Matt Casarino

The Worst Play I Ever Saw was well-written and cannily acted. It concerned a grown woman and her father, who sat (I think the woman stood) on opposite sides of the stage. They never spoke to each other, but each spoke to the audience. Although the writing was unusually sharp and natural, I don’t remember anything either of them said. I remember a great deal, however, about the two molestation scenes.

The woman, you see, was a victim of her father’s pedophilia. She and her father, in graphic detail, relive the first time he raped her. His is more of a reflective memory - I don’t think he even rises from his chair - but hers is visceral. She drops to the floor, her voice becomes high and child-like, and she cries and screams as she narrates, with great detail, what is happening to her. The scene finally stops, she becomes a woman again, they each deliver a few more monologues…and then another painful, extended molestation scene. Then the father exits, the woman sums it all up, fade to black, curtain.

Some audience members thought it was powerful drama. Some walked out in disgust. I’m proud to say I did not walk out, but it was certainly one of the most unpleasant and maddening theatre-going experiences of my life. I felt violated. I resented the author, who also directed, for imposing those scenes on me. But then I reflected a bit. Was I just putting up a wall? Here is a play about a father raping his child - of course it’s unpleasant and difficult to watch! And I understood that this play was hugely therapeutic for the author, which made me feel guilty for resisting it. Was I being hypocritical for hating it? Why did it inspire so much hatred?

I asked my good friend Jeff Williams, who also saw the play. He hated it too, and he knew exactly why. “It had no drama,” he said. “Just a couple of nasty rape scenes. I don’t need to see a father molest his daughter on stage to know that it’s wrong.”

The play had fallen into a very simple dramatic pitfall: it confused cruelty and shock with drama. It was a play about a woman who had been raped by her father, but that’s all it was. That it was so eerily effective in depicting two on-stage rapes only deepened its nasty effect and justified my suspicion that the playwright intended the rape scenes to be the dramatic climaxes of the play. There were opportunities for real character development, genuine storytelling, even honest moralizing, but we didn’t get any of that. It wasn’t even a story about child molestation - the molestation WAS the story.

I found that play disgusting and exploitive, an empty exercise in theatrical shock. But recently I’ve noticed how many plays, including some of my own, look to the darkest sides of human nature and cruelty for their stories. For example, in the past year, I’ve seen readings and/or performances of:

• Richard Gaw’s “Mary Catherine,” in which two grown brothers have a late dinner following their mother’s funeral. During the course of the conversation, we learn that their father, simply named “The Bastard,” was a miserable alcoholic who beat the oldest boy and the mother mercilessly;
• Brian Turner’s “Love and a Hard Place,” which tells the story, mostly through monologues, of a self-hating man who beats his wife, then murders a young woman at random;
• Kristyn Leigh Robinson’s short work “Killing Schroedinger’s Cat,” in which a young woman must confront both the memories of her abusive, alcoholic stepfather and her mother, who allowed the abuse to continue;
• Peter Hedges’ one-act “Imagining Brad,” an odd tale of two women - one who escaped spousal abuse by marrying a man physically unable to beat her, and another who is suffering increasingly brutal attacks by her husband;
• A work-in-progress by my friend Gary Bundy with the wonderful title “Welcome to the Age of Aquarius,” in which one of the college-aged women is in love with a jerk who beats her and damages her self-esteem;
• My own “The Boy Who was Born With a Tail,” in which a little girl discovers one of the results of the abuse she’s suffered at the hand of her father: she can no longer find a happy ending to the fairy tale she’s trying to write.

So the question is - why is abuse such a common theme in theatre? Does a play get deeper when it starts dealing with issues of cruelty, particularly parent to child and husband to wife? Is there really anything new or interesting to say about abuse?

Wow, I sound like Carrie Bradshaw. Anyway, it’s an interesting question. In the worst cases, abuse is simply a substitute for real story-telling. Sometimes the big dramatic revelation is that a character is or was an abuser, or a victim of abuse. You see this from new playwrights a lot, and it’s a lazy deus ex machina, a way to add a little spice to a failing story. And while I strongly feel that any subject is ripe for the plucking when it comes to creating drama, it’s crucial that playwrights recognize their responsibility to be true to said subjects. In other words, you shouldn’t go slinging around sensational subjects just for effect, or because you think they add depth to your story.

But in the best cases, abuse can be the catalyst for some amazing character tales and stories of redemption. I’m not a traditionalist, but I do believe that by the end of a play, we should feel like an arc has been completed. That arc can be anywhere - in a character’s progression (or regression), in the story, in the exploration of a theme. Most of the plays I mentioned are written by people I know, and they all have something in common - none of them are about abuse. Abuse is a subject, but each play takes it in very different directions, and they all have sound dramatic arcs. “Mary Catherine” is a riveting character study; “Killing Schroedinger’s Cat” explores some deep family ties and deeper psychological boundaries; “Love and a Hard Place” is deeply interested in its characters and their motivations and fears; “Imagining Brad” is almost satirical at times (if deeply cynical) as it redefines sexual roles; “Aquarius” is a portrait of four young women, and their struggle with understanding how to relate to the men in their lives; my own “The Boy” is really about the struggle of a child to retain her innocence. Each play has a story and characters that are specific and real, and each one has an urgency that gives the play structure and drama.

In comparison, The Worst Play I Ever Saw, despite its strong writing and excellent performances, isn’t a drama, but an exercise. It has no urgency, no purpose for being, except to present disquieting scenes. Instead of building to a climax, it just continues, substituting cruelty for drama, ultimately romanticizing the inhuman actions of the father character. Is it enough that the play is controversial, causing tension and disgust in much of the audience? Maybe, for those grateful that the message “pedophilia and incest are horrible and have lasting effects” allows them the opportunity to nod in solemn agreement. The rest of us, though, want to see theatre, which implies some kind of growth and progression. And while we’re prepared to witness any subject tackled with any degree of bluntness, we want assurance that the author is taking us somewhere, teaching us something - or, at the very least, concerned that we’re being entertained.

I wouldn’t mind if we called a temporary moratorium on the theme of abuse. I know I’m going to try to stay away from it for a while. It has an innate dramatic flaw - it’s too easy. It’s too easy to confuse abuse with drama. It’s too easy to force sympathy on a character by making him or her a victim of abuse. And it’s too easy to announce “this is a deep, serious play” by introducing abuse as a theme. I’ll say it again - every theme, every subject, everything that happens in the world is a legitimate subject for drama. Some of the best pieces of fiction and theatre document what which we find difficult and uncomfortable to talk about (see Albee, Edward). But when it comes to documenting the pain and trauma of rape and abuse, the author must utilize tremendous tact and responsibility. Using abuse as a catalyst for a riveting story or character background is one thing; using it simply as sensationalism or to throw some turmoil into your play is exploitive and dishonest.

By the way, I would love to see another play by the author of that piece I despised so much. Anyone who can inspire that much contempt with an honest attempt at theatre is someone I want to keep a close eye on. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if she turned out to be brilliant.

I have a wonderful, eternally trusted friend who recently suggested that my plays might suggest something about my psyche that I’ve been avoiding facing in real life. In other words, she thinks I have a lot of issues, and only needs to look at my body of work for proof.

“Nonsense,” my defense mechanism (I call him Clark) says. “My plays are nothing more than an ideas taken to its natural conclusions. Pure fiction, concocted out of thin air, and the drama I see in society each day.”

But sometimes, the superego takes a nap, and I start to wonder if my friend might have a point. You could summarize my plays in many ways, but it’s hard to deny the thread of violence and cynicism that seems to waltz through some of them. Following are some perfectly legitimate capsule summaries and/or lessons of my most popular works:

Lives in the Wind - an actor gets killed twice while a merry troupe of actors gleefully reenact every war they can think of. LESSON: War is romantic and fun. 4 deaths.Something Went Wrong - a wife comes to accept her husband’s psychopathic tendencies. LESSON: ultimately it’s easier to sweep such things under the rug than deal with them. 1 death (offstage, but the corpse remains on).

The Trophy Wife - a woman discovers that suicide is a perfectly viable and acceptable alternative to guilt. The man who is to kill her agrees (although he might boff her first). Meanwhile, her husband gets away with murder and lives happily ever after. LESSON: Hey, murder and suicide happen, particularly in a marriage. No deaths DURING the play, but 2 murders, including the murder of a pregnant woman, play a crucial part in the action.

A Curtain Call to Arms - don’t get me started. LESSON: Death is funny, and certainly worth the glory. Um…let’s see…7 deaths.

Mediocreville - LESSON: suicide is funny!

The Boy Who was Born With a Tail - child abuse leads to creative blocks. It’s a little obscure if anyone dies, but no one has a lot of fun.

And so on. To paraphrase Janeane Garofalo: “Get the boy a magazine rack, because he’s got a lot of issues.”

Okay. I admit the outlook looks bleak, and to be fair, therapy is definitely something I’ll probably explore. My parents might agree - after seeing The Trophy Wife, my father’s first words to me were “who raised you?” Something Went Wrong certainly didn’t reassure him of my sanity, and A Curtain Call to Arms inspired him to remark “where did we go wrong?” He may have a point.

Clark? You there? Ah, there you are. Thanks for coming back. Because it was time to tell you good people that I’m a good guy. I have a temper but it takes an awful lot to inspire it. I hate guns, hate war, love communication, I’m good to my friends, and I consider myself a romantic, not a cynic. I believe wholeheartedly in the goodness of people, think there is nothing more moving than watching someone struggle for his or her dignity (I cried - CRIED - at the slow closeup on Eddie Murphy’s face as the comic insulted him mercilessly during The Nutty Professor), and think the worst feeling in the world is the fear that I’ve somehow hurt or disappointed someone. To me, these are healthy qualities in a balding 33-year-old.

I submit, therefore, that writing gives me an outlet for my dark side. I’m not going to go so far as to say I write so that I don’t hurt people, but I will allow that I have occasionally ugly emotions that I’d rather not keep inside, and writing gives me a safe way of leeching them out of my system.

I’m not so big on entertainment that taps into various social ills to create drama (in my next essay, I’ll discuss the phenomenon of “Abuse Theatre” - that is, the theory that cruelty = good drama). Not that there aren’t a lot of ripe subjects out there that tap into the dark side of human potential, but in general, I tend to shy away from any topic that might be considered issue-related. It intrigues me, therefore, that so much of my work really does seem to mine, if not exploit, some dark and ugly aspects of humanity for entertainment. And more often than not, I seem to be making light of violence and cruelty.

This isn’t unusual. Lots of humor - the majority, maybe - is founded in cruelty. Look no further than cartoons. Making light of murder, though - ah, that’s a little different. Black humor is supposed to be a way of making death somehow more palatable, more acceptable. Think of Monty Python’s gleefully inhumane sketches, in which people and cute n’ fuzzy animals are routinely mutilated, and we laugh at the inappropriateness of it all. I’m certainly not the first writer to turn what appears to be a fixation on death into comedy.

There is supposed to be a point where people stop finding humor in “inappropriate” subjects. I’ve heard that it comes with age - I’ve been affected by cancer, for example, so it’s unlikely that I’ll find any cancer joke remotely funny. But a younger person, one who hasn’t had to deal with it in his or her life, might feel differently, and might therefore write whole skits and plays that find humor in disease and suffering. And, well, good for them! You SHOULD make light of such things when you’re young, because a time will come when you don’t find them funny anymore. Get your digs in while you can.

But then there’s me. As I mentioned, I’m pushing the age where soon enough, I’ll be eligible to run for President. When do I stop using death and cruelty as subjects in my plays? When do I face the fact that I clearly have some warped perception of the world, of people, of myself, that I really should face down?

Hopefully never. Clark says, and I agree, that writing IS my therapy for now. My characters are cruel so that I’m not. My characters feel pain so that I don’t have to. My friend is right - therapy is a wonderful thing, an excellent tool for getting at the heart of one’s problems and ultimately making one a better person. But I never want to fully give up that dark, cynical side, because I want to be able to get it down on paper. I want to be able to say, hey, Death Be Not Proud, but it sometimes be funny, and it sometimes shocks the viewer into accepting ideas he or she might not have accepted. Writing is a selfish act, which is exactly how it should be - I’m really not trying to make the world better with my plays. I’m trying to make myself better. And since I continue to tout my own sanity (I do NOT protest too much! Clark, make that voice stop!), I have to believe it’s working, at least somewhat.

When I’m a better, more confident writer, I like to think I’ll start producing work that inspires people to reflect on my intelligence and mental health. Of the three projects currently in the works, in fact, two of them have no room for violence, real or imagined, onstage or off (The PornoZombies, on the other hand…). So perhaps I’m growing right now, as you read this. That, or this is just a “healthy” phase that I’ll soon tire of. In the meantime, well, don’t cry for me. I may need help, but at least I have a method of inflicting my sickness on an audience. And really, what could be healthier than that?

The whole notion of “best” is really problematic, to say the least, when it comes to the performing arts. However, our culture loves nothing more than to judge, so we’re overrun with lists & events that actually rank one entity over another. It’s pointless, divisive, and violates the spirit of entertainment and the arts.

But rather than rant against ‘em, join ‘em, right? Besides, I have a reason. There’s one constant in the world of writing and community theater: love. That’s why we do this stuff. That’s why we write, or give up our nights and weekends to act. Love. Sure, some of us are gearing up for a career, but mostly, we’re doing it because we have to. It’s in our system and it just won’t leave us alone. And sometimes we DO want a little recognition. As silly as it is to call one performance “Best,” we need a little of that. And frankly, doesn’t it make more sense to hear one person’s opinion than the collective voice of hundreds? To paraphrase Men in Black, a person is smart, but people are stupid. So screw democracy…here are some of MY favorite things from the world of (mostly local) theatre.

DISCLAIMER: You are right. I am wrong.

So enjoy, agree, disagree, be offended…and then make your own list and we’ll swap, okay?

By the way, it’s a total coincidence that the name of this set acronyms as “MAMET Awards.” I swear.

The “Great Unpublished Short Plays I Didn’t Write” Award

I’ll be leaving out more than I’m including. But here are eight that jump out at me, like plastic moles in boardwalk games…

“Voodoo Barbie,” by George Tietze. Take one little girl, her single mother, and a few Barbie dolls, and you have one of the darkest, funniest, and most wicked pieces of theatre I’ve ever seen. Pure brilliance.

“Story of the Little Man,” by Mike Moran. Here’s a squirmy little number that probably feels like a twisted knife in the guts of the audience. It starts out like a comedy, but somewhere it veers off into deep, dark truths about fear and pain. Craftily open-ended, too.

“The List,” by Kristyn Leigh Robinson. It’s damn near impossible to pick a favorite K-Play – too many of them are just too good – but right now I’m feeling “The List.” It has everything – great characters, lots of humor, a cool twist on a recent phenomenon, theatrical surreality, and a sad but satisfying ending.

“Elephants and Coffee,” by Aoise Stratford. It’s emotional, moving, maddening, neurotic, and very, very smart. It feels like genius because it is…and it happens to be one of the greatest love stories ever told.

“Lion Tamer,” by Rich Orloff. Chances are, you’ve seen an Orloff play. They’re often clever and funny, which is why this one might throw you a bit. Like “Story of the Little Man,” it begins like a comedy, then it takes a really weird turn into uncharted territory.

“That Homo Play,” by Bob Johnson. Haven’t seen nor heard from this guy since, but “That Homo Play” is one of the funniest & most subversive skit/plays I’ve ever seen. A google search tells me the play was produced in NYC, and that makes me happy.

“Overanalysis,” by Gabriel Shanks. Half performance-art, half-theater, all funny and true. “Overanalysis” is one of those rare plays that uses offbeat and funky storytelling techniques but never feels hip or self-aware.

“Pee Shy,” by Joe Byers. I’m biased because I was in “Pee Shy” in Delaware, but there’s a reason why Paula Shulak of Community News called it “one of the funniest plays I have ever seen.” It is. Holy crap. I’ve never had a harder time keeping a straight face in my life.

The “One Guy Did All That?” Award

Before I even met Greg Robleto, I was blown away by two of his Drama League performances. One was a scene-stealing turn as a “Gangster” in Kiss Me Kate. The other was an intense, creepily convincing performance as “Kendrick” in A Few Good Men. It took me a very long time to realize that the same man played both roles…he was that convincing in two incredibly different parts.

Greg Robleto (which must always be sung to the tune of “In the Ghetto”) has since appeared in substantial roles in JCS, How to Succeed, and Midsummer, and he’s always great. He’s also co-created the Delaware Shakespeare Festival, co-directed Joseph at the WDL, and directed my play “The Boy Who…” off-off-Broadway. He’s such a friendly and funny person, on and off stage, that I think we (in the local theatre community) don’t always appreciate what an incredibly diverse and deep talent he has. So Mr. Robleto – I couldn’t be happier that on that cold and gray Delaware morn, a poor little baby child was born.

The “Favorite Lines that No One Says in Real Life but Find Their Way into Nearly Every Play” Award

SHE:  Why are you acting like this?

HE:  Like what?

SHE:  Like this.

Matt’s “My Arm Hurts from Patting Myself on the Back” Award

The five-show run of “The Boy Who was Born With a Tail” in NYC. Four beautiful, deeply truthful performances, really crisp direction from Mr. Robleto and Kathy Buterbaugh, and (here’s the arm part) a damn fine script. I wouldn’t change a word, or a thing about that week. I couldn’t be prouder.

The “Get This Guy an Agent” Award

Richard Gaw. People need to see Mary Catherine, “Two Chairs,” “Ethan’s People.” The man can write. He brings style and humor to every subject he touches, no matter how intense or difficult, and he creates drama that can leave you reeling and exhausted.

The “Great Performances on Delaware Stages” Awards

I’ve seen many outstanding performances on local stages that I’ve come to expect them, and I’m rarely let down. But here are the ones that, for one reason or another, have been the most memorable.

I realize that this one will get me into big, big trouble. Please forgive me, in advance.

Don Dean, The Boys Next Door, Chapel Street Players (1997). I cannot imagine a bigger challenge than portraying a man with severe mental retardation – it’s so easy to rely on tics and indications. But Mr. Dean portrayed Lucien P. Smith with unforgettable grace and dignity. In my least favorite scene in the play, the actor must break character and deliver a monologue to the audience – it’s a stunt, and reminds you that this is only a play. But when Dean did it, it was moving and powerful. An absolutely perfect performance.

Molly Cahill, Hamlet, Wilmington Drama League (2002). How does one effectively go mad onstage? How can an actress possibly deliver those final strange, lyrical lines without calling attention to the fact that they are, in fact, lines? Some actress try to emphasize Ophelia’s sadness, and others go over the top with hysteria. Ms. Cahill tackled the scene with anger and realism, and absolutely captured the bizarre and beautiful text. She was excellent throughout the play (which was uneven), but absolutely spellbinding, and chilling, in her final scene.

Jill Knapp, Jesus Christ Superstar, Wilmington Drama League (2003). I was hoping to disqualify performances of shows I was in, but in this case, Ms. Knapp has earned her exception. Pure emotion, pure power, incredible singing…but then, lots of Mary Magdalene portrayers can bring that. What made her performance so special is that she never lost track of the story or the big picture. Many actresses turn the role into a showcase, but Jill was always part of the ensemble – and that made her work all the more stunning.

James Kassees, George Tietze, Jason Stockdale, Compleat Works of Wllm Shkspr (Abridged), City Theater (2003). I’ve never seen three people work harder. Pure energy, insane comedy. It could have gone horribly wrong but it never did, thanks to the awesome talents of these three bozos.

Anthony Bosco, Pink Thunderbird, Chapel Street Players (2005). Mr. Bosco, a very smart and streetwise man, completely disappeared into the role of “Ray,” a dim and naïve bumpkin from Texas. He also did something masterful: he found a way to deliver punchlines in a manner that was both hilarious and real.

Tina M. Sheing, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, Wilmington Drama League (2005). The “narrator” is such a dream role that it’s easy to forget how difficult it really is. The WDL production emphasized the silly, and it was Tina’s job to create a reflective center. She did so with wonderful grace, humor, and (especially) a natural presence that never detracted from the craziness that surrounded her. A perfectly nuanced performance, delivered with huge pipes and an even bigger heart.

Okay! It was good to get all that out of my system. There will be more. What did I leave out? Write me and tell me, okay?

Until next time…

HEY, EVERYBODY - IT’S MUSIC TIME!

A while ago, I wrote a cranky diatribe against using music as underscoring in plays. Turns out I’m against it. Well, my mailbox was flooded with angry letters the next day. None of them were about music. I can’t say exactly what they were about (but how cool is it that you don’t even have to enter an international lottery to be declared a winner!), but they did give me an idea for a new entry.

Thing is…I love music. Mmmmmmmm, music. It’s my first passion. When I was three, I had a favorite song - “American Pie.” It’s true. My second-fave was “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head,” and my mom knew I’d be a musician because I understood the need to count the silent beats (“Raindrops keep falling on my head [2, 3, 4] That doesn’t mean my eyes…”). It’s in my soul, music is. All kinds, all forms, all genres.

And when it’s on, I’m an active listener. Music isn’t background - when it’s playing, “listening to music” is what I’m doing. I used to sit up in our playroom as a child and play the few albums I owned (Billy Joel’s “The Stranger,” The “Grease” soundtrack, a K-Tel collection called “Far Out”) and just…listen. It’s a wonder I didn’t end up in a special school.

That tendency of mine, to shut down and take in the tunes, is probably why I don’t react well to the use of music in many plays. When it’s in the background, then so am I, and the scene itself becomes secondary. And when it’s used between scenes to “comment” on what we’ve just seen…well, that just never works for me. It becomes less about the characters and more about the director - namely, how clever he or she is to have thought of a song with lyrics that sum up what just happened. And how deep his or her CD collection is.

But here I’m getting cranky again, and that’s not right. I can’t be a curmudgeon about music - it’s just too crucial to me. So instead, I’m gonna focus on something I love - musicals.

I love me some musicals. I think I’m one of those people who envies the characters, because they get to break out in song now and then and sing out all the emotions that they can’t say. We should do that more in real life. When you’re in the boss’ office, and he’s explaining that the pictures of your family on your desk are creating a hostile work environment - what better way to respond than in song? In real life, bursting into song gets you arrested. In a musical, that’s how you win the girl.

So, in no particular order, here are my favorite musicals, and why:

• “Rent.” It’s an obvious choice, but so what - it’s daring, it’s romantic, it’s snotty, it offers characters that are instantly likeable and complex, it’s bursting with energy, and it absolutely earns its tears. And here’s a surprise…it doesn’t feel dated at all, even though, by definition, it is. The music is a deft blend of Broadway and rock/pop, and while there are a few second-rate songs and rhymes (what a shame that Roger’s final ode to Mimi is so weak), the majority of the tracks just soar with abandon, melody, wit, and rhythm. Trying to pick a favorite song is like choosing a puppy at the pet store, but for a pure, slick little delight, how about “Santa Fe,” Collins’ sly ode to selling out?
• “Guys and Dolls.” I’ve never been a fan of the older shows. I grew up on rock and roll (GOOD rock and roll - my parents fed me Chuck Berry and Jerry Lee Lewis), so I get a little impatient with your “Carnivals” and your “Carousels” and other shows that may or may not begin with “C.” I’m not proud of that, friends…but that’s the way it is. But “Guys and Dolls” is a beauty from start to finish - it’s hilarious, it’s subversive, the humor builds, it gets romantic but never schmaltzy (it’s too smart for that), and the music is uniformly wonderful.
• “Hedwig and the Angry Inch.” Composers have struggled for years to offer true, driving rock music in musicals. “Grease,” “Little Shop,” “Rocky Horror,” even “Superstar” all tried, but they ended up offering rock through a Broadway filter, and no wonder…rock music is about pure emotion, but the people on stage are acting, singing, dancing…there’s a disconnect between the primitive nature of rock and the very act of putting on a character. But not in “Hedwig,” because what we’re seeing is a concert with a narrative. It’s a brilliant, bold idea, and man oh man, does it work, both as theatre and rock and roll. The music is fabulous - a blend of glam rock, punk, and heartfelt ballads, just the kind of thing our hero might create. See the movie, sure, but definitely see the show.
• “Bat Boy.” I’m incredibly biased, because I was in the show and it was one of the great theatre experiences of my life. But even so, I can step back and see that “Bat Boy” is something wonderful: it’s satire with emotion, camp with anger, a genuinely hilarious and scary ride - and it gives you the Grand Guignol ending so many “horror” shows botch. The music is a top-notch, joyful mix of pop, gospel, bad rap, pure Broadway - and there’s not a bad song in the bunch.
• “Evita.” It took “Evita” a long, long time to become one of my favorites. I used to object to its use of repetition, its overblown string cadences, its use of recitative. Now, however, I think it’s one of the greatest plays of our time - a massively ambitious look at a massively ambitious woman, and an examination of the strange relationship between politics and celebrity. And there are even some subtle moments - “Another Suitcase, Another Hall” sounds suspiciously like the “hit single,” but it’s a nice moment nonetheless. Mandy may do some serious emoting on the Broadway CD, but don’t let that get in your way…”Evita” is an incredible piece of work, and “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” has about six layers of meaning, if you really want to dig that deep.
• “Little Shop of Horrors.” I love it when high art is inspired by low art, and vice versa, but in either school you run the danger of condescension. Not here. “Little Shop” treats its hero and his situation with utter seriousness, and the score is a masterpiece of melody and rhythm. The Menken/Ashman combo hit a high here that they’ve never surpassed - try not to bob your head during “Feed Me/Get it.” I dare you.

Some other musicals that will always have a home in my heart:

• “Jesus Christ Superstar.” It’s big and bombastic and thinks very highly of itself, but it works. “Heaven on Their Minds” is one of the great openers of all time - it’s a mini-musical all on its own.
• “Grease.” It’s remarkably stupid and vulgar, but those are plusses to a guy like me. Besides, I was in the show once, and when the bass started playing the first few notes of “Summer Loving,” the exhilaration in the audience was palpable. Plus, I met my wife in that show!
• “The Music Man.” Again, I was in it, and it was a glorious experience, but consider how lovely and original the music is, and how cleverly Harold Hill cons the audience into wanting him to get away with it.
• “Company.” My fave Sondheim show - so accessible that you don’t realize how revolutionary it is. Has there ever been another musical that took place in the course of one second?
• “The Rocky Horror Show.” I have yet to outgrow it. I know the arguments against - it’s slipshod, some of the music was clearly written before the show was conceived, it basically falls apart halfway through Act Two. But it’s also genuinely funny and satiric, and Act One is pure adrenaline.
• “Oklahoma.” What can I say? It’s a hell of a show, a cornucopia of activity, plots, characters, and energy. Besides, it’s subversive - ever notice how Curly, our hero, is kind of a dick?
• “Avenue Q” and “Urinetown.” We can all agree that we don’t need any more hip, self-aware musicals, right? So how come these two are so fresh and hilarious? Beats me, but these two very different shows are the best musicals I’ve seen on Broadway in recent years.

Now I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t whine, so here are a few big & famous musicals that do little to nothing for me, and why. I’m wrong about them, of course…dead wrong, and what the hell gives me the right? Not a damn thing, that’s what. Anyway, here we go.

• “Les Miserables.” It’s not so much a tear-jerker as it is a mace-in-eyes-sprayer. Still, I’d forgive its shameless suckerpunches - like trotting out lovestruck ingénues and sprightly 10-year-old boys just to kill them off for effect - if it weren’t so damn BORING. But then, millions love it, so who the heck am I to judge?
• “Bye Bye Birdie.” I can deal wih sanitized pop, but “Sincere” as a rock n’ roll song? Sorry.
• “Jekyll & Hyde.” It’s hard to write a musical. It’s really, really hard.
• “Brooklyn the Musical.” It’s what would happen if Disney created “Rent.” The show is one false, labored note after another. But the kids are good.
• “Chess.” Haven’t seen the show, but then I haven’t been able to sit through the first 20 minutes of the original album, so there’s not much chance I’ll be buying a ticket. I dig the trashy rap song, though!
• “Phantom of the Opera.” Ah, the spectacle! Ah, the effects! Ah, the music! Ah, the zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

That ends another chapter. Stay tuned next week (?) when we’ll discuss the non-musical music that makes my heart sing and my soul happy. Until then…sing, sing a song. Make it simple, to last the whole night long…

“I like music.” - Styx, “Music Time”

That’s not intended to be ironic. I’m not knocking the boys from Chicago. I’m a solid Styx backer - along with the movie Wild Things, they’re one of my favorite guilty pleasures. Besides, what more can you say about music, except that you like it? Music is a beautiful and mysterious art form because it isn’t tangible. You can’t really even prove that it exists, because you can’t pause it, touch it, or see it. You can sing along, but as soon as you do, the song becomes instant history. It’s always in the past, existing only in your memory.

As you’ve probably surmised, I’m fascinated by music. I’m an active listener - I can’t let music exist in the background. When a song I like comes on the radio (or on one of my most prized decadent possessions, my 400-CD jukebox that has a “random” button), I stop everything and just listen, or sing along, or - Lord help me and the rest of the world - start dancing.

Maybe that’s why I get really cranky about the use of music to underscore plays. When was it decreed that every play, particularly short ones, must have intro and outro music? When did we decide that key scenes in plays need musical underscoring? Why do writers and directors feel that music enhances their vision, rather than distract from it? I’m not talking about music that creates a setting, like soft jazz might in a restaurant scene, or set-change music. I’m talking about the use of music as a supplement to the drama, comedy, tension, or whatever that’s happening on stage.

Okay, let’s get my hypocrisy report out of the way…I have used music in some of my own directing or producing excursions. In two of my scripts, I even suggested the particular song. However, in my play Lives in the Wind, the underscoring was supposed to be distracting and over the top. The show is shameless, and the music, I thought, added to the camp level. In my scripts for Something Went Wrong and Yes, Mamet, my song suggestions (in both cases, the music enters suddenly at the end of the show and continues over bows) hopefully provide a certain comic commentary that sums up the endings. The songs call attention to themselves, but in both cases, the music is part of the joke. Whether or not the joke is funny, well, that’s up to the audience. Still, I thought it only fair to point out my own logical flaws upfront, before I start getting all polemic and self-righteous.

At the writers’ meeting for the New York Fifteen Minute Festival - one in which I am honored to participate - the organizers said that intro and bow music was essentially required. Most of the writers nodded along and smiled. I think the 15-Minute organizers feel that music completes and compliments the plays. They’re certainly not alone. At just about every short play festival I’ve attended, music - usually with lyrics - served as an introduction to each play, and most featured a cleverly chosen song to underscore the final moments.

Sometimes it works. The Brass Tacks Theatre, a great off-off-Broadway group, did a show called Among My Souvenirs by Dave DeChristopher in a short-play festival. The play itself is phenomenal - it’s mostly a monologue that documents our heroine’s slow and willing decent into madness, and it’s equally funny, disturbing, disgusting, and compelling. In this production, the last image is of our heroine sleeping on the floor, surrounded by jars full of colorful liquid, each one containing an imaginary mouse corpse. A verse of the lovely pop standard “Among My Souvenirs” plays, and the lights slowly fade, as the audience shudders.

As effective as that music was, though, I have questions. Was that image really stronger for its musical accompaniment? What if it had been played out in silence? Would it be any less compelling, any less real? Would that final image be even more disturbing, because the audience would be forced to confront it in silence? I don’t know, but I’d be really curious to find out.

My great friend Kristyn Robinson is an uncommonly talented writer and director. We love to engage in healthy email debates about aspects of theatre aesthetics (it’s a gift to have a friend who not only tolerates discussions of topics that would be insanely boring to anyone else, but actually encourages them), and the concept of underscoring came up. She feels that while underscoring is misused by many directors, it can be extremely effective in enhancing the tone of a piece. “The trick to doing it successfully is to choose music that doesn’t interfere with the action on stage,” she writes, “and to play it so the audience doesn’t even realize they’re hearing it.”

It’s entirely possible - likely, even - that my problem with this is that I’m such a music geek that I always realize I’m hearing music. But I have another issue with underscoring - it’s an innately cinematic devise, not a theatrical one. In early theatre, the audience heard music only when the singer was about to burst into song. In early cinema, of course, music was the only sound, and it’s impossible to imagine any modern movie without constant musical underscoring.

I’m no theatre history snob. I love movies, and music always plays a vital role. Can you imagine how awkward a movie with no music whatsoever would feel? But there’s a crucial difference between a play and a movie: a movie is captured on film, while a play unfolds right in front of you. A movie is a document of something that once happened, but a play is happening RIGHT NOW. So when music starts to play, one can only assume that the hand of God (i.e., the director) is making a contribution by adding some sound into the action. In a movie, this is a good thing. In a play, well, I’d usually rather God mind His/Her own business so I can watch the characters do their thing. When I hear music in a scene, I become aware - and to a degree, I think the audience does too - that the music had to be chosen and cued up beforehand, which reminds me that this play isn’t unfolding before my eyes, but has been rehearsed, analyzed, examined, and underscored.

Yeah, but Matt, what about spotlights that appear? Or curtains that close? Or lights that go dark at the end of scenes? They were planned and rehearsed too. Why don’t they distract you like music does?

Well, because (and how did you manage to write a paragraph in the middle of my essay? And why the italics? And why did Matt think this little meta parenthetical insertion was a good idea?) lighting is immediate and urgent. Lights fade because there is no more to see, and rise because hey, there’s a set and some characters…let’s see what they’re doing! Even gimmicky light cues should appear to be spontaneous manifestations of the moods created by the action. Obviously the lighting scheme of any show has been carefully drawn out and tirelessly rehearsed, but it always feels, or should feel, immediate. Underscoring, on the other hand, almost always feels premeditated.

I recently saw a play that drove this home. A nice piano melody led us, gently, in and out of each scene. Therefore I knew, as did the audience, that when the music began, it was time for me to stretch and get ready to applaud. Suddenly I wasn’t watching two people I cared about - I was watching a play. A play with an omniscient sound engineer who had the power to end scenes by playing music.

Did this ruin the play? Absolutely not. Did it distract me and take my mind off the action? Yep.

Any playwright, actor and director knows that it capturing your audience’s attention is a mighty and daunting task. But once you’ve got it, you shouldn’t give them any excuse to think about anything else. Music can be an extremely effective tool in theatre, but it carries a weight that I don’t think a lot of directors and writers appreciate. When you underscore, you risk having your audience members think about something besides the action (”Who’s that? Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald? And what’s that she just said about Southern trees”), just when they should be wondering who killed the limo driver, and why. So please, before you choose to underscore, put yourself in the audience’s position.

Like Styx, I like music. I love it, even. But please respect the power of music and the power of your plays, and accept that sometimes, keeping them separate might be a better idea.