What’s that? A new feature?
July 14, 2011
After many weeks of developing in my free time, I can finally announce a new Talkbackr feature.
For those of you who don’t know anything about Talkbackr, it’s a website (talkbackr.com) that allows for free, anonymous feedback to organizations for events. Let’s say your organization is putting on a production of Romeo & Juliet. You can create a free event in Talkbackr, then give out the URL to your audience, and they can sign into Talkbackr later and give anonymous feedback. It’s 100% free.
There is a premium section that provides some completely optional features, but they are by no means required to partake fully in the Talkbackr experience.
So that sounds great, right? Free, anonymous feedback. Well, I got to thinking. Why should you have to send your audience to my site to do that? Why not just get them to leave feedback via Facebook? And that thought led to other thoughts, and those thoughts to other thoughts, and those thoughts led to me being hungry because thinking is hard work, and that hunger led to pizza, and my sated hunger led to other thoughts, and then THOSE thoughts to action, and then…
Introducing the new Talkbackr Facebook Widget.
The idea is simple. It boils down to this: you can set up a Talkbackr Now! tab on your organization’s Facebook page (because, let’s face it, every organization has one, and if you don’t have one — GET ONE), and then your audience can leave feedback via that tab instead of having to leave Facebook. It’s the ultimate in convenience.
So how do you sign up? It’s really simple and can be done in three easy steps:
1) Sign into your Talkbackr account and go to the My Account section. There is a box that says “Get your Facebook Widget API Key”, and underneath it provides an API key.
2) Follow the three steps under the API key. (Recursive steps, oh my!.)
3) Shoot me an email with photos of you and your organization flipping out about how awesome the new Talkbackr Facebook Widget is.
Okay, you don’t have to do the third step. But do let me know if you have any questions or comments or whatever. I’m excited about it, and I think you guys will be to.
Enjoy!
P.S. This is totally in BETA. That means there are bugs. If you report them to me, I will fix them as soon as I can.
P.P.S. Regular website widget to come soon. (And by “soon” I mean whenever I get around to it, which depends entirely on how successful the FB widget is, so… get crackin’, people.)
On Having Strong Plays
March 17, 2011
The Belgariad
A few years ago, I was looking for something new to read. I’m a big sci-fi/fantasy geek, and so I asked my friends what a good book series was that I could read. Many of them suggested the late David Eddings’ trilogy The Belgariad, about a young man who goes off to save the world.
From the start I knew I was reading a solidly written book. It had characters that were immediately recognizable archetypes, a well-defined and detailed world in which they reside, a clear antagonist and protagonist, rising action, climax, denouement, and conclusion. The writing followed every rule and cliche in the book, and I can find no fault with the composition, the grammar, the spelling, the character development, or the plot arc. Quite simply and objectively speaking, it’s a well-written book.
But subjectively I don’t like it. It’s boring. It’s predictable. Eddings literally followed every rule in the book. The science of writing was perfect, but the art and soul was missing. Any reader can (or should be able to) objectively look at this trilogy and say “The writing is solid.” Even those who don’t like The Belgariad, as I don’t, should be able to look at it and say “Look, there’s nothing technically wrong with the novel.”
Exit, Pursued by a Bear
Lauren Gunderson penned a play titled after the most famous stage direction in Shakespeare’s canon (from The Winter’s Tale, if you care). Her story focused on a woman in an abusive relationship with her husband, and how she was going to get back at him for the abuse.
Lauren’s script was one of the most solid I’ve ever heard. Not a single line, as near as I can tell, was wasted. Everything either developed a character or pushed the story forward. The technical decisions supported the script; the lighting was spot-on (see what I did there?) and the use of video and projectors, much maligned though they may be, worked within the confines of the script. There were no unnecessary scenes, no wasted time, and each scene flowed smoothly into the next. There wasn’t a moment where the story faltered. It was a really tight script.
Objectively speaking, it was a solid script.
And subjectively speaking, I loved it. EXIT, PURSUED BY A BEAR is easily one of the best plays I’ve seen in years. The acting was superb, and I truly believed Nan was upset at her husband’s actions, that Sweetheart was an actress and really, really good friend, and that Simon was the prima donna gay BFF that would do anything to help Nan get away from her husband. Rachel May’s direction was strong and took some daring risks that paid off handsomely.
But none of the above would have worked if the script hadn’t been so great. Or at the very least, it would have been way, way, way, waaaaay harder to pull off.
The Debate
The other day on Twitter I suggested that many plays get produced that shouldn’t be. As a writer, I think the script should be the strongest part of any production. There are many reasons why I think this, starting with the fact that the writer has the most time to develop his piece. I can take a year to write my script, if I want, reading it and editing it and tweaking it to make it perfect. I can run it by friends and colleagues for opinions. I can stage readings or workshops.
When an author submits a novel for publication, an editor has to read it. If the editor thinks it shows promise, they edit it and send it back. The author rewrites and submits again. So on and so forth, ad nauseum, until the editor is convinced that it’s good enough to go on to the next step. I don’t know exactly what the next step is, but I assume the chief editor (or some equivalent) has to approve it before it gets published.
Then, and only then, does a play reach publication. (We’ll conveniently ignore self-publication, which, I believe, is the source of many, many shitty novels.)
Note: People have reminded me that sometimes things get published or produced because of financial concerns, but we won’t consider those, because we’re talking about art, here, and art shouldn’t be produced to make money but rather to produce, you know, good art.
The Backbone
I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I go see a play, I can pretty easily tell what was an actor/director choice and what was a writer choice. If there are unnecessary scenes, then the script contained those scenes. If the show goes on too long, that’s in the script. (I’m fully aware that acting/scene changes/etc can influence show times, though more often I see directors actually cutting scenes because the script is too long, at which point I ask myself “Why do this script?”. But I digress…). If the story is bland and cliche (like Eddings’ “The Belgariad”), that’s in the script.
On the other hand, if the story is solid, the scenes all make sense together, and the show isn’t too short or too long, then that should be obvious to you. It is to me. Sure, an actor can flub lines or a director can misinterpret a script or stage a scene poorly, but that’s independent of a script. (Edit: A recent example of this is the HBO show Game of Thrones based on the book of the same name by George R.R. Martin. The book is excellent, and the script is essentially the dialog from the book. I mean that literally. However, the direction suffers from lack of understanding of the source material, as a few key scenes were flubbed, time was spent developing characters and symbolism that is irrelevant in the larger series, or giving backstory about characters that don’t matter in the first book (or the second, for that matter). Don’t get me wrong: the TV series is excellent, but it is excellent because of its amazing source material, not the directors or actors. But I digress…)
The script, then, should be the backbone, the bedrock of a production. It should be as tight and solid as possible before it goes before a paying audience. You wouldn’t build a house on a cracked foundation, would you? I didn’t think so.
All too often I go see shows having paid full price and expecting a well-made and well-thought out show, and I walk out wondering why they didn’t workshop it again, or why someone didn’t say “Hey, guys? This script is shit.” The acting might be great or it might be bad, the direction might be great or might be bad. I’m not talking about those, and I’m not talking about whether I liked it or not. As you should be able to tell from my Game of Thrones and Belgariad examples above, I’m perfectly able and willing to separate my likes and tastes from what works and what doesn’t work.
Clearly I believe that it’s possible to be objective about art, but I’m also perfectly on board with the fact that art is subjective. Another quick example: I think lettuce is absolutely disgusting. I can’t stand it. But I can look at a salad and say “That salad is well-composed, and all of the ingredients on that salad fit together in a coherent flavor profile. It works and is obviously successful as a dish.” Is it objectively well-composed? Sure. Is it subjectively delicious? Not to me.
Likewise with art, there are certain conventions and rules to which we all adhere to some extent, at which point we can step back and analyze a work of art and consider whether that art meets those criteria. If not, then we can pretty much collectively say “This isn’t working.” But did we like it? That’s entirely subjective and will vary from individual to individual.
The Conversation That Should Happen
And so I’m talking about scripts. Scripts that are written on a page, that are picked by people who have read them. People who should be able to say:
“Hey, you know, these scenes don’t work at all”
or
“I’ve seen this story a thousand times, and this script doesn’t bring anything new to the table”
or
“Everyone knows the story of the X, and this script doesn’t have a twist on it or make it any different”*
and having realized that, say “You know what? This script isn’t for us.”
*Note: the last critique is something I’ve actually, literally been told regarding one of my plays. What can I say? I thought it was neat, and it’s not. Thanks, Bob.
The End (for now)
There is absolutely no reason for a theatre to pick a mediocre script with obvious flaws. Theatre isn’t film. You can’t “fix it in post”. You do, however, have the power to pick a play that is solid from the get-go.
I’m somewhat willing to be flexible for a new script that hasn’t had a full production, but even so, given Lauren Gunderson’s EXIT, PURSUED BY A BEAR‘s world premiere and how solid it was (and that’s just one example of many I can think of), I really think we, as an industry, can do better.
I understand it’s difficult to find great plays, but even if you do find a mediocre script, you can always do workshops or staged readings or work with playwrights to improve them before mounting a full production. I’m not advocating against this at all — in fact, quite the opposite! I would love for more theatres to work with playwrights to get more solid productions running. What I’m tired of is being told I’m seeing a “full production” and then walking out disappointed.
Poor director choices? Fine. Poor acting? Fine. Technical difficulties with lights or sound? Fine. I understand a play is a very dynamic creature and that things simply go wrong. But the script should not be one of them.
See a script with some flaws in it? Talk to the playwright. Let the playwright work the flaws out. But don’t just produce it to “make it better”. That’s cheating the audience out of a good experience.
It’s just I don’t ever want to go see another play that winds up looking like a workshop, and then wonder why I paid so much for something that wasn’t the best it could be.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Thanks for reading my thoughts, and I hope if you have an opinion on the topic that you will leave a comment below. Enjoy.
Courage, or Lack Thereof: a Monologue or Whatever
March 7, 2011
Note: The following is a work of fiction. It is intended to be a monologue, but I suppose it could be considered just fancy schmancy writing. Who cares, really. I’ll let you decide what it is, but for now, I’m calling it a monologue. Also, I’m open to critiques or whatever. Feel free to comment on it and let me know what you think. IT’S CALLED AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION, PEOPLE. DO IT.
I’m not a very straightforward guy. I mean, not on purpose. Sometimes I say things very bluntly, but it’s usually one of those things that I didn’t think about it first. But most of the time, I’m kind of shy and nervous around girls. Especially cute girls. The kind of cute girls that talk to me. Formerly imaginary girls, but now, somehow, a real girl.
So when she said “Do you want to have sex with me?”, my jaw fell to the ground, I looked away, and stammered, “Um. Uh. Sure. I mean, yes. I would, uh. Yes.”
I won’t go into too much detail about what happened next, but I will say it was glorious. Well, as glorious as fumbling around in the dark, hands shaking, trying to figure out how to unhook that goddamn bra can be.
I don’t remember much after that, actually. I just remember it was dark and sweaty and awkward. But glorious. Definitely glorious.
After that, I’m not sure what happened. One minute she’s propositioning me on her couch in her apartment, and the next we’re dating. Officially. Like, she wants to be publicly associated with me.
Weird, I know.
It sounds self-deprecating, but it’s not, really. I mean, nobody has been interested in me for my whole life. Sure, I crushed on anything with two legs and a pair of tits, but none of them ever gave me the time of day.
So believe me when I say that I was completely and totally baffled. And being the smart, cautious fella that I am, I played it safe. I kept my distance.
(beat)
When I was in high school, I knew this girl named Tiffany. She was everything I dreamed about: smart, funny, talented, and of course, beautiful. She sat next to me in Chemistry and Trig, and we wound up partnering up on most assignments in those classes. She treated me like a human being and ignored my faults.
She was my first real crush, the kind that you go home and lay in bed and ask God to grant you just one wish.
But nothing could come of it. Tiffany was dating the captain of the basketball team. The quarterback for our football team was dating someone else, which was good, because I wouldn’t be able to handle the girl of my dreams dating the most popular guy in school. But she wasn’t dating him. She was dating the basketball guy.
He was tall, like me. In fact, except for the fact that he was a stupid jock and I was a shy nerd, we were pretty similar. I have a chance, I told myself. I’m obviously the kind of guy she likes, even if I can’t slam dunk a basketball.
And so when they broke up, finally, I decided to make my move. It was two months before the prom. She was talking in the gym with her girlfriends, and I was playing 21 with the guys. During a break in the game, I strolled over there and said hi.
“Hey,” I said. The whole group stopped talking, which was nothing short of a minor miracle, considering that this was the cheerleading squad. But they stopped, and they stared at me. I looked at Tiffany and took a deep breath. It was my moment. I wouldn’t screw this up.
“I thought that, uh, since, uh… you know… Uh,..”
I was screwing this up. I couldn’t think straight, my knees were turning to jelly. And all I could think about was what would happen next. I made eye contact, saw her staring intently at me, and I immediately looked away. I just gotta get this over with, I thought. So I blurted out,
“–thatmaybeyouwouldwantogotothepromwithme.”
I held my breath in anticipation. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. Well, maybe there was, but I only had eyes and ears for Tiffany. Holding my breath, the silence… it was just the calm before the storm. And finally, it broke.
Laughter.
They laughed. Not just Tiffany, but the entire circle. And loud enough that everyone in the gym saw and heard and began to laugh, too. I was mortified.
“Sure. No problem. Just figured I’d ask,” I said unconvincingly. I turned around and went back to playing basketball for the rest of the period.
I tried to play it like I was cool, but inside I was crushed. I had been hoping for two years to ask her out, and here I was, putting my heart on the line, and she laughed. Might as well feed me to the cats, for all that I felt like chopped liver.
I haven’t trusted a girl since that day all those years ago.
So I think you can understand that when my new girlfriend is putting on Facebook that we’re a couple and telling everyone that I’m her boyfriend, it’s a little daunting. Sure, the sex was great, and I wouldn’t turn that down at all. And sure, I liked her a lot. We had the same sense of humor, the same taste in movies, and at least a passing interest in each others’ hobbies. And sure, it was nice that everyone thought I wasn’t a loser now. And that everyone knew I wasn’t a virgin anymore. It shouldn’t matter, you know, but it really does. It’s how you cross the line from not knowing what you’re talking about to being at least being given a chance to speak. That was nice.
But I still stayed distant. I waited for the other shoe to drop. I didn’t want my heart to be crushed the same way mine had once been ground to a fine powder. I couldn’t bear to go through that again. But I went along with it. I took my girlfriend out to eat, we went to movies, and we made out as often as possible. I even managed to master the bra hook. You see, it turns out that all you have to do is… well, that’s not important right now. What is important is that it was nice, for once, to be wanted. Things were going perfectly! My life, as I knew it, was complete.
“I love you,” she said. I had been about to kiss her.
“What?”
“I love you,” she repeated, her eyes locked onto mine.
My mind was racing.
Did I love her? I certainly liked her a lot. And her boobs. And the sex. The sex was great. But I mean, did I really love her? And did I really want to say it back? What if I said it now to placate her, but I didn’t really mean it? Wouldn’t that be even worse than not saying anything at all? What if it’s just the fear of being alone? Doesn’t the fact that I’m questioning myself tell me that I don’t really love her? But what if I do, and I just don’t know it? Who knows what love is, really? But what if I did love her, and what if I didn’t say it because I was afraid of saying it, and then it turned out that not saying it broke us up and I wouldn’t get laid anymore, and I mean even if I didn’t get laid anymore, that would be fine, but I also really like going to the movies and having someone to talk to and hang out with… But she’s really, really drunk and can barely stand up straight, and maybe… maybe she’ll forget she said it, and then I can think about it and say it later.
“You’re so sweet,” I cooed, wincing inside. She just smiled at me, kissed me, and climbed into bed.
It didn’t take long. A month, maybe two. She never brought up that night again, and neither did I. She never said those three words again. Foolishly, I never did either. She had enough of me not giving her what she needed, and she left. And once again, I was alone and undesirable.
All because I wasn’t willing to put myself out there. Because I was afraid of the consequences to my own heart, I hadn’t considered hers. My silence may very well have been as deafening as the laughter in the gym that day. In my fear and inaction, I became that which I sought to avoid: a heartbreaker.
So here I am. Alone. Single. Horny. And maybe a little desperate for affection and willing to flirt with anything with two legs and a rack. Or even just anyone who’ll take the time.
I walk this lonely highway, cynical about the world, yet idealistic that some day, perhaps, I will find someone who has made the same self-discovery that I have. And that our pain, our shared experiences, and our desire to not repeat our mistakes will draw us together.
Maybe this time, I’ll find the courage to speak up.
If you’re not on top of the world…
March 4, 2011
Note: I’m aware that I’m making some generalizations below, but this post is based on my own experiences and my observations on others’ experiences.
Meeting Amy
Last night, I met with the incredibly talented, smart, and funny (not to mention stunningly beautiful) Amy at Trader Vic’s in Atlanta. We “met”, if you will, via Twitter, that ever-more-awesome service that drives revolutions around the world and even in our own back yards. We first made our connection to each other through a hashtag of #2amt (based on the web at 2amtheatre.com). I won’t go into more detail about that, since that’s not the focus of my post.
What is important is that the two of us have participated in the same theatre conversations over the last year or so. Think about that: I’m in Atlanta and Amy is based in Virginia. And the two of us, having never met before, had already participated in dozens of conversations about theatre. That’s the power of social media right there — don’t let anyone tell you Twitter or Facebook is useless.
Naturally when we began talking over margaritas (hers) and soda (mine — I swear I wasn’t trying to take advantage of her), our conversation quickly turned to theatre. I could write an entire series of posts about the different topics we talked about, from the cultural attitude in Atlanta to the use of social media in theatre, but instead I’m going to focus on something more specific.
What we have here is a failure to communicate
At least a dozen times in the conversation, I said to Amy, “Scott Walters is absolutely right. Colleges aren’t preparing the students for the ‘real world’.” I’ve learned more about how theatre works from my 2AMTheatre conversations than I ever learned in any classroom. Sure, in college you learn plenty of useful skills, but colleges (at least in my experience) don’t adequately temper expectations or explain the realities of the industry.
They don’t teach you how hard it is to make money.
They don’t teach you how hard it is to raise money.
They don’t teach you about non-profit status and how to apply for it.
They don’t teach you about how to consider an audience when planning for a season.
They don’t teach you about the unemployment statistics in NYC.
They don’t teach you about how hard it is to get butts in the seats.
They don’t teach you how to collect a team of strong individuals that work well together, how to communicate effectively with both your team and the audience, how to find out what the needs of the community are when building a theatre plan, why being unique isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and most importantly, they don’t teach you how to find these things out for yourself.
Professors teach you how to act, hang lights, build sets, and sew costumes. And all the while, whether implicitly or explicitly, they’re holding up Broadway as the Golden Standard. No professor ever said to me, “Brian, you would make a great artistic director. You should open your own theatre company, and here are some resources you should check out to help you out with that.” No professor ever said to me, “I went to my wife’s family’s house for Christmas, and none of them had ever been to a theatre. Their town doesn’t have one.” No professor ever said to me, “If I were you, I wouldn’t go to New York City. I’d go to Staunton, VA or Asheville, NC and form up with a theatre company there.”
And I think that’s a big, big travesty. Students leave undergraduate studies with a Degree in Knowing Everything There Is To Know About Theatre, and then they get into the real world, and suddenly… they’re lost. What’s this thing called rent and utilities? Why isn’t anyone coming to see my shows? How come when I get to NYC, I can’t get cast in anything? When I was in college, I always got a part… why am I auditioning alongside 300 other people right now?!
It’s daunting. It’s depressing. And it’s a disservice to our students.
Here’s just a few things every fine arts major should have to learn in college as part of getting the degree:
- Basic marketing skills (How can I get butts in the seats?)
- Basic psychology (How can I figure out what my audience needs and wants?)
- Basic finance (How can I raise money, spend responsibly, and keep my art viable?)
- Current events (What is the state of the industry? How much are people making doing what I do? How do these events impact my community, and what problems does that present?)
- And many, many more…
If I were to have gotten this information in college, I would have walked out maybe a little more cynical and a little less idealistic, but certainly with a more practical view of the world. I would be prepared to accept a day job to pay my rent while I pursue theatre in my free time. I would be prepared to not make any money. I would be prepared to work hard and not expect everything handed to me on a silver platter.
I would walk out of those doors fully prepared to do something nobody ever told me I would have to do: Plan B.
The best laid plans of mice and men…
I won’t name any names, but a few of my friends have these pieces of paper that say they’re experts in theatre. For some reason, they buy into it. They utterly, completely, absolutely, 100% buy into this piece of paper. And they think: I’m a theatre graduate. I can’t do anything but Theatre and be happy.
And they’d be wrong.
Let’s look at me. I have a degree in theatre. Nothing makes me happier than being involved in a theatrical endeavor (except perhaps sex), but does that mean that absolutely nothing else makes me happy? What a ridiculous question. Of course not.
I enjoy web development. I enjoy reading. I enjoy hanging out with people. I enjoy talking about politics, movies, and puppies. I enjoy traveling and eating. Every one of these things makes me happy, and if I could do any one of those things all day, every day, that would be fucking amazing.
And for the vast majority of experienced theatre practitioners in the country, this is true.
Let’s not kid ourselves, artists. When you get an education in fine arts, you’re not just being trained to be an actor, a light tech, a sound tech, or a playwright. You’re not just being trained to do specific things, you’re learning a wide variety of skills that translate into every job ever.
Seriously. I’m going to list just a handful of skills that I’ve gained over the years due to my theatre training and practice:
- Working under pressure and deadlines
- Working independently
- Working as a team
- Taking direction
- Accepting criticism
- Doing independent research
- Learning vast amounts of material in a very short period of time
- Speaking in front of large groups of people confidently
- Showing up on time on a regular basis
- Improvisation in the face of unexpected problems
I could go on and on and on. If you paid attention and actually worked as hard as most people I know have, then you have these skills and more.
And you are every employer’s wet dream.
I know computer scientists who are brilliant programmers, but they don’t work well on a team. I know engineers that can design air conditioning units in their sleep, but they crack under pressure of deadlines. I know managers who can run an entire department store with expert efficiency, but choke up when they speak to all of their employees at once.
You, artist, have a leg up on these people.
Ask any employer which they would rather have: an employee who is brilliant at what they do but can’t work on a team or take direction very well, or someone who is “merely” pretty good at what they do but CAN take direction and CAN work on a team.
They’ll pick the latter every time.
There is more to programming than just typing on a keyboard. There is more to public relations than simply writing press releases. There is more to being a detective than simply visiting crime scenes.
There is more to happiness, satisfaction and contentment than just theatre.
Don’t buy into any bullshit that because you have a piece of paper that declares you an expert in Theatre that that’s all you can do. Don’t buy into any bullshit that because you are a “stage manager” that you can’t also manage a team of programmers (hello, Marni Keenan). Don’t buy into any bullshit that because you are a “playwright” that you can’t become a graphic designer on the side (hello, David Loehr). Don’t buy into any bullshit that because you are a “director” that you can’t become a teacher (hello, Melissa Hillman).
And don’t buy into any bullshit that the ONLY thing that will make you happy is theatre. Because you are so much more than a stage manager, an actor, a lighting designer or a playwright. You are an entire human being with interests that stretch far and wide, and while theatre may make you happier than anything else, it is not the only thing that makes you happy (and if it is, maybe you need to see a doctor). You have skills in your chosen aspect of theatre that are imminently transferable to other disciplines, any number of which can be a sustainable, enjoyable career.
Take charge of your destiny, examine the skills that you have, and don’t let your professors, your neighbors, your society, or your pre-conceived notions dictate what you can and can’t do and what will or will not make you happy.
My final note is this: I work a day job. My day job pays my bills. My paid bills allow me to do theatre in the evenings and on the weekends. And that puts me on top of the world.
If you’re not on top of the world… why not?
I Believe…
February 16, 2011
…that you can have all the good ideas in the world, but if you don’t actually try and make them happen, they’re not doing any good. Ideas are a dime a dozen; results are rare.
…that there is absolutely no reason for a Criminal Minds spinoff series. The original is so bad, they will either fuck it up even worse or they’ll rise to merely average. At least Forrest Whittaker is in this one, so there may be some decent acting. Finally.
…that there are a lot of offensive things in the world and the mature, responsible way to handle that fact is to just deal with it. Sometimes people are deliberately offensive, but 9 times out of 10, when they say “midget” or “retarded”, they’re not being deliberately derogative. Suck it up, shake your head, and move on. Yelling at them just makes you look like an asshat.
…that your major in college is just a broad category, not a definition. Just because you have a degree in Theatre or Journalism doesn’t mean you can’t be a great teacher, marketer, or accountant. Degrees in the liberal arts provide you with a ton of useful skills that every employer covets and desires to a sinful degree — working under pressure, working well with a team, working well independently, learning vast amounts of material in a short period of time, communicating clearly, and taking direction (just to name a few). For a Theatre major to think “I can only be an actor/tech” is short-sighted. If you truly think that, then maybe you don’t deserve to be anything but a waiter.
A Case for Funding the Arts
February 1, 2011
Every election period there are some rumblings about cutting the budget, and one of the perennial items that Congress likes to talk about cutting is the NEA (National Endowment for the Arts). It’s a good item to bring up, because you can almost always compare it to something like Medicare or Unemployment and say “Hey, this is essential, but the arts are just fluff.”
Obviously we artists disagree.
And I not only take offense at that attitude, but also to the idea that the NEA is worth cutting to begin with. Quite the opposite, I believe it is worth funding the crap out of. And to that end, I created a little infographic based on a little research that I did on the subject.
I’ve included it below. Click through to embiggen it.
There you have it.
Don’t let Congress cut the arts. It’s just a bad idea. Bust the myths they perpetuate and let them know that the Arts are worth funding.
The Germs of Passion
December 28, 2010
I read this on Twitter from someone who purports to know something about audience development:
Let passion for your art come first. If your passion is perceived, it will be contagious! Good things will happen. #auddev
HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA.
Sorry. Ahem. Let me rephrase.
HAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Someone has been watching Field of Dreams too often. “If you build it, they will come” and all that nonsense. Right. You go ahead and do that. See if it works. (Hint: it won’t). This is one of those high-minded concepts that I see all the time and they infuriate me. Sure, they sound nice, but they don’t mean anything. They don’t accomplish anything. What, exactly, has the above quote inspired you to do? Do art? Weren’t you doing that anyway? No, it’s just empty fluff.
But back to the whole passion thing. Ha.
Let me put it this way: your passion is not contagious. It never has been and it never will be. Not in the way this person meant it, at any rate.
Don't be disgusted! She's sneezing her passion on you!
Passion isn’t like the flu. If I cough my passion all over your face over and over, you won’t suddenly become passionate about my passion. If I spit passion in your drink, you won’t contract a fit of passion. It doesn’t work like that. To believe otherwise is… well… I can’t think of anything nice to say there, so I’ll just leave that thought hanging. You can fill in the blank yourself.
I have a friend. My friend is absolutely obsessed with coffee. He loves coffee. He craves coffee. He is so passionate about coffee that he designed a website called Coffee Experiences where people like him can share their passion for coffee.
Notice I said “people like him.” I don’t like coffee. I never have liked coffee. I think it stinks, it tastes like dirt, and it’s all around disgusting. My friend can have all the passion in the world for coffee, but it won’t make me passionate about it. It won’t even make me care about it. Not even a little bit. I’ll ignore the coffee commercials, pass by the coffee shops, and overlook the sales on coffee at the local grocery store. Kudos on your passion, friend, but it doesn’t affect me. (Note: I did the programming for the site because he’s my friend, not because of his passion for coffee.)
No, passion is not contagious.
So if it’s not contagious, why should we have passion? We should have passion because it empowers us, it motivates us, and it drives us forward. It’s what keeps us working on something long past when someone who doesn’t care would have given up. Passion leads people to devote massive amounts of time and energy to develop a huge database of characters from a well-known fantasy series, to build a marketplace for playwrights and theatres to connect, to make a WoW/Little Mermaid mashup video. Passion makes us put out good work, to obsess over the tiniest details. It makes us talk to each other, push each other harder toward perfection. For those who share the same passion, it’s the coal in the furnace that keeps us rolling on.
I don't care about fashion, but this kitty does.
But it is not contagious.
Our audience couldn’t care less about our passion. That’s not why they came. Do you think the cashier at Wal-mart is interested in my passion for Shakespeare? Do you think they would come to a show of mine because I know random facts about Henslowe and Burbage, Alleyn and Marlowe? What about if she knew I could quote the entirety of Shakespeare in Love from memory because I’m so passionate about it? Would she come then? Probably not. I think those things are awesome, but that’s because I’m passionate about it. The cashier? She’d think I was weird and a little bit crazy. And maybe this explains why I can’t get a date (but that’s another post).
Don’t think for a second that passion is contagious, that simply being passionate is enough. It’s not. It’s just a small piece of the puzzle.
You also need discipline, professionalism, hard work, a strong team, great ideas, and the ability to follow through. Your passion can be the fire that lights all of those fuses and launches brilliant fireworks, but a match without a wick isn’t very interesting.
Am I saying that passion useless? Absolutely not. If you’re passionate about something, whether it’s coffee, web design, theatre, or Disney films, you should seek out like-minded people. For people who are interested in the same things, the passion multiplies and grows. A group of passionate thespians will be able to push each other to ever greater heights. Put that energy toward building a better set, writing a bigger novel, recording a better video.
Your audience? They don’t care about your passion — only your results. Save your passion for your colleagues. That set ain’t gonna build itself.
Absolute Rent
December 21, 2010
Note: I talked about this a few days ago, but I also wanted to share some new insights with you guys. This is reposted from a Facebook thread.
I never really tried to “make it” as a theatre person. I realized it’s just far too much trouble and not really worth the anguish. So I’m going the same route as the guys Eric mentioned: getting a day job that I can also be passionate about… to subsidize my income so that I can pursue my biggest passion (theatre, obviously). I think it’s faulty thinking that one can only be passionate about one thing, and that because one has spent a decade or more pursuing that one thing, that it’s a failure if you do something else to pay the bills and put the cheez-its on the table.
That’s just simply not true. Everyone I know in theatre that has “made it” has a day job. Almost every single one. The ones that don’t got a) really lucky or b) make sacrifices I’m not willing to make. Does that make them failures? Of course not. They’re living the dream, getting roles left and right, directing shows like nobody’s business.
I’m reading a book right now called the Stumbling on Happiness. It’s about the psychology of happiness and how the human mind reacts to different ways of making us happy. There’s a section where it says that we would rush across town to save $50 on a $100 DVD player, but we wouldn’t rush across town to save $50 on a $100,000 Ferrari. Economists would say that’s faulty thinking: $50 is $50 regardless of what you spend it on. Whether you save $50 on the DVD player or $50 on the Ferrari, that’s $50 worth of groceries you can buy, $50 you can put against rent. We think in percentages, but the real world deals in absolute values.
Point is… the bills and rent don’t care where the money comes from, and we shouldn’t either, as long as we have food, shelter, and time to pursue our passions.
Having said that, I think there’s something to be said for all of us striving to make theatre a viable profession with living wages.
Artists have marketable skills, too
December 16, 2010
I have a friend, who shall remain nameless. We’ll call him Jack. Now Jack is an accomplished actor. He’s got great comedic timing, he shows up on time, works very hard. He’s really, really good at what he does. But for some reason, Jack thinks that because he has a Bachelor of Arts in Drama that he must be an actor. Somehow he can’t convince himself that he could do something else and still use those skills, and still be able to participate in theatre even if it’s not his primary occupation. Instead, Jack works part-time jobs as a waiter or in retail stocking shelves or as a gas station attendant.
He’s miserable. He has no money. He has no time. He absolutely, 100% hates his job(s). But he’s convinced that he can’t do anything but be an actor and be happy. I think he’s wrong.
Employment in the arts is rough. You put in a lot of hours and a ton of effort and most people will, at best, get a handful of cash at the end of a six week run. That handful of cash usually isn’t enough to pay the bills, and most of us have to get day jobs. And by day jobs, I mean jobs outside of the arts.
It’s not impossible to get paid to work in the arts, whether it’s theatre or dance or music or pottery or painting. It’s not impossible, but it’s very, very tough. Consider the oft-quoted statistic that at any given moment, 87% of all Equity actors in the Northeast are unemployed by a theatre production (source: Actor’s Equity [PDF]). That means 1 out of every 13 actors is doing something BESIDES the arts (if they’re doing anything at all). And that’s in the northeast, home of Broadway, Off-Broadway and hundreds and hundreds of other theatres.
To get a full time job in those conditions is tough, and it takes a lot of sacrifice and in the end, from what I can tell, you usually wind up doing something you didn’t really want to do in the first place (box office or something). Most of the people that I know that make a living (and barely one, at that) doing theatre are touring actors. They essentially live out of a van and hotels for months at a time. I think I would enjoy that for awhile, but after awhile it would drive me crazy. And I think most of us are that way, too. A six month touring gig isn’t “making a living” — it’s just a gig.
As a result, most of us turn to other industries to earn our income. And the first thing you need to realize is that just because you’re passionate about the arts doesn’t mean you can’t be passionate about other things as well. I know theatre geeks that are obsessed with football, with fighter jets, with politics, with comics, with music. Sure, you spend 95% of your spare time writing, thinking, and doing theatre, but surely you would be happy doing something else, right?
But what can someone with a BFA in Acting do besides.. well… act? What can someone who spent four years cultivating the art of lighting a stage do besides stage lighting? What about costume designers? Box office managers? How do these people take those skills and then apply them to other industries? What can YOU offer another industry?
As it turns out, you can offer a lot. Let’s examine the actor’s repertoire, since actors are probably the most common theatre type and it turns out their skills are equally applicable to the other types as well. Try and see how many of these skills you’ve developed over the years:
Actors can (or should be able to):
- learn vast amounts of material in a short period of time (memorizing lines)
- work as a team
- work individually
- take direction and criticism
- show up on time on a regular basis on a regular schedule (a.k.a. rehearsal)
- conduct research (e.g. character development)
- adapt to quickly changing situations (e.g. improv, script cuts and changes)
- speak confidently and clearly in public
- start and complete a project
- work under pressure and under strict deadlines (the show MUST go on)
- make inferences based on limited information (e.g. script analysis)
Looking at this list, I can very quickly see that all of these skills are applicable to other industries. Every manager I can think of would love an employee that could meet these criteria. An employee that shows up on time, that can follow instructions and work with a team? That’s the proverbial golden egg of any workforce. If Jack can do all of these things, then Jack can do anything.
Now to be clear, I’m not suggesting that we abandon the arts for day jobs willy nilly, but in this recession and with the economy the way it is, it would behoove all of us to remember that we can’t pursue the artists if we can’t pay the rent. I can’t speak for all of you, but I know that I pursue theatre because it’s my passion. I don’t need to get paid for it. If I do, hey, bonus! But if not, well… it’s what makes me happy. And that’s what counts in the end, right?
The Curtain Rises on Off Book Market v1.2
December 14, 2010
Today I pushed a new set of changes to Off Book Market. For those of you who don’t know, Off Book is a marketplace for playwrights to sell their plays directly to theatres. If you’re a playwright, go ahead and sign up now. You can come back and read this later.
The changes fall into two broad categories: user interface and administrative. Both should, I hope, improve the appeal and effectiveness of Off Book Marketplace as a resource for the theatre community as a whole.
Administrative
Over the last few weeks since launching Off Book Market, I consulted with some of the industries leading business people on how to tighten up the legal language to best benefit Off Book’s audience. Specifically, the Terms and Conditions now explicitly stipulate certain conditions upon the purchase of rights for a play. If a user purchases the rights to produce a play, the must abide by the following conditions:
2. User is contractually obligated not to change the text of the Play, including without limitation its title, dialog, and stage directions, without the prior written approval of Author. All such changes shall become the sole and exclusive property of the Author without lien, claim, or encumbrance.
3. User is contractually obligated to give Author billing directly beneath the title on a line by itself at least 50% the average font size of the title. No other person will have billing as large as Author. Only the producer shall have larger billing or appear above the title.
It’s really simple: give the author credit and don’t change the script without permission. I know that seems obvious, and quite frankly I’m embarrassed that I hadn’t included those in the original Terms and Conditions at all. Having said that, these were inserted to protect and preserve the integrity of the playwrights’ intellectual property.
The second administrative change has to do with the royalty structure. Up until this point, Off Book Market charged for transaction fees and for maintenance fees. For each transaction, we deducted 2.9% + $0.30 for PayPal’s fee. That’s how much they charge (you can see for yourself here).
Unfortunately, due to the low cost of our scripts, that 30 cents bit really jacks up the percentage. 2.9% of $5 is roughly 15 cents, but when you throw in an additional 30 cents, it bumps PayPal’s percentage from 2.9% to a little over 9%.
There are other costs associated with Off Book Market — primarily domain name, hosting services, and time/work performed by the developers (well, singular — me). Before today Off Book took about 60 cents on a $5 purchase (about 12%) to cover those costs. However, this boosted our royalty up over 20%. After much consideration, I decided this was simply too much.
From this point on and at least for the foreseeable future, Off Book Market does not charge any maintenance fees. The only fee we take from the transaction is 2.9% + 30 cents. That’s it.
What does this mean for playwrights? It means that playwrights will now get somewhere between 87% and 90% return on the sale. It means more money for you.
As a result of this change, I’m switching to an ad-based revenue model. This costs absolutely nothing to our playwrights or our customers, and instead will help me offset maintenance and server costs through the purchase of ads. If you are someone with a business or product that could be geared toward the theatre industry, please contact me so we can work out some ad placement and get both of us some much needed business.
User Interface
The second major category in this update is a series of UI changes. Instead of that Popular/Recent bar on the right side, there will instead be advertisements. They should be relatively unobtrusive, and they should help provide some much needed breathing room so that you can focus on the more important parts of the page.
When I saw that we have 20 playwrights (holy crap!), I realized that the playwrights page could eventually get very, very long. As a result, each of the listing pages is now paginated with sorting mechanisms. You should be able to sort by name, price, and genre for each of the plays, and each of the other tables should be sortable as well.
The final major change is the introduction of a search engine. This is a custom implementation written by myself. It provides a Google-esque drop-down when you type. Each of you playwrights should go to your control panel and add keywords to each of your plays. This ensures that your play shows up in the search engine.
I hope my improvements will make Off Book Market a better service, and I am always open to suggestions and comments for improvements. If you have any, please comment here or shoot me a message privately, and I will do my best to accommodate.
Thank you guys so much for your enthusiastic response to Off Book, and I hope that our marketplace will expand to provide every theatre and every playwright with a connection that will become mutually beneficial.