PIEDMONT LAUREATE    

Last week, JUDE THE OBSCURE ended its four week run at Burning Coal Theatre Company, marking the end of an almost two year process. After months of writing and workshops and weeks of particularly concentrated rehearsal, everything came down to fifteen performances. And then, in twenty-four hours, the massive set, the dozens of costumes, the talent and brilliance of a score of other artists was cleared out and the theatre returned to its natural state: the black box. The blank canvas.

This is in stark contrast to the life of other written works. When a novel or an essay is written, it enters into a sort of immortality. As long as any copy of that writing exists, a reader can stumble upon it and enter immediately into conversation with the author, no matter what time or distance separates them. Not so with a play. While a script and perhaps a score may remain after a production finishes its run, that script is not the same as that production, any more than a set of blueprints is the same as a house. The former is a set of instructions, the latter is a completed work. Blueprints will not keep out the rain or keep you warm in winter.

And in some ways, a script is even less than that. Two contractors given the same blueprints will likely build two houses that are functionally identical. Two theatre companies, on the other hand, may create vastly different productions of the same script. And while those houses may last for decades, a permanent realization of the architect’s vision, the vast majority of theatrical productions have a limited run, and then are dispersed. A script is not an immortal tome, but a blueprint for a house of flowers: constructed of whatever is currently in bloom, and swept away as soon as the petals lose their luster.

But to me, this is a cause to rejoice. I believe the most precious things in life are the most ephemeral. Their transitory nature forces us to appreciate them while we have them, and gives us ample opportunity to reflect on them after they are gone. As mortal creatures, we cling to those things which seem lasting, but the greatest wonder comes from that which passes away. A soap bubble’s fragile rainbow would lose all magic if it had to be popped with an ice pick. Sunset’s fire inspires us because we know night follows so quickly after.

So I welcome the close of JUDE in the same breath that I mourn it. There are elements that last, of course. New friends, and new appreciation for the skills of old friends. Indelible memories and images. And certainly the script and score persist, perhaps to give life to a new Jude in the future. Not the same Jude, who I was privileged to know only a very short time, but someone quite like him, with his own needs and ideals. Perhaps what a script is most like is a phoenix. Its life must end, often in a blaze of fire. But in the ashes, a new egg is left behind. And in the meantime, what is left? That most exciting of vistas: the black box. The blank canvas.

It has been a whirlwind of a month. After spending a week in London, I returned to Raleigh and dove right into the opening weeks of JUDE THE OBSCURE, PARTS 1 & 2, which opened at Burning Coal Theatre Company, and for which I provided the script. The opening week of a show is always fraught, there are always changes you wish you'd made, there is always too little time. This is the way theatre happens. I'm certain that Sophoclese was considering revisions to Oedipus Rex and questioning the height of the periaktoi hours before the great Festival of Dionysus in Athens. JUDE has been a particular challenge because it was really the opening of two separate, full-length plays, sharing a cast, but each wih its own script, score and technical requirements.

Through this inevitable tempest however, the show inevitably arises: poised, calm, ready for an audience. It is nothing short of a miracle, and always staggers observers unfamiliar with the process. That so many pieces have to be brought together in so little time in those last few days is staggering. No matter how well prepared the show, there are elements that simply cannot be introduced until the last moment, usually because of cost. This makes the last week a maelstrom of props, cues and other theatrical detritus.

But the deadlines are hard and fast. When you have advertised an opening on a given date, when you have sold tickets, there is no option to delay. The show must go on. It’s not just a cliché, but the fundamental understanding of any theatre artist. It is carved into our psyche. A theatre artist enters into a sacred compact, not just with his audience, but with his other creators. To miss an opening would be a betrayal of all of their work. And so, for all the chaos, the job is done. Somehow.

The great directors (and I have been privileged to work with Jerome Davis, who has certainly earned the title) understand this. They know that the chaos is part of the process, and they face it with a wry patience. This too shall pass. To behave otherwise, to give in to the panic or hand-wringing that is a natural response, only feeds the flames and makes it more difficult for the show to find its footing. It does, and it will, almost inevitably, but the calmer a director is, the more swiftly the transformation occurs.

And then, as if by magic, the transformation comes. It may be the night before opening. It may be opening night, or even the second night of the run. But the show goes on. And sooner rather than later, all the insoluble problems are solved. Each company member realizes what responsibilities are required of them to make the whole. And without fail, when that realization occurs, they rise to the challenge. This is what makes me respect actors and technicians so much. When they realize that others are depending upon them, there is nothing they cannot do.

I’m sometimes asked about the most valuable lesson I have learned working in theatre. I think this is it. That people want to do their best, and when entrusted with responsibility, when faced with great odds and clearly informed “Only you can make this happen,” they will rise to the challenge. It is a quality that can best be described as “heroism,” but it doesn’t require war or tragedy or a Hollywood soundtrack. It can be seen almost every weekend, somewhere in the Triangle, whenever a theatre company opens a show. And it is seen, with utter clarity, in the ceaseless effort of the cast and crew of JUDE THE OBSCURE. I am very, very fortunate to have such heroes in my life.

This week was very special.  It marked a moment I look forward to with giddy anticipation whenever I’m developing a new play: the day I get to see the poster for the first time. 

Sure, there are other, perhaps more significant moments.  The day I’m able to type “The lights fade to black. End Play.”  The glorious and terrifying first read-through.  And of course the thrill of opening night.  But the poster is special because it represents the first time I get to see in a concrete way what other artists are going to bring to the production.    It is always surprising, and immensely gratifying.

The poster in this case is for the adaptation of Thomas Hardy’s JUDE THE OBSCURE I am currently working on with Burning Coal Theatre Company. It’s a big play, actually two plays, which will be performed in repertory this April.  It was co-written with Jerome Davis and features music by Bruce Benedict and Jonathan Fitts.   It’s a big play, and it has therefore given me many opportunities to collaborate with many incredible artists.

It often surprises those who don’t work in the theatre just how many people are involved in a production.  JUDE is particularly large, involving fourteen actors, a director and three assistant directors, a production stage manager and three assistants, five  designers to visualize the world, multiple technicians to realize those designs, musical directors and musicians, composers and lyricists, a dialect coach, a dramaturg and, of course, the artist who designed that vaunted poster (Simmie Kastner in this case, whose striking designs have been a hallmark of Burning Coal’s productions).

It’s tremendously exciting, as I’ve said, to see what each of these artists bring to a script, and from the poster on through the rehearsal process I’m often like a kid in a candy store, beaming stupidly at each new element.  However, there is another side to the process as well, one that I don’t think I’m alone in noticing.  It’s exciting, yes, but also daunting.  With such talented artists involved, I always wonder if the script I’ve written is up to their standard.  Is what I’ve written worth the investment of these artists?   I suppose that their willingness to work on the play is proof of their interest, but I think it’s a fairly natural response to wonder.  It’s a very odd thought, when you step back to look at it: that a collection of words a writer put on a page sitting in a Starbucks should mobilize such a large and skillful group of people.  Ultimately though, the delight of seeing these artist’s contributions outweighs the anxiety.  The rehearsal process remains thrilling.  And then there’s that poster.

This week  is the 200^th anniversary of two of Raleigh’s most august institutions: First Baptist Church of Salisbury Street and First Baptist Church of Wilmingston Street.  These churches, two of the four historic churches that surround the old state capitol in the center of Raleigh, share an intimate and fascinating history.  To me, that means they are ripe material for a play.

Burning Coal Theatre Company’s unique “Our Histories” series of plays was started specifically to create drama that celebrates and explores the history around us.  Seven years ago, Burning Coal’s Artistic Director Jerome Davis came to me with a captivating idea: To write a play based on the lives of those buried at Historic Oakwood Cemetery,  a play that would be performed in the cemetery itself.  Besides providing the narrative, the cemetery would also supply the very architecture of the play.  The set would not be a reconstruction on a stage, but would be the place itself, alive with the sounds and smells of the South.    It was a compelling idea, and audiences were enthralled.  Since then, the “Our Histories” program has given me the opportunity to write scripts about numerous places and times.  TWO BUILDINGS/ONE HEART: TWO HUNDRED YEARS OF FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH, written for their bicentennial this week, is the latest of these plays.

One of the questions I’m most frequently asked is what it takes to turn history into drama.  The writing always begins with research, a process that benefits from involving many different people and perspectives.  For this most recent play, that research included discussions with members of both congregations about their experience in the church, as well as textual exploration guided by the excellent Carolyn Dickens, Anne Bullard and Randy Bazemore.  Further research was done along with Jerry Davis and Rebecca Wyrick (who are talented writers themselves and have contributed additional scenes to the new play).

Inevitably, for all of the “Our Histories” plays, research will also include a dip into Elizabeth Reid Murray’s two-volume history of Wake County.  Exhaustively researched and amazingly complete,  her books touch on every aspect of the area’s history, and are the gold-standard for local history.  But what makes her books most valuable to me are her numerous footnotes. It is in these asides that the stageable stories tend to be hidden.

To work as a play, after all, a story needs two qualities.  The first is some sort of conflict, whether that be a literal argument, a difference between two points of view, or a tension between an individual and their society.  Without this “agon,” as the first dramatists called it, a scene has no way to develop.  Just as important however in historical writing is uniqueness and novelty; the  unusual detail or unexpected twist.  These elements, the surprising bits of trivia usually relegated to the footnotes, both ground historical writing in specific detail and also give it a sense of liveliness. Every historical play I’ve written has included incidents that seem utterly unbelievable, too good (or too tragic) to be true.  History, it turns out, is the most creative storyteller of all. 

The history of the two First Baptist Churches in Raleigh is just as full of this surprising, poetically resonant incident.  Founded in 1812 within the old statehouse, First Baptist Church was originally an integrated congregation, serving both white and black  members.  It was not until 1868 that the church divided into two separate congregations, each retaining the name First Baptist Church.  And after various perambulations to different sites, the two churches built their beautiful sanctuaries on opposite corners of Union Square, facing the old capiitol where they originated.

It is a story of remarkable grace and symmetry, a story almost too good to be true, generously supplied  by History.  It is exactly the sort of footnote moment that makes writing historical drama so worthwhile, and which I’m looking forward to most in this week’s performances.

TWO BUILDINGS/ONE HEART: TWO HUNDRED YEARS AT FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH will be performed 7:00pm Friday 3/2 and Saturday 3/3, 2:00pm Saturday 3/3 and Sunday 3/4 at First Baptist Church Wilmington & Salisbury Streets.  For details, including starting locations for each performance, visit www.burningcoal.org

Drama is needy.  This is one of the biggest differences between a script and other kinds of writing.  A novel or an essay is a finished product, waiting for an audience.  On the other hand, scripts aren’t meant to be read, but performed.  They are inherently unfinished.  A play needs actors, absolutely, and usually designers, technicians, a directing team and others to bring it to life.  Drama is needy, and I love it.

I love the fact that a script can bring together a diverse set of artists, each contributing to the final play.  And I love that through this process characters that had only existed in the author’s head become flesh and blood.  To me, this is the most exciting part of theatre: seeing living, breathing characters, brought to life by actors, where there had previously been only words.

It is therefore a great honor and joy for me when I have the opportunity to perform myself.  Though I’m primarily a playwright, I sometimes have the chance to act as well.  This weekend, Burning Coal Theatre Company opened their production of MAN OF LA MANCHA, in which I’m playing one of the muleteers (the show runs through February 19, details at www.burningcoal.org).  It’s a small, fun role, and has given me the opportunity to observe the creation of character from the other side of the page.

And it has been thrilling to watch!  This cast of LA MANCHA is one of the most talented groups of people I’ve ever worked with, and I am particularly in awe of the three leading performers, David Henderson (Sancho), Yolanda Rabun (Aldonza) and Randolph Curtis Rand (Don Quixote).   Being involved in the process has reminded me of the multiple sources of characterization.   A song, a specific physicality, even a costume element can be the foundation of an actor’s character choices, and the way that those choices interact with the script is what makes a production more than the sum of its parts.

A writer can never know the varied influences that an actor will bring to a role.  To allow this to happen, the writer must relinquish some control of the character.  But in doing so, the character is allowed to  come to life.  When Dale Wasserman wrote MAN OF LA MANCHA, he would not have foreseen the boyish wonder David brings to Sancho or the soulful gravitas Yoland lends to Aldonza.  He would not have expected the combination of elaborate physical comedy and penetrating insight Randy gives to Don Quixote.  These are the gifts that great actors bring to the playwright.  And all of theatre is enriched by them.