Audience Behavior and the Magic of the Theatre

Well, it's not the first time an over-sexed, no-talent stoner in a skimpy outfit got publicity in a theatre. But I'm not here to talk about politics today...

I went to see a play last night. Ladies of Liberty by Bo List who is a damned fine writer for a living playwright. Spent a few hours with some long-time friends, (at a certain point, a gentleman does not refer to an actress as an "old friend." Trust me, pal. It's just better for everybody.) As it happens, these were ladies I have known and loved since the part of my life when nothing mattered more than knowing my lines, fixing my hair, and transforming the world, one dark room full of strangers at a time. The Theatre was my mission, my ministry, my church, my obsession, and an un-named co-respondent in every failed relationship since I was 15 years old.

I came to the Theatre because I wanted to be a Star. Then, some Ph.D. convinced me that what I really wanted was to be an Artist. Once I learned about rent and car payments, I decided to become a Professional. And then, having fallen short of all those lofty peaks, I eased into Minor Local Celebrity. I suppose that now, I aspire to Former Community Theatre Legend, but some as yet unborn obituary writer can make that call.

Actually, there was one other role, and it remains my favorite: Custodian. The Theatre is an ancient, unbroken tradition. This art form has been fully mature and handed down from elders to apprentices for well over 3000 years. She was a developed discipline when physicians were diagnosing from the taste of patients' urine, and chemists were trying to turn curtain weights into gold. Sophocles was exploring suffering and redemption when the creators of Judeo-Christian values were atoning for sin by slaughtering birds. The works of William Shakespeare were probing the depths of the human psychology when mental health experts were treating neurotics by burning them at the stake. So, yes, the Theatre has been ahead of the curve for a long time, and she has stayed there thanks to her children and her custodians. 

It's easy to recognize the children of the Theatre. They play in the colored lights. They make you laugh. They dress in black clothes and push furniture around in the dark. They show up on opening night and smile humbly as you tell them how splendid they are. God bless them. They work harder than Theatre Muggles will ever understand, and no matter how great the rewards they receive, the sacrifice is always just a little big greater. And for reasons only they know, the children of the Theatre think She is worth it.

The Custodians are harder to spot, but we are just as diverse a bunch. We whisper to the kids in the wings: little tips about how to put a button on a scene, or catch the peak of an audience laugh, or find the best bowl of chili in a strange town at 1:30 in the morning. We are the old-timers, the grizzled volunteers, the smiling cheerleaders and the eye-rolling critics who will slice a performance to ribbons, but only among other show-folk. In public, we are measured and thoughtful; sometimes biting, but never unkind. The Custodians know that there is something more important at stake than this evening's light cues or that tenor's screeching. We have our integrity. We have our opinions. We have our unfulfilled dreams and our frustrations and our grievances, just like everybody else. But we have one thing more. We have the Theatre. We are not just disappointed old coots. We are preservers. We are the Custodians.

How many Shakespeares come along? How many Bernhardts? How often will a generation have the chance to witness a talent like Olivier or Lloyd-Webber or Sondheim or Lyn-Manuel Miranda? There isn't some cosmic printing press grinding out geniuses. They are nurtured and cultivated and brought to bloom in the greenhouse -- why do you think they call them conservatories? -- the greenhouse of the Theatre. And somebody has to keep the floors mopped and the weeds pulled so those once-in-a-generation talents can have a place to blossom and thrive and make the world a better place through the holy act of telling stories. 

I don't know most of the Ladies of Liberty. Judging from the playbill, the really serious part of my acting career was over before most of them were born. But some old friends and I spent a couple of hours with them last night. They are talented and funny and beautiful and I am so glad that they have a place to play. And with my best, well-rehearsed, eyes-down-small-shrugging-slightly-smiling opening-night humility, I have to admit quietly to myself that I'm damned proud of the small part I played in making sure that there would be a Theatre for them to do their sacred, silly work, when they came along.

There are others doing the work now. They deserve al the credit for the paint on the walls and the hems in the skirts and the engineering of sound and lights and electronic ticket sales. They bust their butts while we venerable geezers talk about the old days and try to remember so-and-so who played thus-and-such that time when his codpiece split and you could see his nards through the whole Queen Mab speech. We still love coming to the theatre, even if we do look at it less like entertainment and more like buying a lottery ticket. We still pour over the bios in the program, looking for names of old friends we recognize and long gone productions that we loved or hated. We still thrill with anticipation when the lights go down because something wonderful just might happen, though it probably won't. And we still treat a standing ovation with much more seriousness than it deserves. (confession: if I don't stand for your curtain call, it may not mean I am burdened with the judgmental weight of my own artistic integrity. It probably means the air conditioning has my arthritis acting up.) 

Yes, we feel all the things we've always felt, but there is something else, too. And on behalf of all the crotchety old used-to-be-a-contenders out there, I want today's Holy Children of the Theatre to know and believe this: We are so fucking proud of you for keeping the Old Girl alive. Thank you, to all the Ladies and Gentlemen of Liberty who made last night's performance happen. You carry the latest link in a chain that is older than the pyramids, and you are taking such good care of it. We did our best. Now you do yours. Then, pass it on.

No telling when the next Genius is going to need a place to play.

Labor Day: Dad's Day

Fathers Day? Yes. His Birthday? Of course. But Labor Day? Ah, Labor Day will always be Dad's day. It is the day I most deeply connect with my father. Not just because of his nearly religious devotion to his Union -- International Typographical Workers Union #7 -- and the labor movement, but because, as mourners told me over and over at his funeral, "Your dad was the hardest working man I ever knew." Printer. School bus driver. Scoutmaster. Presbyterian Elder. The neighbor who shovels your sidewalk. The church janitor who never settles for "clean enough." 

Dad was proud to work, and he was proud of the work that he did. People respected him for that, but they loved him for who he was. Beneath the serious, bear of a man that the guys at the paper called "Hoss" was as generous a heart as a body could hold. He gave that heart away, not because it was something he owed you, but because it was the right thing to do. And unlike his son, he kept his own counsel. I don't remember ever hearing Dad brag. I never heard some of the best stories about him until after he died.

I'm 63, now. I've lived 4 years longer than he did, and I'm finally getting the hang of it, I think. Dad followed his father and big brother to the newspaper business and the composing room, becoming a master of technologies that no longer exist. I traveled a more roundabout road than he did. It would take more words than I have the gumption to type to tell the story of how the printer's son became Bob from the Y, but I have one thing in common with the big bald Eagle Scout: I am damned proud of my work and the tradition of which I am a part. 

Dad knew why a printer's work was important: because books and newspapers gave people knowledge and knowledge made them better citizens, better neighbors, better leaders. That's why it mattered to him when there were typos in the church bulletin or somebody used the wrong typeface on a concert poster: because these details diminished something that was so very important to him. He believed that important things deserved to be done well.

Like my dad, I know why my work is important. I see young athletes sweating and grunting through workouts that will lead to scholarships and maybe even careers in pro sports. I see parents grinding out hours on the elliptical trainer so they can stay strong and fit enough to keep up with their growing children. I watch grandparents splashing in the pool or puffing in the exercise studio so their bodies will keep helping them to do the things they love to do. And yes, I see my beloved cancer survivors discovering powers that they thought they had lost, or never knew they had.

That's why it matters that the paper towel dispensers are filled and the litter on the front lawn is picked up. Important things deserve to be done well. 

You see a lot of things about Labor Day. About all the things that we enjoy like weekends and overtime pay and medical benefits that union members fought and sacrificed and sometimes died to get for us. All that is true. But it's also true that union members like my dad, and the movement that made him so proud, were created to give a voice to people who did little things extremely well. They are still doing them. They are getting your kids to school. They are running the edge trimmer around your lawn. They are checking you out at the grocery store. And yes, some of us are making sure you have a safe, clean place to exercise and meet people, and help your neighbors to lift one another up every day. 

These aren't earth-shattering jobs. They aren't newsworthy. Most of the year, we hardly notice them happening around us. 

Except for Labor Day.

This is the day we celebrate unimportant people who do amazingly important things, and do them well. 

Dad understood that. It took me a while, but I'm catching on.

Happy Labor Day, Pop. And thanks for teaching me how to unblock a toilet. It comes in handy more that I expected it to.