Author: Aislinn

The first blog I posted here was called Beginnings in the Middle, about how for a theatre student, your semester sort of re-starts right in the middle.  Now, I am sad to say, it’s time for another beginning.  I am about to begin my final semester here at the University of Michigan.

For me and many of my peers, the beginning of this semester has meant many things.  First of all, this semester began as soon as the last one ended.  I began dramaturging Spring Awakening the day Beaux’ Stratagem closed.  I rushed back to school yesterday to continue my research, while all of the musical theatre students auditioned for the show, so we are all ready for our first rehearsal on Friday.  I’ve been receiving floods of audition announcements and calls for designers and crews the past few days.  The theatre department likes to get a running start.  So while I, like most of us, am not ready for classes to start up again, they sort of already have.  I borrowed seven books from the library today.  For the record, I love the stacks.  Today, I traversed both the North and South stacks.  Then, I went over to the Fish Bowl and found images that might help the cast and crew find useful, both historically and thematically.  Now I am diligently thumbing through my books, marking pertinent passages, and figuring out how to best communicate that to the actors.  Friday, I will get to start the actors’ journey through the text, guiding them as best as I can through history, themes, and culture.

Over break, I was busy too.  I compiled a glossary for Spring Awakening, which is actually one of my favorite parts of dramaturgy.  I read the script twice, the first time just for getting a grasp on the text and the second to go through and pinpoint any terms, places, or people that the actors may be unfamiliar with or needs further explanation.  I also spent much of my break reading plays for the 2012 National Playwrights’ Conference at the O’Neill.  They receive approximately 900 submissions a year and actually produce 7 or 8.  The first round of plays is read by a whole host of volunteers to weed through the plays that are not right for the conference.  I read twenty plays in all, fifteen of which I read over break.  There is nothing more exciting than a new play.  There is something really invigorating about seeing someone take risks, play with form, and genuinely surprise you as a reader.

Like most people, I didn’t get everything done over break that I had planned, but I at least got a start on editing my newest play as well.  My first play won a Hopwood, which I mention not to toot my own horn, but to encourage anyone who has anything they feel is worth reading to submit.  The Hopwood absolutely changed my life.  It gave me confidence to continue writing and money to pursue dramaturgy.  Fingers crossed that the second play fares as well, but it’s a tricky business and pretty impossible to predict.

I am going to sign off here, because I need to get ready for the big game tonight.  My brain is in dramaturgy mode, so I’m sure I will be analyzing the dramatic arc of the game, pulling out moments where I feel the stakes could be heightened, or critiquing gender dynamics at play between the football players and cheerleaders.  Go blue!

For one of my classes, we were split up into groups and given fictional theatre companies.  We were to each take a role in the company and complete some tasks that position holds.  I was lucky enough to become the artistic director of the Susan Glaspell Theatre, a regional theatre in Greenwich Village that focuses on the development of new works.  Two years ago, I had this crazy dream that I might want to be an artistic director “when I grow up.”  As those two years have passed, I have scaled down my goals, made them more central to what I consider to be my speciality: the literary department.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I would kill for a job in a literary office in a theatre next year.  I would absolutely murder for it.  But this assignment, this absolutely crazy idea of making myself the artistic director of a theatre brought back those feelings, those ambitions.

Some in the class saw the assignment as an end of the year blow off thing, and if we’re being honest, it had all the potential to be just that.  But, thank God, my group didn’t see it that way.  We went crazy.  We began to imagine a history for our theatre.  There is a next door space called “The Susie” that is a coffeeshop in the daytime and a bar at night.  We planned an entire fictional season of works that don’t exist.  Something inside of me will not let go of this damn fictional theatre.  I want it to be my life.  I think I’m going to save my mission statement and letter to patrons to my computer, as a sort of time capsule.  If I reopen them in twenty years and my life isn’t what I had planned at 21, I’m going to start over until I get it right.  I need this to be my life.  I want to make a difference and do exciting, relevant theatre.

Here’s our mission statement:

The Susan Glaspell Theatre has dedicated the last fifty years to producing new plays that speak to the contemporary moment.  The Glaspell has a split mission: we both produce some of the most vital and well-known American voices in our regular season and encourage playwrights at the beginnings of their careers with our one-month staged reading series, The Birdcage.  The Susan Glaspell aims to be a haven for its writers, lovingly known as Canaries, who are both developing and mounting new work.  The Glaspell strives to engage with society as it is today, and, as a result, present theatre breaks boundaries, creates new styles, and challenges its audiences.  Throughout its history, the Glaspell has proven itself one of the most daring and socially engaged theatres in New York City, and it will continue to provide audiences relevant, exciting, youthful theatre for years to come.

I know it may seem crazy, and it probably is, but this project has inspired me to finish up next semester and head out into the real world.  No matter how scary it may be, I have this crazy made-up dream as my light at the end of the tunnel, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get there.

The 9/11 generation.  That’s what they call us.  The first time I heard that our generation is “defined by 9/11” was freshman year.  I remember feeling oddly offended.  Surely we are more complex than that, I thought.  One event, no matter how horrific it was, cannot be the defining moment of our generation, especially not one that happened when I was 11 years old.  I still have so many experiences ahead of me.  How can scholars or marketing executives or whoever it is who makes these decisions tell me what defined my identity and the identity of the rest of the people in my age group?

I am currently taking a class on the contemporary American novel.  All of the books we’re reading were written after 2001.  Only about a third of the novels we read dealt with 9/11 directly, but the tragedy left its mark on all of the books in one way or another.  The Lovely Bones, a novel set in an entirely different decade, still grapples with issues of mortality and unspeakable acts of violence.  Zone One is a straight-up zombie novel, but the imagery evokes pictures of destruction– ash-filled skies and unstable skyscrapers.  As we begin our final weeks of the semester, I am coming to certain conclusions about the state of the American novel.  Many of these conclusions are related to 9/11 and what a pre- and post- 9/11 American novel looks like.  If novels are supposed to reflect society, as I believe most good novels do in one way or another, it only follows that these same conclusions are indicative of our culture and identities.

We are more paranoid.  We are more concerned with what the societal structures we’ve depended so heavily on mean and how much we can trust them.   We worry about the legacy we’re leaving for our children.  Dying parents or other authority figures crop up time and time again.  We’re scared, we’re in a constant state of change, and we are looking for something to believe in.  In the case of many of these novels, the characters turn to books.  Before they may have searched for help in the Bible, but their faith has been shaken and they are looking for another outlet.

I sympathize with these characters.  As I’ve gotten older, religion has taken a backseat in my life.  At the moment, it is sort of a nonentity.  I don’t think about it one way or another.  Where some might “cling to guns and religion,” I “cling to text and art.”  They might not leave me with hope or reassurance, but through characters and masterful writing, I am given the supreme gift of faith in humanity.  According to Jonathan Franzen, a good novel should teach us how to live in this world.  I don’t need an author to teach me how to live, but at the very least they should make me want to learn how to live.

The authors we’ve been reading are certainly not in my generation.  They are my parents’ generation.  Some are a bit younger.  I like to believe that they are cynical and only see our generation as distant outsiders.  Many of them try to tackle the voice of our generation by bringing in younger narrators or central characters.  While the way they speak may not be realistic, there is something in the tone that feels right.  I still remember George W. Bush declaring war on Iraq a couple days after my 13th birthday and feeling indescribable fear because I did not know what was next.  They’ve got that uncertainty down.

As I’ve learned about the contemporary American novel, I’ve learned about contemporary American society.  We’ve got a ways to go.  For the time being, I’m reluctantly agreeing that my generation is the 9/11 generation.  Our adolescence was colored by uncertainty and fear.  As we move forward, I am excited to see what sort of novels we produce.  Maybe we will complete Franzen’s goal and learn how to live.  You know what?  Let’s do him one better.  Let’s learn how to thrive.

There’s a malady well-known in the undergraduate theatre community.  It begins in late August and symptoms reoccur periodically throughout the year.  Thankfully, there is a support network out there for those of us so afflicted by this terrible disease.  I have been suffering from a flare-up lately.  That’s right.  I’m not ashamed.  I have post-internship depression syndrome (PIDS).

Common symptoms of PIDS include:

• Desperately wanting to be in an office surrounded by scripts.
• A detached desperate feeling to be plugged back into the professional theatre scene.
• Missing working alongside salaried employees and bemoaning your unpaid status.
• A yearning to see the future of professional American theatre created before your very eyes.
• A slight watering at the eyes when Skyping, Facebooking, or texting former colleagues.
• Sinking of heart when reading about something awesome that is happening at your previous place of employment.  When you’re not there.
• Constantly reaching for your phone to share nerdy news that only your co-workers could fully appreciate.

The good news, if you’re afflicted with this condition, is that some of the most exciting theatre companies in America have now joined the 21st century.  Their websites are up to date and slick.  Their Twitters are tweeting.  Their Facebook fan pages have photo exclusives and ticket deals.

I do what I can to stay up to date on the conventional theatre news websites, like Playbill and Broadway.com, but for the younger, fresher, ideas, I often turn to Twitter.  The hashtag #newplay is my best friend.  I can follow dramaturgs who are doing the work I would love to; even LMDA (Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of the Americas) has an account.  The national organization for professional not for profit theatre, Theatre Communications Group (TCG), live tweets their conferences and panels.  This is an excellent way to stay up to date.  It’s like you’re in the room with the top theatrical minds sharing in their dialogue.  There are accounts set up exclusively to promote a new play discussion.  The greatest thing about Twitter, as obvious as it may be, is that anyone can add into the conversation if they feel so moved.  This often results in discussions between people who may not otherwise communicate– a writer in San Francisco and an upstart artistic director in New York, a storefront theatre in Chicago and a New York marketing director.  There are blogs that serve this purpose as well.  One of my favorites is Howl Round, maintained by Arena Stage.

Today, something major happened.  The Actors’ Theatre of Louisville, an excellent non-profit theatre with one of the most impressive new play festivals in the country, appointed a new artistic director today, Les Waters, director of many young playwrights and associate director of Berkeley Repertory Theater.  I read about this decision minutes after it was announced, thanks to Twitter.  It then exploded all over my Twitter and Facebook newsfeeds.  I was hearing about it from professional organizations, new play think tanks, and theatrical friends who either had worked for ATL in the past or are interested in their work.  It’s moments like this that I’m reminded how small the theatre community is, and what a community it is.  The excitement generated by this shift in personnel made me excited without having any personal connections to the theatre.  The community, my community, was buzzing. It’s days like this that my PIDS subsides.  I am still at one of the best universities in the world, learning what I need to learn to permanently join the community that I so yearn for, and remain a part of that community, at least technologically.

Here it is.  My Thanksgiving list, specific to theatre:

• Those who have come before me and paved the way.  Looking at you, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, Tony Kushner, Sarah Ruhl, Laura Schellhardt.
• Seeing my first play produced in my hometown.  It was surreal and I am unbelievably lucky to have had that privilege.  Something many of us have to wait years for.
• My talented friends and professors who inspire me daily.
• New work.  It is invigorating and vital.  I am glad it exists, and I am glad that there are places in this country (the O’Neill, Humana Festival, The Lark) that are fostering it and ensuring that our theatre will have a future.
• Artistic dialogues.  I joined the Literary Managers and Dramaturgs of the Americas listserv this year, and it is one of the best decisions I’ve made.  Every day, I get a nerdy little e-mail sent to me containing brilliant dialogues between dramaturgs who are sincerely enthusiastic about their work.
• The close-knit theatre community.  In theatre, they always say, “It’s all about who you know,” and I believe that is 100% true.  What’s more true is that whoever you know will know someone else.  Everyone knows everyone.  It’s like living in a small town. It may feel stifling at times, but in the end it’s very comforting to know that if you make great friendships with other artists, they’ll do their best to make sure you are taken care of.  Theatre is a scary profession, but there’s always something out there who’s got your back.
• The theatre department.  My classmates, my professors, other professors who I don’t have any more but who still sit down and talk with me about life.  I get to feel like my voice is valued and respected.  The support here is incredible, and because of that I am able to do the most important thing for a young theatre professional.  I can take risks.  Special shout out to my program, the BTAs!
• Basement Arts. I know it may seem shmaltzy, but if I hadn’t gotten on board a Basement Arts show my first year at this university, my experience would have been entirely different and not nearly as happy.  It’s how I made my first friends in the department, and I got to do it while defying what I thought possible of three weeks of rehearsal and a tiny theatre.  I am consistently amazed by the work done by Basement, and I am glad that my participation in it has stretched my three years here.
• Having the great advantage of knowing that this is what I wanted to do since I was seven years old.
• All of my theatrical homes, and there have been several.  Whenever I think of a place I feel safe and centered, I think of a theatre.  I know I am lucky to have that, and I am so thankful that I have always had a theatrical home.

Sorry if this seems a little self-centered or self-indulgent, but I hope it at least got you thinking about what you’re thankful for.  Artists have to constantly step back and think of what they’re thankful for so they have fuel to keep going.  Happy Thanksgiving!

I know it’s not my normal blogging day, but I feel compelled to write.  I had the privilege to see previews of two amazing shows this week: Cabaret presented by MUSKET and Trumpets and Raspberries, a University Production.  What struck me the most about both of these productions was how stylistically innovative and complete they were.

Remember, I was watching tech rehearsals, so at this stage in the game, the look of the show wasn’t even 100% complete, but I was amazed by what I saw.  Both shows possessed distinct styles, from movement to costumes to scenery to lights.  I don’t want to say that it’s rare to have such a fully immersive theatrical experience, but in a way it is.  I think that these shows specifically struck me because they were set in wildly imaginative and different worlds: Cabaret in 1930s Berlin and Trumpets in 1960s Italy.

The directors of each of these shows had very clear concepts, and that was evident in the final product.  These are not safe directors.  Malcolm Tulip, a professor, and Roman Micevic, a senior directing major, each have very individualized styles.  I could watch Trumpets and say, “Oh, this is a very Malcolm show.”  When I tell that to people in the department, they nod their heads and understand, but what makes Malcolm such an effective director is that “Malcolm style” is something you recognize when you see.  It is not predictable or by the numbers; it is almost the unpredictability that makes it Malcolm.

Hats off to the designers of these shows.  I would name them all, but since I don’t possess programs, I would be to worried to leave someone out.  They not only perfected their vision in the show, but made that vision mesh with the other members of the team.   I can’t imagine what Cabaret would look like if the Emcee’s make-up and the harsh white spotlight weren’t working together.  Trumpets would be a completely different experience if the props and costumes weren’t both willing to take a step into the absurd together.

Both of these shows took steps outside of realism, a tricky thing to do in American theatre, and the final products are stunning.  Theatre is about taking risks, going for broke, thinking outside the box.  These two shows, which could not be more different– one comes out of the commedia delle’arte tradition, while the other stems from expressionist cabaret– have inspired me to be fearless.  What is most incredible is that by moving beyond the bounds of contemporary realism, their themes resonated with today’s culture for me more than many shows I have seen that are based in everyday life.  I left the theatre amazed by the visual but also touched by the emotional and tugged by the cerebral.  I know that this is a crazy time in the semester, but I hope that if you have time this weekend, you will let yourself get lost in these fantastical enchanting worlds for  just a few hours.