lies like truth

Three Bay Area-based dramatists had the following to say in response to this question:

Trevor Allen: "I don't chose to direct my own work anymore. I have been very fortunate to have been able to work with some amazing directors who "get" my weird plays (Kent Nicholson, Rob Melrose etc.) However, I also don't think there should be an immediate negative reaction to a playwright directing their own work. As long as they know what they are doing--directing a play that they happen to have written and not rewriting their play while trying to direct it at the same time. If they know the craft of directing, then more power to them!"

Mark Jackson: "As a playwright who quite often directs his own work, I of course think it's a good thing. But of course it's not for everyone. Some playwrights also have a knack for directing, and some do not. The garden variety con that usually gets mentioned is that a playwright would not have the proper objectivity to direct his or her own work. Again, I think this depends on the person and as a generalization does not fly as anything more than a seemingly logical theory. The garden variety pro is that, as the playwright, one has an invaluably intimate understanding of the play. Really, though, I think the question of whether or not playwrights should direct their own work depends on the individual, and so as a general question it is irrelevant. Should THIS playwrigt direct his or her own work? That is a question to ask, I think."

Peter Sinn Nachtrieb: "I haven't directed my own work since college, except for a few readings here and there. I think it's an admirable skill to be able to wear both hats at the same time and i think leads to the generation of work that can have a very strong point of view. For myself, especially when a play is new, I really enjoy just focusing on the writing, though I will give extensive notes and observations to a director. But I like not having to be the one responsible for managing those notes and tech and actor process. As "just the playwright" I can worry about my own part of the puzzle and then be able to take notes from my perspective . I also like how a director that's not me can expand my work and insert their own awesomeness. I like the wiggle room within a play's process, the particular combination of bodies in the room that ultimately shape how a final product will look. That being said, never say never. But I think if I do ever direct my work again in the future, I think I would pick a piece that I feel like I've really finished writing."

A bit about what each of these playwrights are up to right now:

Trevor's drama The Creature is playing at The Thick House under the auspices of Black Box Theatre Company.

Mark is currently in Germany directing his adaptation of Heinrich Heine's Deutschland, Ein Wintermärchen, commissioned by Schauspiel Frankfurt.

Marin Theatre Company is about to stage Peter's Boom. Peter is in Bloomington, Indiana right now visiting another production of the play at Cardinal Stage. In fact there are multiple productions of his plays going on right now around the country. Read Peter's blog to find out more.

Finessing a sudden change in mood from comedy to tragedy and visa versa in the theatre is a challenging feat. I was reminded of this fact last night at a performance of Dominic Dromgoole's Globe Theatre production of Loves Labours Lost at Zellerbach Hall, Berkeley. The production is currently being presented under the auspices of Cal Performances as part of The Globe's current US tour. 

Shakespeare's sophomoric 1598 comedy of love and wordplay has one of the trickiest temperature shifts in the dramatic cannon, when, in the final part of the play, the celebratory mood that pervades almost the entirety of the proceedings is suddenly broken by the announcement of the death of the Princess of France's father. Managing the about-turn from ecstasy to depression effectively can make or break a production of the play. To my mind, the change has to be extreme. If it feels half-hearted, the ensuing denouement and final weird song about the cuckoo leave the audience feeling puzzled rather than floored.

Unfortunately, the temperature bumped rather than plummeted in the hands of Dromgoole and his British cast. I felt a change in atmosphere in the room, but it felt relatively tepid, like an English summer day.

The scene before the shift was marked by an eruption of movement and hilarity that felt inorganic to the rest of the production, as if the director were purposefully setting up the big moment, rather than letting it catch us unawares. Actors ran around the stage for no apparent reason, and threw bits of baguette around.

When the messenger walked on stage to deliver the news, he stood out front so we could see him clearly. The cast took a while to notice him, with the princess herself being the last to stop bombarding the stage with bread. This created a lovely bit of dramatic irony, as the princess was the last to hear the news -- news that concerned her before anyone else on stage.

But somehow, the timing was off and the messenger's proclamation felt flat and stagey. The Princess' grief seemed real enough. (Michelle Terry is a wonderful performer -- I found her haughty-gamine Princess to be completely engaging throughout thanks to her lively physicality and sonorous speaking voice.) But the entire moment fizzled and the final cuckoo song, though quirky and melancholy, did not carry the weight of tragedy. The entire last 15 minutes of the production seemed more like a balloon slowly letting out air than one that went pop.

I wonder if Dromgoole might improve the staging of this final scene by listening to Mahler's Fourth Symphony, Mozart's Don Giovanni and pretty much any of Beethoven's symphonies? Mozart, Mahler and Beethoven are masters of sudden mood changes. Dromgoole could learn a thing or two from these guys.

When headliner Nadja Michael (pictured) became "indisposed" last Friday for that evening's performance of Strauss' Salome at San Francisco Opera, stand-in soprano Molly Fillmore was flown in from Arizona at the last minute and hustled on stage.

Considering the fact that Fillmore, who is performing the role at Arizona Opera this month, had very little rehearsal time, she did a serviceable job, though the orchestra was too loud and it was quite often difficult to hear the soprano's voice especially in the higher part of her register.

If only Fillmore hadn't had to do any dancing.

Salome is not one of those "park and bark" operas, where a singer can get away with standing on stage more or less stock still or walk about a bit. There's a 20 minute exotic dance routine for the titular character right in the middle of the show. It's the pivotal moment of the story in fact: The princess wiggles lasciviously for the king and coaxes him into making her a rash promise that will cost him his kingdom.

I gather from Opera Tattler that Fillmore, though she had had an opportunity to rehearse the role with San Francisco Opera early in October, had not had much of a chance to learn the choreography. The dance, which in this production draws inspiration from early 20th century choreographers like Isadora Duncan, Ruth St Denis and Martha Graham, has some tricky moments in it, particularly involving the skillful manipulation of a variety of gauzy veils.

Fillmore moved awkwardly throughout. It was rather painful to watch her go through the motions. I was terrified that she was going to get herself tangled up in a veil or, worse, still, trip over her own feet. Plus, she lacked grace and lyricism, making the dance more clumsy than sexy. The twenty minutes went by agonizingly slowly.

I suppose it's mean-spirited of me to fault an underrehearsed performer who stepped up to the plate at such short notice. And it's not as if Michael had been earning raves herself in the role. Mark Swed of the Los Angeles Times reviewed the production on October 22 and had trouble with Michael's intonation, though he at least found her slightly more convincing in the part from a physical perspective.

But I won't forget Fillmore's Dance of the Seven Whales in a hurry, which isn't necessarily a good thing.

Andrew Taylor's latest blogpost at ArtsJournal about "portfolio careers" in the arts got me thinking this morning about whether anything has really changed in the way that many people in the arts make a living, despite the terminology.

I first heard the term "portfolio career" applied to arts workers around 10 years ago when a management consultant friend of mine in London said to me, "it's pretty cool, you're portfolio lifestyle. I want one of those." At the time, I wasn't quite sure what he was getting at. I didn't consider my weird mixture of jobs -- which in 1999 consisted of working as the junior in the New York office of a big British daily newspaper, freelancing as a theatre critic all over the city, finishing up my masters thesis, moonlighting as a dramaturg for an underground performance art company and playing oboe and singing for a variety of semi-professional ensembles -- as being portfolio-like. I just thought of myself as muddling through until a "proper" job came along.

I had always been taught that you weren't really doing anything worthwhile unless you had a "proper" job, which consisted of going into an office and being paid, hopefully well, for steady work for a single highly-thought-of company over years and years, while gradually earning the favor of your superiors, rising to the very top and retiring at 60 to glory and grandchildren.

But I do remember thinking even back then that "portfolio" had a nice ring to it. The corporate tinge to the word made me feel important. Even though I wasn't really proud of what I was doing at the time, I started referring to myself as having a "portfolio career" at parties. People looked impressed. as time passed, I started feeling comfortable about my wheeling and dealing. I realized, despite the unpredictability of it all and decidedly shaky prospects, that it was the only way for someone like me to go. It still is.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter what you call making a living in the cultural industries. There isn't really any news here -- people in the arts (and many people in many other sectors too) have been functioning this way for a long, long time in all kinds of economies, both good and bad. "Portfolio career" means "freelancing" really, but it just sounds a bit grander.

Even the most lighthearted and confident stars of the opera stage suffer from moments of unconscious stress. The bubbly American mezzo-soprano Susan Graham is currently in rehearsals with the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra for a series of six concerts of the music of Henry Purcell. She's playing the legendary Queen of Carthage in Dido and Aeneas. The series begins at San Francisco's Herbst Theatre this Thursday before the artists take off to Palo Alto, Berkeley, Los Angeles and Davis for a couple of weeks.

Yesterday afternoon, while in conversation with Philharmonia Baroque's director, Nicholas McGegan, Graham -- a propos of nothing it seemed -- shared the contents of a nightmare she'd had the night before:

"I had a dream last night that I looked at my contract and it read that I had been engaged to sing not only the role of Dido but three other parts too." Graham's smooth, powered brow furrowed slightly at the unsavory recollection. But McGegan quickly ironed out the creases on his leading lady's face. "No, we're saving you just for Dido," he said, patting her shoulder. "There will be no costume changes for you. It's a one-dress show."

The San Francisco Public Schools commission is running a marketing campaign right now. The slogan on posters dotted in bus shelters and elsewhere around town is "The City is Our Classroom." "That's all well and good," I thought as I walked passed a poster on a walk around the neighborhood this morning. "But that doesn't make up for the fact that classrooms, in the conventional use of the word, aren't necessarily doing their job anymore in this city." I was thinking in particular of my recent visit to San Francisco's rundown School of the Arts (SOTA) (see my blog entry of two days ago) which left a a bitter taste in my mouth.

In this pensive mood, I walked around the corner and came across Keith Sklar's 1989 mural, "Learning Wall." Sklar's enormous, psychadelic triptych is looking really faded. I read somewhere online that the artist had scrubbed out some portions of it a while ago. Not sure if that's true, or if it is, why he would have done such a thing.

I walk past Sklar's mural almost every day as I live close by, but not until this morning did I really stop to look at it closely. It's hard to figure out what's going on as the work is so busy. The main theme (a popular one in Bay Area murals) seems to be cultural pluralism. There are Inca heads, Chinese stringed musical instruments, Ancient Egyptian effigies and all manner of patterns and people. At the top is a motif of people holding hands. The whole thing swirls with color and texture like a giant bubbling cauldron of knowledge and ideas.

I can't say it's beautiful to look at, especially in its current faded, grimy state. But it serves as a reminder that education was at one point prized in this city. The mural is painted, somewhat ironically, on the side of an old, vacant and rather beautiful Department of Education building. I heard rumors that SOTA is eventually supposed to move from its current location in the fog belt into these premises. Financing, I suppose, prevents this from happening any time soon (if indeed this plan is more than a rumor.) It would be great if SOTA would move downtown. That would put the arts high school right next to the Symphony, Opera, Ballet and Conservatory of Music, not to mention the New Conservatory Theatre Center, The Asian Art Museum, the main branch of the San Francisco Library, the Herbst Theatre and several private galleries.

I imagine Sklar's "Learning Wall" is more likely to get a fresh coat of paint before that happens though.

It's a wonder that I ever got sent to the US as a technology correspondent for a major British newspaper back in 2000, really. My lack of prowess at -- and genuine interest in -- figuring out the nuts and bolts of everyday applications I use is not something of which I'm proud. But there's only so many things I can pay attention to on any given day, and worrying about which format I transfer audio files to and from my laptop sadly isn't one of them.

I was made to feel the full force of my technophobia yesterday afternoon when I went across the Bay to Berkeley to guest-lecture for an hour at an adult "vocal music appreciation" class. Unlike many serious music fans (and most classical music journalists) I don't keep my music library on CD, only digital audio files on my computer, even though most people in my line of work proselytize against this for reasons of quality. I don't perceive a huge difference in the quality of a CD versus most of the audio files on my laptop. frankly. Then again, computer audio files do vary radically in quality, which is a detail I confess that I need to pay closer attention to.

So I turned up to class with a playlist in an embarrassingly motley range of file formats. Some of them were near-CD quality. Others, I must confess, I'd yanked off YouTube using AudioHijack, and the quality was far, far from perfect. One or two of the tracks sounded like they were being played at the bottom of a well.

The teacher of the class was not impressed. He had the most staggeringly stagey audio setup I'd seen in a while, with speakers resting on ball-bearings. You couldn't so much as breathe on the shiny black objects without causing him to get upset. I got a public dressing down for having some of the tracks as MP3 files rather than the more up-to-date AIFF files. "Did you rip some of this stuff off the Internet?" I was asked with a critical "tsk" halfway through the class.

I dunno. Of course it's preferable to have optimal quality when you're listening to music. It's always better if you do. But having a slightly-less-than-perfect listening experience isn't going to cause your eardrums to explode. And going with a not-extremely-good output is OK too if you're under duress (ie you want to play something that is only available on YouTube) and using the music sample to make a general point rather than listening intensively in private.

The students in the class didn't seem to mind all that much anyway. Many of them came up afterwards to say how much they'd enjoyed the lecture. And hopefully the teacher forgave me for my sin. Rest assured, though: I'll be paying closer attention to audio file formats in the future. Lesson learned.

Articles about how the recession is affecting the arts in San Francisco are commonplace these days. Janos Gereben's October 25 piece in The San Francisco Examiner brought the point home once again.

But it's hard, as the article's headline states, to think that "optimism abounds" when you visit a place like the San Francisco School of the Arts High School (SOTA.) I visited the school for the first time the other day for a meeting and was shocked by the state of the buildings. They were more run down than any other school I've ever seen (and I've seen some pretty run down schools in the Bay Area.) The walls were dirty, many of them covered in graffiti. The corridors were grimy, the restrooms had dripping faucets and smelled bad. The classrooms were similarly derelict. The teacher with whom I had my meeting says he didn't have a desk, chairs or pencils in his classroom for the first few weeks after he arrived. He had to beg, borrow and steal these basic items. In the middle of our get together, a rat scuttled across the room. We had to leave.

How have things gotten to this point? SOTA is an amazing institution which turns out incredibly accomplished students, some of whom go on to forge successful careers in the arts. The environment in which people are forced to learn and teach is scary, frankly. I'm amazed that anyone can learn to play a concerto on the cello or rehearse for a play in this setting.

We do not live in a third world country. We need to do something about this fast.