My parents did not go to church…not that they were atheists…I suppose it’s just that both found what they’d have required from church, in the theatre. Communion, compassion, inspiration, humanity, hope, faith in a great power, a deeper understanding in what life was about in a communal setting. Not sure what else. I forgot to ask but they loved it, partook and shared that profound love with both their daughters. It was the family glue. Big surprise, my sister became a writer and I became an actress.
It’s autumn…so like many I’ve found my way to a city famous for the season…New York. I happened to be doing a play here this fall…we’ll get to that. Now that my limited run is over, I’ve had the chance this week to see several plays and I’m the better for it.
One of the things I learned during covid…what with all live events having been cancelled for what was it…well over a year?… is that I had taken going to the theatre for granted. I’d been going all my life, either by being in the audience or on the boards, so why would it ever go away? Surprise! In that dark ages void I realized that I’d always relied on theatre to process much of life. It’s where I’d learned a lot about the power of words, what it might be like to be homeless, a cowboy, a monarch, a drunk, an infidel, a saint, a murderer, a doctor, an astronaut. I’d seen families fight, lovers re-connect, a person find their way out of an impossible bind, or live with the unsolvable, fall in love. By seeing how others dealt with life’s rapids, I’d learned a lot about mankind and myself, learned a lot about how to reason and untangle life. Not being able to go to theatre was like suddenly not being able to dream. One of the key processing tools in life had been taken away. Lesson learned. All that to say I’ve been particularly overjoyed these last couple of weeks, to go to a lot of theatre. Here are a couple of experiences worth noting.
The accomplished American actor and clown Bill Irwin is leading the cast in his adaptation of Moliere’s, The Imaginary Invalid this autumn at the Roundabout. First of all…what a monumental undertaking. Chapeau. It’s light, frothy, risk taking and presented by a delicious cast of facile actors. Reviews, for what they’re worth, have apparently been mixed but as a long term fan of Irwin’s, I’d wanted to go. I was enjoying the ride, impressed, amused even as the production was unfolding but a part of me was not fully engaged. Then suddenly as if by a magic trick I found it had caught my emotions off guard…Yippee the wicked stepmother was booted out. Yippee…the ingenue was going to marry her true love. Yippee the hero was redeemed.
Then came the epilogue in which Irwin broke the fourth wall and spoke directly to the audience. Paraphrasing…sorry…but basically in the spirit of Moliere, he imparted that the silly, the fun, the leaving of ourselves behind for an hour had binded us together. He had poked fun at himself, in the watching of it we had allowed ourselves to be poked fun at too. That for all our differences, we’d shared an experience. Black out.
Soon as the stage lights came up for the curtain call, the audience bolted to their feet, in my case with tears running down my cheeks, stirred by the truth of his words. We had willingly been tricked into experiencing our own humanity…together.
Wynton Marsalis’ Jazz Orchestra performed a tribute to Afro Cuban Roots in Rose Hall at his Jazz at Lincoln Center. It’s a stunning venue, one I have more than once had the privilege of performing in. Pinch me. The anticipation was tangible as the house lights dimmed. Then, here they came onto the stage…each musician a maestro in their own right…onto the stage to take their places to thunderous applause. How many dedicated decades of tireless practice, I wondered, did they represent?
It felt like an evening of time travel… ancient rhythms on gorgeous congas…on top of which was layered wailing brass, zinging strings of piano and bass, massively soulful voices in intricate jazz variations to make one. We time traveled to African savannahs, felt the heartbeat of the planet, birth, death and sunrise. They awoke all our ancestral DNA and we, the Muslim, WASP, Madison Avenue elite, Jew, struggling artist, banker, young and old…were one.
Billy Crystal’s familial home burned to the ground in 15 minutes in the 2025 Palisades fire. Later that same year his dearest friend, Rob Reiner and wife were slaughtered. Crystal decided to write a one man show about it and do it on Broadway.
Years ago, I’d gone to see the one man play he crafted about an earlier tragedy in his life, the untimely demise of his father. It was called 700 Sundays because at some point Crystal realized that was how many Sundays he had had with his Dad. I didn’t grow up in NY, I don’t like baseball and yet by the end of his performance his aunts and uncles were mine and I was a rabid Yankees fan. I learned the power of one man standing alone on the stage, telling his truth.
Even anticipating his brilliance, I was not close to prepared for what unfolded at the Imperial Theatre last week. I belly laughed for the better part of two hours along with everyone else lucky enough to be in that packed house and cried too. He did not say everything was all ok now after such catastrophic losses, but he did show us that with love, laughter, patience, gratitude he could and therefore come what may, we could… get through it…all. I’ve ever taken in so many life lessons in one evening.
A Few Good Men by Aaron Sorkin has been revived at Lincoln Center. With wars afoot at the hands of a renegade president, a Department of Defense suffering under the heinous whims of a grossly unqualified Secretary, this play is timely to say the least. Sorkin owns the audience at every turn with high stakes, surprises, he draws us in with alarming precision. Everything about it and everyone in it is good, really good. Seen through today’s lens we were on the edge of our seats watching justice in a fight for its life. There’s no spoiler alert needed as we all know the story but suffice to say that when the marines are given a dishonorable discharge in the final moments of the play for “conduct unbecoming” you could feel a wave of energy roll through the audience. Relief that justice won the day.
A dear friend of mine who happens to be an atheist, was drafted into the Vietnam War in the 60’s. He declared himself a conscientious objector on moral grounds. At the time there was no such legal provision…a soldier could only object on religious grounds. He was put in jail for two years…much of the time in solitary confinement. He was 18. That’s moral fortitude. With huge effort he won the attention of some high powered attorneys and together they got the law changed…which is to say a soldier is allowed to not go into battle if s/he morally objects. All service members ofcourse also have sworn to obey the Constitution. Sorkin shows this ethos in practice in a court of law. I do not know the head count but there are many US service members currently serving who have refused to follow commands in the last few months on moral grounds. I cannot imagine the courage they called on. God bless them each. May more follow this conduct becoming.
A musical is underway downtown called Midnight. I didn’t like it…in some ways I was offended by it. It was too loud, too long by atleast an hour, redundant, the overly rangy melody lines were exhibitionistic, I could only understand about 20% of the lyrics, it preached. That said I’m glad to have experienced it. The display of commitment, energy and talent by each company member was staggering. The next time anyone speaks of the younger generation as not having a good work ethic, I’m now forever armed with a solid contradiction to their claim by the sheer wattage that company of young artists created on that stage.
Also, the story was about something. It charges the audience with breaking through prejudice on all levels…and rightly puts the responsibility on us. Todrick Hall, stars, wrote, composed and directed. His vision, heart and skill are epic. The redundancy, however for my taste, undercut the message…the audience was ahead of the lesson by a mile and that had me squirming in my seat. My two pals, of similar vintage, were as well. We were however by far the minority. The house was packed with a young audience…mid 20’s-40’s. It really spoke to them, landed on them. Many if not most of the cast were very active in social media and made their way up not through conservatory or regionals…but on television competition shows. It’s a new world and I’d best get used to it.
I’ll wrap up with giving mention of our own certainly by comparison, modest autumn in NY theatre offering. It was a play by Sharon Scott Williams, Crazy Mama – A True Story of Love and Madness… gorgeous autobiographical memory play of her shattered childhood after her beloved Mother suffered a massive psychotic break when Sharon was just 8 years old. It takes place in Virginia, right where my maternal kin were from. There are 16 characters in it…Sharon as an adult, as a child, her brother, Mother, Father, aunties, neighbors, etc. but as it’s a one woman play, they were all played by in this case, me. Also we had musical interludes performed between chapters I’ll call them…Bluesman, performed by the shaman like, kick ass singer, Will Huse. After every show some one or more persons would come up to Will and/or me to share, stranger to stranger, something of their own journeys with mental illness. Their spouse, parent, child…themselves. Sharon’s play hit a nerve, allowed some to speak and share and hopefully…feel a little less alone.
One night, we had three African American women sitting in the front row. Between the four of us I’d say our ages ranged from 25 – 80. Before long, they were chiming in with and occasional “Oh yes.” or “Amen”. Astonishingly right before daddy whips little Sharon one of the ladies said, “Here it comes.” There was knowing in her voice. Normally audible words from the audience are unwelcomed. Not so that night…these ladies were leaning in, taking the ride… in total solidarity with the character of Sharon. ..and, they took us all to church.
The last line of the play is, “My Mama came back because that’s what…” then I would draw breath before I said the last two words … “Mama’s do.” That night, in that breath one of the women boomed, “Mama’s do.”, before I could say it. It was all I could do to keep from running over and hugging her. As I left the theatre on that balmy night, the three of them were standing on the street corner. I went to them and we fell into an embrace. We only exchanged a few words, not many were needed. They shared that they were from the south, that they had had between them a grandmother, a sister, and a daughter who had been institutionalized. Whatever barriers could have existed between us, there were none whatsoever in that moment. I’m mortified to say this, its an awkward and uncomfortable realization, but it is the first time as a white actress I felt I’d been afforded the opportunity to unconditionally connect with an African-American audience member. Because mental illness is color blind, Sharon’s story is too and we four connected in real time on a street corner in Manhattan because of the telling. My take away from this autumn in New York was that breakthroughs to real connections and deeper understandings and solidarities happen in and through the healing theatre arts. I hope, dear reader, that you can get to the theatre soon.
