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I saw the President charge the people for a wall, and we put it by. Then he charged it to us again, and we put it by again. And then he charged it the third time. We put it the third time by. At end, he suffered a compromise in name but scorned it in spirit, claiming undue power from the façade of a crisis and charging us regardless of our outcry. We have a word for a leader who unduly consolidates power: Dictator. In ancient Rome, this was a title conferred by the legislature, and they customarily resigned after the crisis had passed to avoid abuse of power. The office was abolished after Julius Caesar*, who refused to step down after his term ended. Sidebar: Caesar was not technically a dictator, the title having been retired before his time, but instead embodied an evolution of the role. He represented an “extraconstitutional office with virtually unlimited power,” meant to “restore the republic” (a sentiment with disturbing resonance today). For those new to the story of Julius Caesar, I refer you to Shakespeare’s classic play. I’d say to go skim it and then come back, but it’s not exactly a quick read. So spoiler alert, I guess? Reader beware, I guess? The parallels between our current head of state and good ol’ Jules run deeper, too. Shakespeare’s language seems eerily prescient. Just listen to some of Caesar’s lines. About the soothsayer who foretells Caesar’s downfall and is brusquely dismissed: He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. As a certain contingent clings to a diminishingly white America, can anyone say DACA? After taking power: Let me have men about me that are fat My mind turns to the administration’s ceaseless hiring-and-firing, the investigation into the campaign’s corruption, forgotten promises to drain the swamp, and The Daily Show’s Trump bingo card.
Students of history or theatre know what follows such a power grab. The rest can probably guess. Beware the Ides, Mr. President. Your hubris will be your downfall.
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The hallway stretches before you, darkness creeping into the well-lit lobby as if testing the boundaries of its domain. Somewhere distant, a fuzzy scarlet glow cuts the murk from a side room, brightening as you and your classmates approach. You turn the corner and the confines of the passage fall away, the ceiling rising out of sight. Before you, sharply silhouetted by a strong red light, a still figure grasps a hanging rope in each hand, loops at the end holding his bare feet. Suspended, seemingly separate from the Earth, he is unaware of your approach; then, almost imperceptibly at first, he begins to sway, left and right, gaining speed and height with each pass. Dum de dum-dummm Back and forth. A faint vocalization pricks your ears. Dum de dummmmmm It’s familiar. The tune tickles a memory, but it escapes immediate definition. Dum de dum-dummmmm Ahhhh. Yes. There it is. Dum de dum, dum, dum This fool is singing the theme to Indiana Jones. A low chuckle rumbles through the watchers. His exaltation rises, seemingly without limit, when his energy is suddenly captured by a new sight. His swinging slows and stops and you follow his gaze to an apple on the floor. With painful caution, he lowers himself in his ropes until he hangs almost horizontal. Straining his neck, he bites at the apple, only to find it just out of reach. He tries again, and once more, to no avail. Gathering a surge of energy, he lunges at his quarry – only to knock it into the realm of the clearly unattainable. His eyes crinkle. His body sags in the ropes. He dangles, drained. Defeated. Prompt: Introduce Yourself. Discovery: You’re a different person every time you say “Hello.” This is the fourth installment in Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art.
Darkness envelops you, the only illumination a low slice of red cutting across the stage, casting the suspended figure in harsh scarlet relief. His feet rest in rope loops just a few inches above the floor, head hanging on his bare chest, hands gripping his tethers. You and your classmates shuffle in, halting a decent distance away, and his gaze slowly rises to meet yours. This is the third installment in Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art. As with the last piece featured in this series, this performance was tailored for an audience of one.
There are many feelings and activities intrinsic to the collegiate library, and many which are taboo. Focus, not distraction. Peace, not disruption. Despair, not mirth. Everything has its proper place and upsetting that order earns piercing glares and punitive tsks. So it goes with Burling Library, a squat grey brick of a building with an adorable addition reminiscent of a top hat. You weave your way through the stacks to an open study area at the rear of the first floor, taking a chair placed for you between two shelves. You survey the room for a short second, wondering for a moment how the students with their brows in their books will behave once the antics commence, before movement flickers in your peripheral vision. The performance has begun. I start this installment of Stories From The Strange Side with a short preface: this performance was created for an audience of one and crafted to make the most out of that shift in the performer-audience relationship. The contract has changed. Proceed, informed.
The theatre lobby is empty when you arrive. No performer, no seating; it doesn’t look like anything has been changed at all. Looking around, your gaze falls upon a note taped to the floor, inscribed with an arrow, pointing to another and another beyond; it appears your intrepid host has left a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow. Seems you’ll have to work for this performance. This is the first installment of a series of posts I’m calling Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art. You wait with your classmates outside the green room. The seconds tick by without marker, a soft hum sneaking out from behind the closed door. Feet shuffle, gazes shift as the waiting continues. Shuffle, shuffle, shift. Finally, the hum stops and the electronic cry of a microwave calls you to enter; the performance will begin now. The professor opens the door, which creaks slightly—maintenance should really get on that—and the class files into the darkness beyond. In the seconds before the door shuts, you’re struck by the emptiness of the small room before -click- the closing door cuts off the light from the hall, leaving you in blackness. Once more the seconds tick by without marker, save your classmates’ breathing. He entered, where is he, room’s empty did I miss something. Doubts begin to run through your head but, dear viewer, they are soon put to rest. With a pop, a cold white light shoves back the shadows as the refrigerator door eases opens, revealing the curled, white-clad form of your lost classmate in his KitchenAid cryogenic pod. He steps out carefully, tentatively, peering with fresh eyes, and pads his way to an orange and pocketknife arranged on the table. Cast in harsh contrast by the frigid illumination, he kneels before the table, unfurls the knife’s sturdy blade, and with cruel precision incises the fleshy fruit once, twice, and shoves a whole slice into his mouth. A moment passes, and he raises his eyes to yours. His lips pull up in an orange-peel grin and, suddenly animated, he sprints out of the room, the hall’s warmth flashing for a moment before he leaves you behind, truly alone. Prompt: Introduce yourself to the class. You may not use words. Discovery: I can fit inside a standard fridge, so long as I think curly thoughts. Disclaimer: Sorry for the scattered nature of this post. I’m on the verge of moving to Chicago and my mind is all over the place.
Theatre is an art. Theatre is a discipline. Theatre occupies the intersection of academic and emotional, of public and personal. But I’ve been recently thinking about theatre as something more—as a way of life. What lessons does theatre teach me that I take into the everyday slog? How can theatre help us get through a terrible Monday? It opens us to new ways of mourning, celebrating, dealing, healing, if we let it. It’s time for me to start thinking about next steps. Past time, probably, but there were other variables that needed to settle into place before I could make meaningful progress. Suffice to say, they have settled, and now I turn my eye to…what? Where do I go from here? For the first time in my life, I am being truly cut free. Even after I graduated, I stuck around my alma mater for a year working. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore my job and I have learned so much during this year. But now this year is up, and it’s time for me to move on. Move on where, you might ask? Ain’t that the million-dollar question.
Expansion. Discovery. For me, exploration is the essence of acting, and I’m always on the lookout for opportunities I haven’t had, roles I haven’t played in situations I haven’t experienced. Of course, as is the case with any actor, my personality and instincts are more suited to a particular type of character. In my case, at least in the younger pool of academic theatre, that happens to be somber father figures in their 50s and 60s (I’ve been told I have ‘gravitas’). But, as I’m hoping to find work as a young actor, playing men more than twice my age over and over hasn’t been the most relevant experience. I’ve got the “stand-still-with-hands-in-suit-pockets-and-look-severe” pose down, but for a while I’ve yearned to branch out, play different characters. I recently got that chance, when I played Caliban in The Tempest. This is his story.
A friend of mine recently asked me to answer some queries to help her with her capstone project at Earlham College, a Quaker-affiliated institution. They were about the relationship between Quakerism and theatre—and as I am both a Quaker and an actor, I volunteered to help out. These queries were really thought-provoking, and after asking permission, I decided to use them as the basis for this blog post.
It’s a wonderful feeling, when you realize that you enjoy your vocation enough to make it a hobby as well. This is the story of my first experience with that warm glowy sensation. This is the story of The Bear.
The Bear happened the summer after I had just returned from the London Dramatic Academy, the program where I’d studied acting the previous spring. I had learned so much and wanted to try out my newfound skills; I was itching for some acting. Fortunately for me, my friend Liv from high school had a similar craving. Early in the summer, we resolved that before we went back to school we would put on a play. It was a few weeks before we got any traction on it. When we finally got moving, the first thing we did was pick our show. Liv got in contact with a director friend in Canada and, on his recommendation, we landed on Chekhov’s The Bear. It was perfect—there was love and loathing and scandal and a duel, manageable in a summer but with enough substance to make it engaging. Through the power of our irresistible charm, we managed to get Mrs. Flara, our old high school director, on board. Now all we needed was a space. The following is a rough transcript of our decision process: |
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