June 15, 2008

Found another review of Edward the King online. Those Google alerts evidently don’t work so well as one supposes. The reviewer is Robin Kavanagh from a publication called The Edge out of Boston. Kavanagh is not an experienced theater-goer, though inexperience provides insights of its own. He supposes that flaws in his comprehension (and, in one case, flaws in the performance) are flaws in the play. I think that reviewers should have a little preparation, ideally, a little understanding of what they might see when the lights go down, but even if there isn’t much perception, there is honesty in this review, and as a playwright I want to speak to the first time play goer, if I can, as well as (or perhaps more than) the sophisticate. So, I read and heed. He ends the review with:

. . . Though I thoroughly enjoyed this play, I still found myself at a loss for words as I left the theatre. It is a heavy story that has symbolism threaded throughout. Days later, I am still trying to analyze exactly what went on between the characters and what the end was meant to say. I would definitely see it a second time, if only to increase my understanding of what is an intricate and interesting story.

I want to teach a class in play going someday, and one of the first lessons will be the dangers of trying too hard. Laboring to "figure it out" usually precludes figuring it out, and ALWAYS precludes enjoyment.

One cannot defend against a stupid review, or against the stupid parts of a good one. One cannot even defend against very good things said which one believes to be untrue, even antipathetic to one’s aims. One smiles and hopes one children make their way despite it all. One smiles and takes pleasure in being so inclusive and various that people can say wildly opposite things about the same goddamn moment. Just put the play on. Just say the words. Let someone hear them. Then write anything you want.

Kavanagh’s was not by any means a stupid review. It was an honest and thoughtful one. It just exhausted me by bumbling past open doors and then pounding on the wall where no door was intended. It disappointed me (as much writing does) by making no distinction–and feeling no need to make a distinction–between incidental and temporary qualities and quirks of perception and the thing actually perceived. The subway ride was hot and irritating and my girlfriend really wanted to go somewhere else and I don’t like going to shows that aren’t musical: therefore, the first act dragged.

I have done the same thing, though, and because my writing is better, the effect is worse because people think I always know what I’m talking about when sometimes I’m grumpy or distracted just like anybody else. In love with my own delusions of objectivity, it took me a while to realize this, and to acknowledge damage I might have done to people or productions which might have had gentler treatment had I not been importing some fury or another from outside. I am resolved to take the (rather minor) blows to Edward semi-uncomplainingly because of this. One incident that sticks in my mind is comments I made in my blog (which were then imported into all the word, and not by me) about John Crutchfield’s play at NC Stage. It’s not that I didn’t believe what I said, but I could have refrained from saying it, or not put it in a public blog, or emphasized what was good (which I did, actually, but that part was not made so public). . . except that I was so angry. . . about. . . something. I don’t even remember what. Didn't have anything to do with John or his play, but still covered him and it with its shadow. That moment came to mind whenever someone said something stupid or extra- Edwardian about Edward. It’s the fair play of a sharp world. I’m going to take it, as I say, semi-uncomplainingly, and resolve in the future to check myself five, six times, to insure that what I’m saying is really about what I think it is.

Day two of Studio Stroll an hour off. I am he who will be there with an ingratiating smile plastered across his faces though he KNOWS nothing will come of it.

Michael Minor’s wife keeps the blog of his fight with cancer. Somebody should tell her she is a very good writer, witty, perceptive, in command. May the story she is writing have a happy ending.

Father eats big meals and remembers days when he was confused on days when he is not, but cannot explain the difference.