Auditions

Hey kids, Paramount's Great America is auditioning! The bright brochure arrived in my mailbox, complete with photos detailing my potential future career frollicking in 100 degree weather in either a caveperson costume or as a dancer with white feathers attached to my ass. Apparently, judging from the photos, blondes have a better chance of being hired, darn. Anyway, here are a few opportuntities: singers, dancers, actors, variety artists, show characters, escorts. Escorts?? We thought this was supposed to be family entertainment.
Regarding variety artists, the brochure details, "If you are an experienced performance artist with an awesome approach to children's entertainment...." Wait, slow down, let me read that again. "Awesome performance artist...children's entertainment." Those phrases shouldn't occupy the same sentence.
Regarding the aforementioned escorts, "We are looking for Escorts [capital theirs] to act as the eyes and ears while accompanying costumed characters [what, the poor kid in the costume can't see or hear?] on a Park walk....An interview and movement audition will be conducted." Movement audition?? "OK, kid [jaded auditor takes a drag on a cigarette], let's see ya walk. Impress me. OK, let's see ya walk and talk at the same time. OK, OK, now here's a stick of gum."
I can see the hallway outside the audition room littered with the tear-stained remains of poor 15-year-olds, their dreams of show business dashed in a mere two minutes.

Buffy Update

Following up on the report of the cease and desist Fox slapped on the Buffy musical that was supposed to play at CounterPulse, today CounterPulse put out a release saying that they had no knowledge that the renter/producer of the show had a "lack of copyright permission."
They go on to say:
"CounterPULSE is not in any way connected with the San Francisco Halloween Show. In keeping with the mission of the organization, CounterPULSE did wish to support The San Francisco Halloween Show's grassroots efforts to share its take on pop culture with the public and regrets any show having to be cancelled."
(Note: Staged Readings follows, by habit, my day job's house style, which doesn't use all caps unless it's an acronym. Mostly, this is to keep our sanity. We compromise and give them an internal cap instead. However, tonight I'm too lazy to fix my cut and paste job.)
On December 1, they will hold a free forum to "discuss copyright issues, the public domain, and the relationship of creativity to a shared but privately owned cultural environment."
Now, the Buffy writer is all for having the musical done. So, what I'm going to bring up is a little moot. "The relationship to a shared but privately owned cultural environment." OK, I'm married to a playwright, and I'm a writer too, so I'm a little biased. And I'm going to take this Buffy thing as a jumping off point. Theatre is a collaborative environment, and some companies are more collaborative than others. Some companies are truly ensemble driven, where it's clear that everyone wrote/created the work. But, is it OK to create work so obviously based on "privately owned" material? Does the writer/playwright truly own their work? Is it OK to change a writer's work in rehearsal/performance under the collaboration philosophy that everyone else's opinion/input is just as valid as the writer's? (Don't worry, I won't hold you comments against you.)

My Friday Night

I suppose only a theatre person like me, that is, a theatre person that is no stranger to Tuesday, Wednesday and even Sunday press nights, finds the prospect of a Friday night at home the most exciting thing since, well, since a Sam Shepard world premiere with Sean Penn? Since a Baz Luhrman production of La Boheme with Nicole Kidman in the audience?
Ah, well. Last night I went to a show. Saturday night I'm going to a show, after going to Open Studios, and Sunday night I'm going to a show, and Sunday day I'm writing about theatre. So, tonight. I got home before six, and there was a light rain and the beginnings of the pungent scent of the first fireplace fires of the season, and there was a slight chill under the mugginess. I opened a window, put on the Dead Can Dance CDs and fixed hot chocolate with that cheap whipped cream. Exciting, huh? Then I dusted and vacuumed, and now I'm sitting at my computer with a hardening face mask, which thankfully you can't see. At least I'm not creating spreadsheets, hear that Moose? My god, this is what happens when you've had a full-time job for eight years, when you've been married for seven and when you spend all your time in theatres.
For those keeping score, Saturday night is Bat Boy and Sunday night is The Ballad of Pancho & Lucy. Ya'll go to my pick of the weekend, Shocktoberfest, and let me know how ya like it.

Theatre Bay Area in the Datebook

A grand photo of my boss graces the front page of today's Datebook, with a great article by Robert Hurwitt.

Pick of the Weekend

Halloween seems a good time to inaugurate Staged Readings' Pick of the Weekend, and what better show for Halloween than Thrillpeddlers' Shocktoberfest at The Hypnodrome. For the sixth year those sick bastards have insisted "Sissies Stay Home!" Well, under those circumstances, how could you miss it? Such blood-curdling Grand Guignol-inspired plays include Doug (I Am My Own Wife) Wright's "Wildwood Park" (something about a real estate agent and a house with secrets); "Arthur's Flogging," an ode to schoolroom punishment; "A Wedding of the Member" (something about a well-hung husband, which is usually a good thing, well, depending); and the return of the gorefest finale "A Slight Tingling." And, this weekend, Jill Tracy performs. But you can read about that in a grand interview at SFist. If you haven't experienced The Hypnodrome, you really must: it's fabulously kitschy and filled with surprises. You'll regret it if you don't go. Really. Unless you faint at the sight of stage blood. But then, you'll just add to the ambiance.

Overheard at Doctor Atomic

Standing in line at the bar, preshow.
Woman to husband: "I like these shoes. Oh, I know they're so middle-class." [At this point I felt really lame ordering a Pepsi.] "They're not my Manolo Blahniks, but I feel really sexy in them. I'm just telling you I feel really sexy."

In front of the opera house, after the show.
Woman to date: "I liked the lighting, and the posts."

In front of Jardiniere, after the show.
Man to friends, in a snotty tone: "The staging was very highbrow and inaccessible."

At It Again

The Republican Study Committee is recommending that the NEA's and the CPB's budgets be completely eliminated. ArtsJournal points to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

Vanity Fair's Misstep

So, am I the only one who thinks, in the latest issue of Vanity Fair, that the juxtaposition of the photo spreads of hip-hop artists and their bling against the photo spreads of Hurricane Katrina victims is just a tad bit offensive? I mean, who thought it was a good idea to photograph the citizens of New Orleans in the same style (lighting, poses and caption text) as the the other spreads of superficial stars dripping in diamonds?

Brown Underground

I've been contemplating what to say about Finn in the Underworld for over a week now and have deferred, mostly because what I write wouldn't sound anything like a review, and considering that I've written reviews and even dragged my butt to the O'Neill Critics Institute in Connecticut one year to be harrassed by the likes of Michael Feingold, I should be able to crank reviews out. But, this isn't an audience blog. I daresay it's a publicists blog, judging by my Blogging Stats visitor details. But I digress.
I love that Berkeley Rep will put difficult work on its stage. I love that they'll produce work that at least half their subscribers, donors and even staff will, uh, dislike. They're doing something right. (I try, and fail a lot, to firmly hold onto the belief that if people are sending you hate e-mail, that you're doing something right. Not that, as far as I know, Berkeley Rep is getting hate e-mail.) And the cast really rocks, especially Clifton Guterman (who I was especially interested in studying after seeing him in Cal Shakes' Nicholas Nickleby) and Lorri Holt. And Les did a superb job with the play.
What stymies me, though, is how a young playwright gets the stamp of approval and suddenly becomes the darling of the regional theatre circuit. Lately, it seems that the Brown graduates are the national darlings, and playwright Jordan Harrison falls in that category. The thing is, his writing isn't that much better than what I've seen from playwrights who didn't graduate from Brown, or Yale, or NYU. I've heard people enthuse about Finn's lack of a linear narrative, the difficult subject matter and so on. People, this isn't groundbreaking. (Please, feel free to point out my conflict of interest here, my being married to a local playwright who also writes nonlinear work, I don't care.) So, frankly, Finn didn't make any sort of lasting impression on me as I left the theatre (which is probably why it took me so long to write about it). Yet, I've already heard of another artistic director who is totally enthused about Harrison's work. And why not? He's from Brown, invokes the likes of Paula Vogel in his program interview and has the regional theatre stamp of approval. Oh, and he's "difficult." Great, at least I don't have to suffer through the next generation of Neil Simons.

Buffy Goes Down

So, I have lunch with Joel of Limelight Books at Tartine yesterday, on my day off, and all hell breaks loose! And I miss it. So, it's old news now that Fox shut down the Buffy musical at CounterPulse, so old that I know all you people who read my blog read SFist, so you got it there first. So, I'm just posting so ya'll know that I know. And speaking of knowing, yeah, I do know that Pinter won the Nobel Prize, too.
I heard about the Buffy musical back in August or so, and the only reason I didn't jump all over it is because, unlike my sister, I'm not a Buffy fanatic. I've never even seen one episode.
But I have to say, that's the best publicity anyone can get. I still can't believe that Disney never tried to shut down Mouse, even after the fact of it hit a national magazine. We sweated it for a while, then realized how awesome it would be if they tried. So, CounterPulse, here's hoping that your site hits skyrocket!

All Theatre Is Political, Or All Politics Is Theatre?

Looks like our friend at Radio Free Mike just posted a feature to Slate. Really, just now, this minute. (See, I'm keeping up with Bloglines now.) What does it have to do with theatre? Nothing. But it's a long way from the SF Weekly to writing about politics in Berlin (not to mention living there).

A-Z, Good Enough for Me

So, how about the Chronicle's A-Z guide to theatre? Pretty cool. Yeah, not everyone's in there, but landing the cover should get the attention of readers--potential audience members.
Well, I hope the Chron gets a lot of positive letters, and not just e-mails from companies wanting to know why they were left out. Well, having done lists before for publication, and really, they kinda suck. Because no matter how hard you try, no matter if the list was better than last year's list, you'll only hear from people who were left out. See, I'm a pessimist. I admit it. I've been beaten into it. So I'll be the first to look beyond omissions (not like Black Box was in there, nor should it have been, honestly) and say instead, Cool. Great job. Love the layout design, too.

This Weekend

Holy shit, that last Stage Fog on SFist nearly did me in. I wrote on twice as many shows as I usually do, but don't think I'm actually going to see all those shows. That's silly. I mean, I'm only going to three shows this weekend. Heading off to New Conservatory Theatre Center for Dark Horse, Indiana. But what I'm really stoked about is Doctor Atomic on Saturday night. Yes, we're seeing the final performance. And I have not read reviews, but I ate up preview pieces like the ones in Wired and the New Yorker (sorry, no link available). Then, Sunday night, off to Project Artaud to see what Capacitor comes up with this time.

As You Wish

My poor Bloglines. So full of posts each feed takes forever to load. This is by way of saying, Yeah, this is probably old news, but so what? I work on a monthly.
A musical of The Princess Bride! I suppose this was the next logical step after Spamalot. So, friends, give me your predictions on the next film to be turned into Broadway gold.
Personally, I can't wait to see the ROUS number. Should be a showstopper.
Thanks to Boing Boing, which pointed to Playbill online.

Verified Dork

I couldn't figure out the letters on Best of Broadway's (now SHN) word verification on their online box office. This is really sad. It actually had to give me another word.

Tips for Procrastination

1. Walk on the beach.
2. Eat ice cream.
3. Stare at press releases.
4. Wonder if it's entirely possible that you used up your vocabulary of active verbs.
5. Cut your fingernails. Because there's no way you wouldn't have bitten them off before Friday's manicure.
6. Check and even answer work e-mail at 9PM.
7. Wonder why you got yourself into writing about local theatre for at least four different outlets.
8. Try to remember why you're dissatisfied with the universe.
9. Look inside the refrigerator. Close door quickly.
10. Try to decide what number 10 should be.

Mom's One-Woman Show

Because the only show I saw this weekend (twice) was Tenders in the Fog, I'll regale you with reviews of my mother's one-woman show. After her popular Staged Readings debut, mom has been cast in a recurring role. Like most solo performances, this is based on actual events. Unlike most solo performances, hers needs no exaggeration.

Mom's Garage
(Not to be confused with Dad's Garage)
Like all good Silicon Valley women, mom has been making home improvements. The latest project is the garage. Mom's was the last house on the block to have the kind of automatic garage doors that open just like manual ones. She wanted ones that rolled up. Not only that, her doors had to have those little decorative windows. To me, those windows seem a feeble attempt to disguise the fact that the garage is actually a garage and not some beautiful extension of the house. The weekend after her new doors were installed, I visited. I walked in the front door:
"Hey, I like your new garage doors."
Mom looks skeptical:
"Hmm, I don't think I like those windows. In fact, I don't think they're the right windows. I'm going to replace them."
"What's wrong with the windows?" I ask.
"You can see in them."
[Pause]
[Longer pause. I look at her. I try not to snort. I fail. Mom tries employing logic to validate the comment.]
"Well, in the morning the sun hits them just right and you can see in the garage. The garage is a mess, I don't want people seeing that."
Mom's garage is probably the cleanest in the neighborhood.
"You can see all the tools hanging on the wall," she continues, logic failing.
"God forbid the neighbors see tools hanging on the walls of your garage, Mom!"
Mom knows this is a ridiculous exchange, but somewhere in her mind she's convinced that her argument is sound. She'll try to defend it a bit. Look, I bet you she'll even comment. But usually this is the point where she tells me, good naturedly, to shut up.

This weekend, Mom's garage is clean. You can even eat off the floor. I'm not kidding. She had the floor epoxied. I had not heard of this before. Yes, there is epoxy all over the floor. This involved everything from moving trunks of Christmas ornaments into the living room to spending two days without hot water because the fumes in the garage would have launched the water heater into the stratosphere. But now, everything's back in place. Except for her car, which has been sitting in the driveway.
"Well, you could probably put your car back in the garage, Mom."
"No, not yet."
"Why?"
"The car's too dirty."
I'm happy to report that by the time we headed back to San Francisco, the car was returned to its rightful spot.

1,2,3...10!

Tenders in the Fog closed this weekend. What, you mean you didn't leave San Francisco fog to enjoy the respiratory benefits of Rosco fog and dry ice? Just kidding: the fog used in the production is harmless. We checked out the Saturday night performance, which was being filmed by Flying Moose. (AEA: We swear, the only copy will be sitting at SFPALM.) Flying Moose rocks--anytime a major film studio comes knocking on your door, better hope you have a FM DVD to send them. So, Moosehead Jonathan Luskin says, "Hey, I like your blog."
Ah, so someone does read my blog.
Just five minutes later, another hot new SF playwright, Peter Sinn Nachtrieb, shows up. "Hey, I like your blog," he says.
And here I've been writing away, figuring I'm safe in this cloak of unpopularity and a 0 comment count.
So now I'm counting ya'll. Don't think your silence will save you. Send people. The more ya'll show up the more I'll actually write.

I Confess

Yes, I really do create spreadsheets on weeknights.

Just Guest-Starring

While I did check out Finn in the Underworld last night at Berkeley Rep, I've been making more changes to my links than posting. That's because I've been writing this week not only for the usual Stage Fog at SFist, but also for the Bay Guardian. Check it out. ----->

Buy Books

I must be crazy. I spend at least, if I'm lucky, 40 hours a week doing theatre-related work, and then what do I do on the weekends? More theatre writing! And what's my blog about (mostly)? Theatre! No wonder I've been making more changes to my links sidebar and profile than posting. But this weekend it's leftover weekday work, a couple of little reviews and another Stage Fog post for Tuesday morning. Well, Trevor took the car again to San Jose to see Tenders.
But tomorrow, my family wants to see Rain at the Curran, which I'm all for because it's simply delightful. Yes, it's one of the few shows I'm seeing twice. OK, because the first time was a press ticket and this time my mom paid for it because she wants me to go, if only to be the one who drives in downtown SF traffic, which should be just lovely tomorrow with that golf tournament and Fleet Week and god knows what else.
Anyway, buy books. OK, what I mean is that Limelight Books, which has been on Market for 30--count 'em--30 years come January, put out a notice that the landlord raised the rent once again. Now, when Joel took the store over two years ago, he totally saved it. He remodeled it, and turned it all around in a remarkably short time. The landlord raised the rent when he moved in, and she raised it again to the tune of over 100 percent. Now, you all know indie bookstores are having a hard time, so imagine what it's like to be an indie theatre bookstore. Now, when one person at a theatre company heard about this, she said that Theatre Bay Area should get involved and do something. Do something? It's real simple: buy their books! I love how artists love to protest and petition and do all that hard stuff, but really, what they have to do here is patronize the place. Put your money where your mouth is, to lay a cliche. I know we all work for peanuts, or for free, but that doesn't mean for-profit businesses can survive because we really like the idea of them. Look, Limelight isn't getting grant money because of any service they provide the community. And, I'm sorry people, but they can't survive by handing out books for free, or letting you borrow scripts so you can go down the street and photocopy them. You like Limelight and want it around? Buy their books.

Two Mysteries

Shouldn't taking the first couple of steps up a stopped escalator be as easy as taking the first couple of steps up a flight of regular stairs?
Why do people talk on cell phones while using the restroom, especially in public restrooms?

Little Man Strikes Again

Ouch! Family Butchers didn't deserve a sleeping man. Oh, that's harsh. It prompted another prominent theatre director to say to me that the Little Man must be killed. Oh, here comes that debate again.
Well, let me create a little stir: You notice that there's no Little Man on the review of SF Opera's Doctor Atomic. In fact, there hasn't been a Little Man on SF Opera reviews in years. There's a story in the closet.

August Wilson

I'm not going to try to say anything too profound about the death of August Wilson, because there are certainly other people better qualified than me to do so.
But, I'm recalling the time when I met him. It was in Valdez, Alaska, of all places, at an annual theatre conference that Edward Albee was involved in. Albee has since taken his name off the event and it's slipped into obscurity, to put it nicely. Anyway, each year Albee would bring out some of his colleagues, and I was there because Trevor had a play accepted for a staged reading.
Valdez is a small town, like, really small. There was one bar everyone went to, when we weren't at the conference center, and that was the Pipeline. So there was no place for the famous people to hide.
All I remember of August Wilson was at an evening reception. He was sitting outside at a large round table, smoking a pipe or cigar, holding court as about 15 people sat and stood around him. Actually, it was hard to tell if people were hanging around him to listen for some bit of theatre wisdom or if they were trying to take advantage of the secondhand smoke, which kept the incessent Alaskan mosquitoes away. He was kind, happy and gracious--incredibly unpretentious.

Family Butchers

Last night the critics might have wanted to buy into the concept of parallel universes, or cloning. Baby Taj opened at TheatreWorks; The Tempest opened at California Shakespeare Theater; Family Butchers opened at Magic Theatre; and, on top of it all, the world premiere of Doctor Atomic opened at San Francisco Opera. Now, Family Butchers writer Edna O'Brien is a big draw, and she's the bigger draw of all the theatre openings, but I'm afraid she couldn't top the biggest opening of the opera world. No matter, my Doctor Atomic tickets are for later this month. Still, the theatres are usually a bit more careful about scheduling press nights. The Chronicle's Rob Hurwitt suggested my day job should post a list of press nights on our site. OK, add that project to my list. (I should stop being so cloy about my day job, like you all don't know where I work.)
Family Butchers, an American premiere at Magic Theatre, is about an Irish family in the 1970s trying to hold onto their farm, not to mention trying to keep cohesion in their family, admist social turmoil. In other words, it's the typical Irish drama with lots of booze, lots of fighting and the brandishing of a gun. It's like Long Day's Journey into Death of a Salesman. Except, and this is a big except, O'Brien's play looks like a contemporary one, but it undercuts the form in many ways. I'm not going to spoil it by explaining this too much. Let's just say that well-made plays with everything tied up so neatly at the end so we can go home without the unsettling feeling that the universe is somehow off-kilter annoys the heck out of me, yet when confronted with a play that doesn't tie up things so neatly, that suggests dark family secrets yet doesn't confirm them, that ends with the door open and things unresolved, I, well, feel unsettled. It's probably because I've seen way too many plays and have become cynical, have become adept at figuring out what's going to happen in act three based on what's been set up in act one. So, in retrospect, I actually want to go back to the script (so nicely provided in our press kits) and study what she's done, instead of go home, have a cup of tea and go to sleep content.
That said, the play, which is expertly directed by Shakespeare Santa Cruz's artistic director (and excellent actor himself) Paul Whitworth, does have its little quirks. The scenes at times don't transition well. It's like watching boxers stop at the bell and go back to their corners and then come out again, except you don't hear the bell and the boxers don't move. They just start fighting as if no time has passed. With seven actors on the stage, at times, with a full family room set or dining room, some have to fade into the background--or simply get out of the way--until it's their turn to get back into the action. In ways, this is absolutely realistic. But in some ways, I can see that the actors are still finding the transition points, still finding when to access the character's past to go from a tender moment to a crushing one in an instant (I'm thinking of the mother's reaction to Emer's writing, which prompts Emer to leave, or try to leave, the reunion). The cast is quite fantastic, especially Anne Francisco Worden as Emer and Robertson Dean as the father.
Well, the opening night was quite the event, with enough flowing sequined shirts and beaded baubles to...well, flowing sequined shirts, you get the idea. I just tried to stay out of the way of the money. It's quite a dance the Magic must choreograph--to try to stay gritty enough to honor its roots and try to bring in those new-work audiences of the Mission District yet to make enough money to support new work. Of course, Family Butchers is new. But it's also a known quantity with a celeb playwright. I saw more Pac Heights people than Mission District hipsters. Still, it's a good safe way to open the season and make way for the future surprises.
I must add that a contemporary Irish play that didn't include the nearly cliche elements of the drunk patriarch, the slightly crazy mother and the complete breakdown of family would be a welcome surprise indeed. Certainly, with the reinvigoration of Dublin's economy, to name just one example, it's time to end the backlash against plays that romanticize the good ol' country.

Caucasian Chalk Circle

Now that Tenders in the Fog is open, I have my regular theatre date, my "+1," back by my side. Because I've still not completed my project of finding better, nontouristy restaurants in the Union Square area and because we're partial to pubs anyway, we headed to our usual, Foley's. They recently changed their menu, and, philistine that I can be, all I really noticed is that they dropped the hamburger. A pub without a hamburger? Now, I usually go for the fish and chips, but a girl needs her alternatives. Besides, it was the cheapest thing on the menu. Had I not received a ton of "user suggestions" at my day job in response to our new site design, one of which declared that day, "You're new site sucks!," I might have left a suggestion to put the burger back on the menu. But I refrained, hoping that the karma would come around.
Our good friend and incredible theatre artist Mark Jackson is back in town after a year in Berlin to, of course, direct Brecht's The Caucasian Chalk Circle, a production by American Conservatory Theater's MFA students. Anyone expecting something like Jackson's breakaway Death of Meyerhold would be left wanting: he delivered a nearly textbook production but added a few flourishes, which is perfectly acceptable, of course. In fact, I expect that ACT wanted their students to "do Brecht" in that over-the-top alienating way.
Jackson told me in a short interview that Brecht has a lot of heart, but frankly, the only heart I see in the Chalk Circle is that Grusha gets the child and Simon forgives her, which I suppose is enough. When Grusha and Simon reunite at the river, a reunion that quickly goes sour when Simon learns that Grusha has a child and is married, there is no initial glimmer of joy after the hardship of war. This is justified, considering their "courtship" was conducted in the third person. Still, as an audience member, I want to grasp something, and the least Brecht could give me was a bit of a love story. While I understand why Brecht wanted to alienate his audiences, I assume he also wanted them to learn something, and we aren't really doing to learn anything if we are completely disengaged. Not that I was completely disengaged; as a nontypical audience member, I'm not allowed to be.
Well, enough of the pseudo-academia. I'm not really interested in anything other than dragging him off the pedestal a bit.
Mark's direction was excellent, infused with additonal humorous touches (the spear-carrying guards, for one) and, if you were looking for it, a bit of movement referencing Biomechanics. the scene with Grusha crossing the treacherous bridge with child in tow was surprisingly thrilling. A few benches placed askew across the stage on top of cloth signifying water. She crossed tentatively, seeming to lose her balance but regaining it. It really shouldn't have worked because we see the artifice so clearly. But, as Jackson also told me, Brecht loved the theatre of theatre, and here Jackson (and actor Claire Brownell) conveys that, creating a scene that, against the odds, we completely buy into. It may have been because the center bench wobbled a little, introducing an almost real danger. What if the actor really did lose her balance and step onto the cloth? It's an absurd thought, really. But there it was, I wasn't alienated, I was engaged.
Much-deserved kudos to the live musical accompaniment by--the program is unclear, I assume it's composer and musical director David Babich, who beautifully underscored the scenes.
Jackson is spending most of the rest of October back in Berlin, but I'm looking forward to his return and his new work here. A year is much too long without his voice in the conversation.

Changes

I figured you'd all appreciate the larger font.
And, you may have noticed that I change my links categories.
Drop me a line if you'd like me to consider adding your blog.

Tenders in the Fog Opened

Tenders in the Fog is about a banshee that curses the men of the Bailey family, the latest three generations of which are now lost on the fishing boat Trinity, of course.
After the first week or so of rehearsals, the curse wasn't restricted to the men in the script.
The first curse, we'll just call it Burning Man and leave it at that.
The second curse was a death in one of the cast/crew's family, though not entirely unexpected.
At this point, one of the actors started running around the cutaway boat onstage with burning sage.
On the day of the first preview came the third curse, the lightboard crashed. They canceled the preview to rebuild the cues.
So, things come in threes, and there are three men and they're on the Trinity, so I figured the curses were finished. I was right. (So much for building tension.)
My first sight of the show since the reading in January was on the last preview, which went extremely well.
Opening night was exciting and nerve-wracking. The great thing about Trevor's family is that there's so many of them, and by the time you add the significant others, you've filled the first two rows of the house. Basically, they surround the critics. It works out nice that way.
I love this play. Trevor has taken the fugue structures he's been experimenting with for years now and has put them upon a narrative (but not linear) story. It is very difficult for the actors to memorize, but when they do and find the music, it just sings. The banshee/storyteller provides the story, and when she's the banshee, they've reverbed her voice (everyone is miked), so haunting. She also provides some comic relief, and Jessa rocks in the part.
The only slip of the evening was the stage fog, which was strange because the night before it was just fine. When they started using it in rehearsal, it worked as well as a lit cigarette. "It's Tenders in the Fog," Trev emphasized. In one rehearsal, the fog was so thick you couldn't see the actors, which, frankly, is an accurate account of San Francisco fog. But by previews, it all worked fine.
It wasn't really that bad on opening, but at the very end the SF Chronicle critic started fanning himself, and Trevor and I, sitting a couple of rows back, nearly fell out of our seats groaning.
But, the reviews came out, and they're pretty good. I made another cameo in Rob Hurwitt's review (the Chron), this time as the "wife." Really, it makes me laugh.
Also, here's the Metro review. I'd also post the SJ Mercury News, but you have to register and all to read anything on its site.
Support the theatres who produce local playwrights! Especially those who put those plays on the mainstage, and open their season with them. Info and tickets at San Jose Stage.

Dead Can Dance

Let's pretend it's last week, this way my posts can be timely.
Z, a die-hard Dead Can Dance fan, bought tickets for The Paramount Theatre shows the second they went on sale. What better way for her to spend her last night in the country before another jaunt to Europe, and what better way for me to get my mind off Tenders' opening night?
Ah, Dead Can Dance. In my intense ultra-serious grad student days getting, as my sister would say, a master's of fuck-all, in poetry no less, I would lie on the floor and crank them up. These were not human voices, I thought.
After a quick tour of the art deco wonder that's the Paramount, we headed to our seats. "These are great seats," Z said. "Only like 10 rows back." Row Y.
The usher told us to walk down to the stage. I don't think Z really heard that. We passed another usher on the aisle. "Keep going to the stage."
In front of the "regular" front row, they added two rows of movable chairs. The first was row X. The second was row Y. We were in the center, right under the angelic Lisa.
Z started hyperventilating.
Now that I look at this, it all makes some sort of sense. The universe likes logic and order. Of course Z bought tickets for row Y.
The place was sold out. The band came out to thunder, and then you could, as the cliche goes, hear a pin drop. Lisa started singing, and halfway through the first song everyone around me was in tears. The band didn't talk between songs, except to say that one song "went to the top of the charts in 1461" or some such year. And Lisa said "You're fabulous" after the last encore. But other than that, they didn't break the trance. It was surreal to see her, I couldn't believe that voice was coming from that body. It was all beautiful and fabulous, and I never want to see them again, that concert was so perfect.