Since Eric has been casting for the play he’s directing, The Bluest Eye, I’ve happened upon many conversations about skin colour around the theatre. Both Eric and I (of Chinese and Indian ethnicities) have experienced in our own cultures the idea of light-skinned versus dark-skinned, and succumbing to western ideals of beauty. So while the play is specifically about the African-American experience, it certainly rings true around the world. I remember thinking how lucky I was to be growing up in a time when things are changing; and to be surrounded by people who did not have such a narrow idea of beauty, nor how that related to a person’s worth. And then, an old classmate sent me the article below. At first, I didn’t know whether to believe it or not. I certainly didn’t want to. But it shook me up, and reminded me that things really haven’t changed as much as I thought. Here’s the email. I’d be interested to know what you think.
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I’m starting to think there’s a new trend among playwrights of putting as much effort and creative voice into their stage directions as they do into their dialog. And I can’t decide how I feel about this trend.

Eugene O’Neill wrote copious, extremely specific stage directions–describing the intention behind lines, the reaction to lines, the blocking (and I’m not talking about the staging information from the first production that often gets printed). For instance, O’Neill writes the following stage directions into the Richard/Belle scene from Ah Wilderness!:

Belle: What, are you to bashful to ask for a room? Let me do it then (She crosses Richard)
Richard: (Desperately, he stops her) No–I don’t want you to–(Backs a step away from her) I don’t want to.
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The karaoke competition is over. I’m officially sung out. Oh, and $150 bucks richer.

Much love to everyone who joined us for Karaoke nights at Humphrey’s in Orange to share a pint and cheer us on while we indulged our inner rock star for a modest cash prize.

And in my opinion, Ian rocked it last night. Gotta say that he is now my karaoke guru. He gave me some great advice (whether he knew it or not) that this whole thing is about having a good time and all the voice training doesn’t mean a thing here. You essentially have to throw your technique out the window and scream your head off for everyone’s amusement. If you have fun, so will everyone else, I guess. And I suppose that after throat surgery I’ve been focused too much on singing correctly lately. But last night, forget it. I didn’t overthink it and just let it go. It was really amazing. So I give Ian much respect for this.

And second place? That’s kinda cool, I’m really honored. But I wouldn’t be without the LWT crew there. Y’all are the best, straight up.

Now, let’s go bowling, or something that doesn’t have a microphone, k?

~M*

Soggy foggy bog.
Froggy log.
Hoggy dog
(in swimming togs)
snogged the frog,
fled to Prague,
wrote this blog.

Last night, I finished watching a series of documentary movies made in England between 1963 and the present day, which is unofficially known as the Up series. Starting with 7 UP in 1963, the show interviewed a bunch of seven-year-olds from all different backgrounds about their views on life, school, the opposite sex, race, and money. They went back to interview these kids (the shop assistants and executives of 2000) every subsequent 7 years and together we watch them grow and transform.

I’ll be the first to admit that this series has had a profound effect on me. Originally intended as a political experiment (to profile classism in England), it is not so much that as a lesson in the studies of life. Whatever the backgrounds, the participants follow similar lifecycles. From the openness of their first interviews, to the nervous giggle of their adolescent selves; from the uncertainty and excitement (and arrogant pronouncements about the way of the world) in their early twenties to the settling down period and family focus of their late twenties; from the financial, emotional and marital strains of middle age, to the contentment and acceptance of life in their late forties; it is possible to detect a pattern. And of course, as Michael Apted says, the popularity of the show stems from people watching not the interviewees, but themselves. And this is entirely true.

 I got to thinking about theatre. So many theatres have settled into the complacency of middle age (from the view of an idealistic twenty-something) that they are happy to tailor their expectations to what they know, and what they have come to accept as reality (audience preferences, ticket sales, etc). And they are content. Meanwhile the young thrash about trying to create something new, to break away from the old, and are not content until things exist as they believe it should, and as they want it to be. One thing the program has me thinking is that neither is better nor worse. They are simply different stages in a life cycle. And what I really appreciate about Long Wharf is that it is so healthy at balancing the new ideas with the existing jewels, the idealism of youth with the reality of experience, the uncertainty of new spheres with the stability of longevity.

This is just a fraction of what this documentary has made me feel.  It’s so rare to see anything that has the power to do that. Therein lies its integrity. I’d recommend watching it to anyone. If it inspires thought in you as it has in me, it’s worth the investment.

…is through its script library (or its annual fund, perhaps, but as a voracious reader with a small bank account, I’ll take the former route).

This afternoon I began the project of organizing the Long Wharf’s script library–a sizeable project, given the forty one years’-worth of American plays that have passed through here. Since I’m new to the Long Wharf, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the theater’s production history. A year-by-year list of productions has been sitting on my desk for two days, but the information had remained just that–a memorized list. But today, as I alphabetized the production scripts, I felt as if I began actually getting to know the theater’s history: not just what plays have been produced here, but who wrote them, when they were written, how many drafts they went through before production, and what the literary agents scribbled on the inside cover when they sent the plays to the artistic director. My favorite part was definitely reading the notes. I felt as if some of them should be museum pieces–typewriter-typed on delicate vellum, signed with nicknames (”Pete” instead of A.R. Gurney). I even happed upon the stage manager’s book of sign-in sheets and rehearsal reports from the 1980 National Tour of “The Lion In Winter”! We decided to keep only the final drafts of each play and get rid of unrevised versions. I felt a little sacreligious throwing them away, but I felt better when I saw the room it made on the shelves–all the more space to fill with scripts from seasons to come.

Yesterday, Eric and I decided to meet about the blog—yes, the very same blog that you are now (hopefully) reading. Our earlier conversations were coming to fruition; the powers that be have deemed our little project worthy; and we are on the way to sharing our experiences with you. So we met, to discuss the details (or at least that’s what I thought).

Instead, our meeting turned into an intense two hours where we fought and scrapped and nitpicked about tiny little details in order to answer the big question: why do this? What do we want it to be? …To say? We talked about dissemination and manipulation of information, and how our generation accesses information in so many different ways that we need to create many entry points in order that people can experience us on their own terms. We argued about (don’t laugh) the philosophy of the blog versus the aesthetic of the blog, and whether they are the same thing, or at least so closely tied together so as to be impossible to separate. We agreed that design would always be secondary to content, and that the content should never be confined by anything, but then we argued again about whether too much structure would be constricting, or instead would provide a framework to allow people to be entirely free with their thoughts, writings, and expressions.

We talked, argued, discussed, and debated for two intense hours, and by the end of it I was exhausted: mentally and intellectually drained. And it felt awesome!

One of my professors once told me that the hardest thing for some students about going into the “real world” is that you get too busy (as do the people around you) to think about the “big” questions, and to realize exercise your mind. Thank god that’s not the case here. In fact, in my first few weeks I have spent a lot of time being idealistic, theorizing, debating, arguing with my colleagues here, and nothing would make me happier than if this is how my next two years go. The gloves are off, and I’m ready. Ding, ding, ding. Let the games begin.

It was mid-May. I was two weeks from graduating. I knew I was moving out of my apartment, but to where I did not know. It could be as close as Dixwell and as far as

Singapore. I was checking my voicemail every five minutes for any word that I might indeed be gainfully employed. And then, one morning, still half asleep and extremely bleary-eyed, I got a call from Joan Channick, Managing Director here at the Wharf, telling me I’d got the gig. Amidst all the excitement, I was left with one overarching feeling of disbelief: I was actually employable.

Fast-forward three months, one long vacation, two moves and an irate ex-landlord later, and I’m back in

New Haven, at Long Wharf Theatre, at the beginning of week two. Last week,

Eric Ting, the Associate Artistic Director told me his idea for this blog, and asked me if I was interested in working on it. Actually, I think he asked me. I just might have invited myself along for the journey, thus steamrollering him into compliance. I hope not. Anyway, he has been wonderful, and this project has been one of the highlights of my short time here.

Another highlight has been the people here. At the risk of sounding effusive and dooming myself to a lifetime as “that dorky overly-eager girl by the window”, I am so excited to be working with people like these. Everyone here is an artist, and creates in and out of the theatre. Alice Anne is one: by day a fundraiser extraordinaire; by night, a soulful singer in a local rock/folk band (www.myspace.com/document183). T Paul, our Associate Producer, deals with artists everyday as he line produces the season. But come the weekend, and he’s out and about with his theatre group (www.metertheater.com) performing on the sidewalks of

New Haven, in this highly conceptualized form of street theatre.

What you’re going to see, week after week, and as often in between, is a sort of virtual scrapbook about what it’s like to be, work, think, and dream at

Long Wharf. You’ll hear from all of us: from Eric and myself, from Bea—our brilliant Italian resident dramaturg and literary manager—from directors and actors, from our dedicated residents, and of course the staff. You’ll see interviews with the team, journals from the rehearsal room, notes on scandals, photos, video, and all sorts of other craziness.

As we chronicle the real world behind the scenes at

Long Wharf, I am aware that you and I are beginning a journey together. Enjoy! I fully intend to.