.  I appreciate art that I may never understand.  It was executed with uncommon courage.  I am inspired to push the bounds of my understanding and my own creations.

It is with much sadness that I write this blog post.  Our small, close, family-like department recently suffered a loss.  Professor Glenda Dickerson passed away this past week, and it is a death that we all feel deeply.  The theatre department is like a family both in size, love, and relations.  I never had Professor Dickerson, but the mere principle of losing “one of our own” resonates in my heart.

Professor Dickerson was always a sort of mysterious figure to me.  I was finally going to have a class with her this semester, but another professor ended up taking that class over.  I was thrilled to meet this woman who was renowned within the department for her intellect and experience.  These were qualities I heard generally alluded to but never fully researched until Professor Dickerson fell ill and I found myself searching for what I had missed out on.

Once I began unearthing Professor Dickerson’s accomplishments, my remorse over never having spoken to her grew tremendously.  She directed on Broadway.  She won a Peabody award.  She wrote and co-wrote many books.  Her knowledge seemed boundless, particularly on the subjects of African-American theatre and the art of directing.  This woman had a varied and successful career that anyone would be envious of and seems to have had the courage, vision, and smarts to back it up.

For me, personally, Professor Dickerson’s passing completed the “cycle of threes” that death is supposed to run in, all of which occurred in the past week.  This has led to much reflecting, ruminating, and honestly, steeping myself in art that both comforted me and led to a deeper examination of my relationships and emotions.  I found immense solace in Jason Robert Brown’s “Hear My Song” from Songs for a New World.  My grief was expounded, examined, and ultimately, comforted by “I’ll Fly Away.”  I was also able to use my theatre community and my own personal work to help me move on and make good out of so much bad.

The three people who passed away who touched my life, directly or indirectly, have inspired me to continue on the route I am currently headed.  Each of these individuals accomplished incredible things throughout their lifetimes, which ranged from far too short to impressively long.  They faced adversity, stared it in the face, and overcame their personal obstacles.  I strive to do the same.  While grief can sometimes be overwhelming, it is important to come to a place of understanding the best we can.

For me, that comes by pushing through and creating something new.  Of course a play I write will never replace the loved one I have lost, but by rendering something new I am forcing myself to move on.  I hope that others in my department will do the same.  Important and impressive art has emerged from the deepest tragedies.  Think of Angels in America, one of the greatest American plays, which was inspired by the AIDS epidemic and how it affected the playwright specifically.

There is a great line from the aptly titled song “Move On” from the musical Sunday in the Park with George, “I want to know how to get through, through to something new.”  I think that “getting through” for me both represents the artistic breakthrough that is so desirable in the midst of a project, as well as “getting through” the hardships you face to get to a place where you can create again.  I intend to move on, and I hope to continue the legacy of these people who have touched my life.