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It was a Vaclav Havel play that set me on my path. I was working on Temptation at the College of Wooster in 1995. Nothing else was going well in my life at that time, but that play was the most exciting art I’d ever been involved in. The theatre turned into my sanctuary and that hasn’t changed since.

If you don’t know who Havel was, his Wikipedia entry will suffice as well as anything. For something with a little more substance, you should read the NY Times obituary.

I’m going to type in most of a letter he wrote to his wife, Olga, during one of his lengthier prison stays. I think of it often.

August 15, 1981
Dear Olga,

I’m sitting on a bench in the local micropark, ina good mood and doing what I like best, that is, thinking about what I will do once I’m free again. Therefore I would like to devote today’s letter to several marginal observations of what I assume will be a happier future.

As you know, I’m an inveterate planner and master of ceremonies, and so you can imagine in what incredible detail I construct my sweet fantasies, such as how I’ll go to the sauna, combine it with swimming in the pool and sunbathing, then go home for a snooze, then in the evening put on some nice clothes and go wit you to a good restaurant, and I imagine all the things we’ll eat and drink there etc. etc. When I think about it, all such daydreams have one thing in common: sooner or later, a disturbing question always arises: what then? What next? For the time must come, after all, when – figuratively speaking – I will have swum enough, preened myself enough, eaten enough, slept enough; when I will no longer want to indulge in those delights any more, yet my life will clearly be far from over, and it will be high time – especially after all that – to breathe some meaning and substance into it. All the joys of life – the kind we cling to and look forward to and which ultimately make our lives worth living – occur in time and have a dramatic sequence of their own, from exposition to “catastrophe.” And thus not only do they come to an end, but they do so “catastrophically”: once they are over, one is inevitably overwhelmed by a sensation of vacancy and barrenness; there no longer seems to be anything to look forward to, to cling to, to hope for and therefore, in fact, to live for.

For example, if I imagine that rare and wonderful moment when I get an idea for a play, an idea so fine and so gratifying that it practically knocks me off my chair, and if, in a kind of powerful trance, I imagine actually turning the idea into a play I’m happy with, then having it neatly typed out, reading it to some friends who like it, and even finding theaters that express an interest in putting it on – imagining all that, I must also necessarily imagine the moment when it’s all over and the awful question comes up again: “Well?” “Is that all?” “What next?” I would even venture to say that the more “serious” and time-consuming the activity that lends meaning to life, the more terrifying the emptiness that follows it.

Most people’s lives, it seems to me, are fragmented into individual pleasures and it is precisely these individual pleasures that give people the elementary and essentially spontaneous feeling that life has meaning. To put it another way, such pleasures ensure that the question of what life actually means never comes up. The first, or rather the most frequent occasion for posing this all-important question, only arises, I believe, when one first suffers or experiences, existentially, the “gap,” the abyss that separates the pleasures in life from one another. That, at least, is how I feel it. I have thrown myself enthusiastically into all kinds of things, from serving good dinners to working for a “suprapersonal” cause, yet these joyful activities were always restricted to particular temporal compartments of my life relating to a particular event or constellation of events, and thus I have always experienced them as mere “islands of meaningfulness” floating in an ocean of nothingness.

My description of all this may be rather primitive but perhaps what I’m trying to say is clear: one usually begins to pose the question of the meaning of life and reflect on it in a fundamental way when one is ambushed and overpowered by a painful question, “So what?” It asks not simply what will follow when a certain pleasure is over, but also what meaning a finite pleasure can have. In other words, what is the meaning of that which gives our lives meaning, or, what is the “meta-meaning” of the meaningful? It is only when all those thousands of things that impart meaning (spontaneously) to our lives – that seem to make life worth living, or for which we have simply lived – are thus challenged, that the stage is set for us to pose, in all seriousness, the question about what our lives mean.

Posing it then means, among other things, asking whether those “islands” are really so isolated, so randomly adrift on the ocean as they appear in moments of despair, or are they in fact merely the visible peaks of some coherent undersea mountain range?

Thinking of you and kissing you, Vašek

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We capped a week of extremely busy and occasionally frustrating work by driving around the city for an hour, with a video camera pointing out of the passenger-side window. Does that sound un-safe? Well, we wanted a varied and unvarnished look at the city (which we would later edit into a montage for the climax of the show) so we did spend sometime in areas that made us feel … uneasy.

I remember pulling up to a corner, and just as I was thinking, “This looks just like a scene from The Wire,” Sean said, “I think you should put the camera down.” A few minutes later, we turned a corner onto a somewhat more, um, populated block and I put the camera down myself, muttering to Sean, “Okay, now I’m getting a lil nervous.” Moments later, some guy yelled at us … “the fuck y’all doin?” … time to go.

You can see some of the results of our journey in the video below.

You don’t have to go uptown to find squalor, though. Not even in NYC does is it so common to step-over a person sleeping on the sidewalk in what seems otherwise to be a “very nice” part of town. It’s shocking, disturbing, distressing, depressing. We were walking along, enjoying the thrill of a two-show day, watching the Saturday night revelers stream by us, and were struck silent by the old, black man, sleeping under a ratty blanket in front of us. I can only hope he found peace.

I have pictures to share, and happier moments to talk about, but once again this city has left me without words.

Here’s that video. (It has almost no sound by the way.)

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But just a little bit.

The first time I visited Philadelphia, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. (Actually, it was the second time I’d been here, but I was only 12 years old for the first trip, and all I remember is the homeless man sleeping on the sidewalk as people walked over and around him. I have no idea what part of town we visited, we didn’t even see the Liberty Bell up close, as far as I recall.)

We were visiting a dear friend, and though she took us to nice places (including a coffee shop we now pass everyday) it was the dead of a very bitter winter, and no one was on the streets, and it just looked like a desolate kind of urban wasteland. Despite my best efforts, I was not impressed.

Well, this time around it’s quite different. We’re staying in a great area, and we cross through several others on our way from “home” to the theatre each day. So, I’m getting to see stuff and make sense of my very simple questions, like “Where do people actually live around here? Where do they spend their time?”

My primary issue, of course, is finding a decent coffee shop. Actually, let’s be honest, my primary issue is finding at least one of the best coffee shops in town. Lucky for me, I got a great recommendation from a local – RJD2 (whose new album, The Colossus, came out today). Spruce Street Espresso, as he told me it would be, is definitely the place. I knew I was in good hand as soon as I saw the Counter Culture logo on the door. To give you an idea … my favorite coffee place in Columbus, Luck Bros just became an authorized Counter Culture dealer, the first in Ohio, in fact. So, when I walked in and saw this …

… as was understandably relieved and excited.

So, today, after dragging myself out of bed, and through the shower and the kitchen a little bit, I packed a small bag of books and walked slowly but happily to Spruce & 11th. I spent a couple of hours sitting outside, chair-hopping and chasing the sun around the corner of the building. (I was reading Shostakovich’s Testimony, in case you’re interested. Yes, it’s for a future project, and no, I won’t talk about it.) Wonderful.

Then I pulled out the ol’ iPhone, typed in “book store,” and head towards South Street. Sean had already let me know that South Street was a retail paradise, and in fact it seems to be a hub of big chains (like Whole Foods) as well as local sellers. Atlantic Books was the first sizable book store I came across, so I stopped in. Of course, I always have a few things in mind, but I was willing to let the purveyors guide me as well. I walked out with a Solzhenitsyn tome that was an employee pick (vaguely related to the afore-un-mentioned project) as well as the first part of Cormac McCarthy’s Border-Trilogy, (I just read The Road, which is an absolute masterpiece.) as recommended by my dad. They also had this cute little book called eat.shop Philadelphia. It’s one of series. No, they haven’t made it to Columbus yet, but Bustown would be a great choice, it’s all about unique and local.

Okay. Coffee – found it. Books – accomplished. Next on the list? Comics. iPhone says … Atomic Comics, about 4 blocks away. Well … I don’t know if it was a name-change or just didn’t pop-up on the phone, but I came across Showcase Comics. Their window display included Crumb and Alan Moore as well as some new-ish super-hero stuff, so I jumped in.

It was glorious. They had a HUGE selection of trades, tons of good manga and a back wall of shelves of indie books of every shape and size. Did you know there’s a new Paul Hornschemeier collection? I didn’t, but boy that’s exciting. In the end, though, I didn’t get it. It was kind of expensive, and there was so much else I was dying for. They appeared to have every volume of the minx books (DC comics for teenage girls), of which I intend to collect every volume. (I know it seems counter-intuitive, but the editors did a great job of picking real-live talent and letting them do what they wanted with the stories.) I also grabbed a few issues ofWednesday Comics, which I’ve heard so much about and never seen. Blah blah blah … I bought some comics. Some are really good, and the Ultimate Avengers are horrible.

After that it was back to the homestead, back into the never-ending tech rehearsals. I’m getting to like Philly, though. I can finally see the map in my head, and see where the living is done. It’s nice.

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This is a great time in my life. Isn’t it? Let’s count the ways.

1. I’m in Philadelphia, actually getting paid decent money to direct a show I really, deeply care about (Killadelphia). And while I’m here, Sean Lewis and I are sharing a 3-story house in downtown Philly. (Right by the Italian Market.)

2. I found a couple of great coffee shops today. (Spruce Street Espresso and La Colombe Torrefaction).

3. Even though I’m out of town, my company is opening a fantastic new show (“Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice“) that looks destined to be our biggest hit yet.

4. Despite all this, we’re managing to turn in a big grant application tomorrow for a show I’m dying to talk about but really can’t yet.

5. My wife is starring in said Available Light show and doing fantastic work. maybe the best she’s ever done.

Well, now I’m tempted to just start listing all the stuff I love about my life right now. I won’t do that. Suffice to say, though, I’m very happy, and I’m realizing that I’m probably having one of those weeks that I’ll remember for the rest of my life. (Or maybe not. I am on only 2 hours of sleep, after all.)

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The New Yorker is more than flush with great critical writing. Well, this is a list of lists (some are decade-spanning, too) from those wonderful writers.

I’m trying to tell you it’s a dream come true. Get over there. Click around. Get lost for a few hours.

In fact, to encourage you, here’s my list of the ten best lists from the New Yorkers Best Of lists:

1. The Best Films of the Decade, by Richard Brody
2. Goings On About Town’s Best Off Broadway Theatre Shows of 2009, by Shauna Lyon
3. The Best Recordings of 2009, plus annotations by Sasha Frere-Jones
4. The Top Thirteen People of 2009, by Zachary Kanin
5. The Five Best Ten-Best Lists, by Ben Greenman
6. The Best Non-Museum Art Goings-On of 2009, by Andrea K. Scott
7. Ten Great Photographs, 2009, by Vince Aletti
8. Memorable Fashion Statements of the Obama Era, by Judith Thurman
9. Ten Exceptional Recordings by Alex Ross
10. Books of the Year, by James Wood

And that’s not even the half of it.

Best-Of Lists: The New Yorker

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We’re loading-in today, getting ready for out first Xmas show. We’re hanging lights, throwing chairs, hoisting speakers, and eating poorly.

This is what it looks like when Jason adjusts a light.

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I don’t mind telling you, this makes me incredibly proud.

(It’s from here.)

Killadelphia…or the City of Numbers is an epic piece of theatre, with dozens of characters, multiple locations, and dramatic material to rival the excoriating journey of any country’s fortunes linked to a Greek king or Danish prince. With unflinching honesty, Sean Christopher Lewis’s play explores the tragic underpinnings of inner-city violence, as well as the unexpected epilogues of lives cut short and verdicts rendered. Killadelphia offers a theatrical megaphone to voices oft not heard above the din of stereotype and assumption, including those of wardens, victims, survivors, children on the edge of the world yet in the center of the country, and the many, many inmates of Graterford Prison. What makes Killadelphia a must-see evening of theatre, however, is that Lewis—with ease and remarkable versatility—plays each of the characters himself, in a satisfying one-man symphony that clocks in at well under 90 minutes.

In the summer of 2008, Philadelphia experienced a spike in violent crime unmatched historically or geographically; known as “The City of Numbers,” it was said that Philadelphia had “more bodies than days.” Killadelphia serves as a theatrical snapshot of the city itself, offering not judgment but analysis by way of observation. Lewis’s show journeys from burned-out slums—where the families of murder victims are taunted by their own neighbors not to “snitch”—to the airwaves of conservative talk radio, where pundits opine as to why the City of Brotherly Love seems filled with so many Cains and Abels. Killadelphia features trauma surgeons who graphically describe the injuries they’ve treated for repeat visitors to the ER (patients whose wounds, over time, inevitably escalate from beatings to knifings to gunshot wounds to the head), and local rappers who attempt to convey and cauterize through song their community’s Job-like suffering.

And then there are the inmates of Graterford Prison. Serving out life sentences (and, in instances, multiple sentences; some handed down to felons when they were barely teenagers), they speak frankly about their crimes, their victims, and the day-to-day realities of a life lived in penitentiary, as well as the unique arts program that found inmates painting murals for the purpose of beautifying Philadelphia. This is not the grit-porn of Oz or the romance of The Shawshank Redemption: Killadelphia offers an unvarnished look at life inside of Graterford. Sometimes that look is threatening, but often it is surprisingly mundane, and in that mundaneness Lewis discovers a thrilling narrative of acceptance and regret.

Interwoven through the various narratives of Killadelphia is the tragic, true story of Beau Zabel, a 23-year-old teaching fellow who was murdered in June of 2008. Shot in the neck as he walked home from work, Zabel was apparently killed in a robbery attempt; his iPod was stolen, though his wallet was left unturned. Zabel’s neighbors were shocked at his violent death, as they had always assumed their neighborhood to be safely removed from the uncivil carnage found elsewhere in the city.

Commissioned by the Mural Arts Project of Philadelphia and InterAct Theatre, Killadelphia is the result of multiple interviews conducted by Lewis. Appearing as a character in the work himself, Lewis describes meeting with the killers and the surviving family of murdered Philadelphians (his descriptive recreation of his first steps along the halls of Graterford Prison is a tense, unexpected highlight of the evening). This unique documentary technique is what allows Lewis and Killadelphia the particular intimacy and insights on display, and—in an instance of the reporter becoming the story, or of art imitating life imitating art—becomes an arresting element of the play.

Lewis and director Matt Slaybaugh have crafted an outstanding piece of theatre, brilliantly conceived to both educate and entertain. Directed by Slaybaugh with efficiency and briskness, Killadelphia is performed on a bare stage with minimal props; there are projected images and prerecorded songs, but Slaybaugh employs a stripped-down, no-frills approach that brilliantly places the focus on Lewis and his tour-de-force performance. Lewis is currently traveling the country, playing Killadelphia in major cities with crime rates that, while overshadowed by that of Philadelphia’s Summer of 2008, are disturbingly on the rise. Lewis next investigative work will take him to a Detroit factory, soon to be shuttered; one wishes him all the success with that project that he has found with Killadelphia.

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100 Hughes Hall
Auditions.

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Long day.
I got up at 8:30am. It’s 1:40am now. We’re getting up in the morning at meeting at 9am at Cracker Barrel. Awesome.
So … let’s see I’ll talk about what I liked first.
I just re-read Sovereignty by Rolin Jones, his ten-minute from last year. It’s 6.5 pages and he accomplishes more in that space than a lot of plays spend 120 pages to not accomplish.
Anyway …

Split-Strike by Naomi Izuka was tonight. I really dug it a lot. After re-examining it later, I think the production may have more merit than the play, but I definitely enjoyed watching it. There were several moments when I said “sweet” to myself and I was talking about the playwright’s choices of structure and plot. Which is kind of odd, considering how many holes we found in it later.
We’ve been talking some this weekend about what we look for in plays. Some people want solid characterization, some are interested in the dramatic action, some the plot, some the production elements. Myself, I like stuff that’s new in some way, and stuff that rocks. Strike-slip rocked in a lot of ways. I loved their use of the space, which I won’t give away here. I loved a lot of the directorial choices. The sound design was mostly great. I also enjoyed most of the acting. I liked the way the play came together and I liked some the choices Izuka made about what not to address.
As I said, later on, we picked a lot of wholes in the script, but that didn’t really diminish how much enjoyed watching the production.
On to the other one we saw today, When Something Wonderful Ends by Sherry Kramer. Hmmmm … This was a really odd beast. It really seemed like two plays to me, that she’s not quite meshed as of yet. One was about oil and the U.S.’s foreign policy regarding the Middle East. The other was about Barbie and the death of the playwright’s mother.
Now, full disclosure, and I’m not sure how these things affected my experience of the play. 1) The playwright was in the room. 2) She’s a teacher of our friends from Iowa.
Beyond the split-personality thing, the play was burdened by a lot of bad choices. Bad casting and a really bad director. The set made little sense, there was a major technical element that didn’t fit. Also, there was NO sound design.
Though, in the end, I enjoyed watching a lot of it, I definitely thought it was very poorly done. As many times as I laughed or smiled, I said to myself “what the fuck?” or something similar. Basically, I liked all the stuff about oil and Iran and some of the stuff about making the world better, but not much of the other half of it. And talking afterwards, especially with Sean, it seemed that a lot of the problems had fairly obvious solutions.
Alas.
We also got to see about an hour of a rehearsal for Batch today, and that made me really want to see it. So, I’m gonna work on that.
Also, I keep forgetting to mention. I’m working on a Theatre Blog Aggregator. I call it Theatreforte. It’ll be awesome, if I ever finish, and if I can find more good blogs. There aren’t that many, unfortunately. At least, not as many as I thought there’d be. Alas.

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