(APPLAUSE) Welcome to the American Theatre
Wing seminars on “Working in the Theatre." These are coming to you from the Graduate
Center of the City University of New York. I’m Isabelle Stevenson. I’m President of the Wing, and I am very
pleased to be able to welcome you here to these seminars, which tend to give you a behind
the scenes look of what it is to work in the theatre. We are an organization that has gone on for
many, many years, serving the community through the theatres. We are founders of the Tony Awards, and we
are indeed proud of that. But we are much more than just the Tony Awards. We work year-round to serve the community
through the theatres. We have a hospital program that brings young
people and people from the theatre, from the cabarets, to the hospitals, so that those
who can not go to the theatre get to see theatre. We have a program called “Introduction to
Broadway,” which has brought some 70,000 young high school students to the Broadway
theatre. These are students from the high schools of
the five boroughs of New York City, and we work along with the Education Department of
New York City. We have a new programs, called “Theatre
in Schools.” And that brings into the classrooms those
that work in the theatre, to discuss what it is to work in the theatre, from press agents
to poster artists, to every facet of the theatre, so that these young people in the theatre
will know the whole of the theatre. These seminars came out of the Wing’s school. There was a program that the Government had
started, during the Second World War, and it was for returning vets to be able to re-learn
their craft. And out of that come these seminars, so that
we give you a behind the scenes look of every facet of working in the theatre. I hope you will enjoy today’s program, which
is on the Playwright/Director and Lyricists. And I would like now to introduce to you the
panel. I can’t go from left to right, I’m just
going to go as we see it. Douglas Carter Beane, AS BEES IN HONEY DROWN. Mark Brokaw, HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE. And Bill Russell, SIDE SHOW. And Paula Vogel, HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE. And our esteemed co-moderators, George White,
who is President of the O’Neill Foundation and a director, and Brendan Gill, who is a
member of the Board of Directors of the American Theatre Wing, and esteemed as he is, not only
for New Yorker, but as a good citizen around town. Will you please now take over, quickly? (LAUGHTER) Thank you for being here. (APPLAUSE) Well, I’m going to start by asking Paula
a question. Since you indicated that this is going to
be dramaturgical mudwrestling (BRENDAN LAUGHS) today, let’s start it. Actually, what I’d like to do is have you
tell us about your background and how you got started and when you first started having
these strange feelings of writing plays. And writing plays, okay. So you know, your background and that. Yeah. Well, at the time that I started writing plays,
it wasn’t very possible to be a woman playwright, at the end of the sixties. There weren’t very many women playwrights. And the reason that I started writing was
because I really, really am terrible as an actress. (LAUGHTER) At that point in time, if you fell
in love with the theatre, you were supposed to act. And I’m really bad. And I kept trying and trying and trying, and
out of despair, it was equally difficult to be a woman director at the end of the sixties. And I then just thought, “Well, I’ll start
trying to write.” But for me, and I’m going to toss this out
here, I had an older brother who died ten years ago from AIDS, who was quite brilliant. He was supposed to be the writer in the family. Wrote novels, wrote poetry. And you know how, in a family, as siblings,
you never do what your older sibling is doing? And I started thinking about theatre as not
as literary a form as the novel or as the poem. And I started telling myself that playwriting
was actually not writing, that it was all right to write a play because basically, I
was writing the script, but that actors and directors would actually be writing the production,
so I wasn’t really a writer. I was writing a scenario. I was writing a structure. I was writing an excuse for us all to get
together in a room. And therefore, it would be permissible for
me to write plays, whereas it would not be permissible for me to compete with my older
brother in the writing of novels. Wonderful. That’s extraordinary. And in some sense, of course, it’s always
been true, the degree to which a play is, as you say, not written, but re-written. And of course, even Shakespeare was gathered
around, and they were interpolating and trying this and trying that, depending on the actors
who were going to be present. Right, right. And something emerged from all that. But it’s thrilling to think that you were
avoiding so much in order to go right to a target that would be your career. (LAUGHTER) Boy, what a good way to aim at
things. Well, I don’t know if it works perfectly. Well, your play does. Well, my play is my twenty-second play, and
I’ve been writing since age eighteen, and I’m about to turn forty-six. Now, this is very much the trajectory, I think,
for a woman playwright. And one of the things that I’ve been dedicating
the last twelve years of my life [to] is to make sure that it’s a shorter trajectory
for my women playwriting students than it has been for me. The other thing that now, actually, I am disturbed
about, the very reason that I thought, “Well, I can enter theatre because it’s not the
novel. I can do theatre because it’s not a poem,”
is that we need to start elevating and respecting our own critical discourse as we talk about
plays. One of the things that was very disturbing
a couple of years ago, I don’t know if people read this, was an article by Paul Berman,
saying that movies were really where serious people went to see the issues of our time. And that nothing in theatre approached the
truth of the movie. And when you stop and think about it, we have
a brain drain right now, where the serious discourse is going to film. And one of the things that I would like to
see is to stop that brain drain, to take ourselves seriously, to say that writing a play is as
high a literary form as writing a film or writing a novel. What is the product that he’s talking about? Yeah. Maybe brilliant young people are going to
write screenplays instead of plays, but the product doesn’t demonstrate that. But here’s the irony right now. Can we talk about this? At City University of New York or NYU or wherever
you’re from, colleagues, academics, will give more respect in deconstructing ATTACK
OF THE KILLER TOMATOES than they will THREE TALL WOMEN, for example. There is a bias among intellectuals against
theatre. I really think this is true. Maybe that’s because they don’t go to
it. I think that that may be it! I do think that that may be it. But it’s a really serious concern right
now, that young writers are saying, “Well, I’ll go and write a video. I’ll do a video,” instead of “I’ll
write a play.” And that’s something that really is alarming
to me. Now, you’re actually doing both. How do you do that? I do it all! Yeah, yeah, okay. (LAUGHTER) So how do you feel about that? I mean, the fact remains, why do I choose
to write theatre, when certainly I can write a movie and make so much more money and have
a really nice house and have really supersexy friends with really great names? (LAUGHTER) Gee, I already like it better! I love it, it’s my life! The thing about film writing, and I’ve done
it about six times now, and gearing towards seven. The thing about film writing is that there
are thousands of people who live in Los Angeles County and their job is to “save” your
writing. It is their job to make it better, to make
it palatable, to make it less special. In quotes, “better”? Well, I would say italicized. (LAUGHTER) That’s their job! And I have meetings and meeting and meetings
where people will tell me how to make it less unique. So when I hear things like the intellectual,
you know, “That’s where our focus is, is in movies,” even in something like independent
films, which I feel Off-Broadway has become, the equivalent of independent films --even
in something like independent films, which is really the movies anyone with a thought
in their head would go see, there are meetings where people will say, “Cut that.” There is something which they do, which I
had done for my first film, you finally get through all that garbage, all the people saying,
“Cut this. No one will like that. No one will get that.” (LAUGHTER) You finally get the screening,
the sneak preview screening, and there are cards! “Do you like the title? Do you like the ending?” And these cards can say, “We don’t like
the ending,” and they will go and reshoot a new ending to the movie. This is unbelievable! We don’t do this in the theatre. No, really, we don’t. If people feel a little let down by the ending
of the play, that’s okay. I want them to be a little let down! It is about an artist and creative person
telling you the life they’ve lived, “This is what I’ve come back with. This is what I’ve come with, folks.” It’s not about, “This is how we’ve cleaned
it up and made it palatable and made money off of it.” But I don’t know how your experience is,
as well, in terms of musical theatre, but I actually think that the movie system of
production is rubbing off on the stage right now. I’ve not only experienced my own horror
stories, but I hear horror stories in which a playwright actually is told by many people,
and believe me, I’m very pro-dramaturg, but that “The play needs to be fixed”
is an attitude that’s increasing, I think, right now in our process of putting on plays,
very much coming from film. Yeah. Is that something you’ve experienced, Bill? Bill, let’s see how you [feel]. Well, to an extent, because a musical is a
collaborative art. Right. Theatre is, by its nature, but a musical especially
is, I think. And of course, you get input from everywhere. But it’s interesting to me that you say
the intellectual bent is to favor film, because I feel the opposite in a sense. I don’t have a lot of interest in writing
for film, for exactly the reasons you were talking about. And I feel that in the theatre, you don’t
make as much money, but you get more respect as a writer. I think film writers very rarely do get respect
of a kind that a playwright will, for a hit show, you know. Right, right. Certainly not a screenwriter. I mean, a screenwriter is a joke in Hollywood. Exactly. (LAUGHS) Right. Yeah, yeah. You know, the screenwriter is just right up
there with studio wife. (LAUGHTER) It’s wife, and then like, you
know, studio executive’s prostitute, then screenwriter. (LAUGHTER) There’s a great quote by David Mamet saying
that when you say in the theatre, “Let’s collaborate,” you mean, “Let’s collaborate.” But when they say in Hollywood, “Let’s
collaborate,” they mean “Bend over.” (LAUGHTER) Yeah, they do. Exactly! Actually, David Mamet is one of the few people
who’s been able to do [both]. GLENGARRY GLEN ROSS was a wonderful movie,
as well as a wonderful play. Yeah, right. But I mean, this is what I’m trying to do
now, is to make that bridge of to do the theatre and then make the movie from the play. Yes, uh-huh. I don’t know if I’m going to get to do
it as much on the first one, but certainly in the next couple plays, to really keep the
same director, same actors, and really keep that kind of going through. And it just strikes me as the only logical
thing to do. Mark, how do you feel about this? You know, as a director. Have you done film, too? No, I haven’t. Do you want to? Yeah, I wouldn’t mind having a nice apartment,
also. (LAUGHTER) It’s a lovely apartment! Yeah! But I think, you know, for a director it’s
much harder. For an actor and a writer, I think the crossover
is much easier and much more expected. And I think, as a director, I have a lot of
friends who have started to direct in television, especially some of the things that are shooting
in town, which is a little easier to get involved in that way. But in terms of what shoots in California
or a feature film, you really have to stop and go out there and basically start over
again, because it’s a technological field. And the crossover in terms of working with
the actor is not necessarily the most important aspect of the work. Well, you know, we were also talking about
the collaborative process. And in the theatre, and I’d love to get
into this more, where the writer is not one step above studio wife, which was a great
moment when you said that. But I mean, you really do become a collaborator
directly with the playwright, and I wanted to know how you guys worked on all of it. It would be fun. Just tell us about the process that you go
through. Can I just interject that Mark also directed
my play? I’m just saying! It wasn’t on the TelePrompTer. It happened. (LAUGHS) How did you interrelate with both of them,
is that what you’re saying? Well, I hope. (LAUGHTER) Well, you know, the thing that
I love about the theatre, and I think what makes it special, is that the writer is always
right. I think that there is an irreconcilable difference
between us or between anyone else and the writer. The wonderful thing is about the theatre is
that the writer wins, and they have to win, because it’s about language. It’s about language and people. And so the writer knows best, ultimately. There was an instance with Paula and I where
there was a section of the play where I was adamant, the little portion that should go,
and I’m sure there was with Doug, also. The one place with Paula in particular, and
I pushed and pushed and pushed, which is my job, to push and push and push, because I
believe strongly about it, but yet she said at the end, you know, ultimately, “No.” She drew the line and said, “This will not
go.” And that’s when you have to say, “You
know. It’s your work.” And she was absolutely right. You know, it became a very celebrated part
of the play, ultimately. And we won’t say what it was, so we won’t
know how stupid I am! (LAUGHTER) But I think that’s really what’s wonderful
about it, and that’s how it’s different, I think, from film. Because for film, it’s about image, the
visual is first. Which is the challenge of that, and why the
word is changed so often and ultimately viewed, I think, as not being as important or as crucial. But in the theatre, it has to start with the
word, and the visual is in support or juxtaposed next to that. But I think it’s a two way street, too,
for playwrights. Yeah, absolutely. And I bet you’re going to say the same thing,
which is that I took you into the writing process, and there are things in that play
that aren’t on the stage, because you said, “This is my vision.” And in essence, you know, you get tired of
your own voice in your head. You’re interested in somebody else’s idea. And when you said, “This is how I want to
do the play,” it’s the playwright’s job, I think, to say, “What is the chemistry? And I have to lose these battles, because
the director is right.” And I need to see your vision. Do you know what I mean? And I bet you had the same thing, where you
went, “All right, let’s try it his way. Let’s go with that.” Always. Did you choose Mark or did he choose you? I chose Mark. Now, that is the nice thing about theatre,
is that you do choose the director. Yeah, yeah. And I chose him as well. Why? Well, he’s blond. He’s tall. Come on! (LAUGHTER) Oh, good, now look! The famous Mark Brokaw blush! The blush, the blush! The blush! The famous Mark Brokaw blush. It wasn’t a good day unless I got him to
blush. That was my goal. Yep, yep, me too! All right. (LAUGHTER) No, I mean, why does anyone choose a director? You meet with him, you talk about it. And then you just become very trusting quickly. You have to trust quickly. Yes, yes. And with Mark, there are many things. There was a speech about Mae West. That thing was in so many [versions]. I was determined to get this monologue about
Mae West and how she was created by drag queens and then drag queens ended up doing her, and
how she was an important link to society. In what play was this? This was in AS BEES. All right, that’s okay. I would put it everywhere. Everyone, they’re going, “Mae West, it’s
gotta go there.” (LAUGHTER) And finally, he was just like,
“Cut it! Just cut Mae West!” And I was like, “Oh, I can’t, I can’t.” Well, you just trust him and you do it. And all the actors, “Oh, that was my favorite
part, was the Mae West part.” Well, it’s totally a great play and the
Mae West stuff, now I look at it and go, “What was I thinking?” It has nothing to do with this play I was
writing. But Mark, you listen, you trust. You have to let go. You have to know the basic story, the basic
truth is there, and the little fussy things, that’s for the director to get rid of. And you just trust them. The reason I asked that question, “Who chooses
who?”, that made you blush is that we have heard on the seminar that from time to time
a playwright will audition the director and dissect a director and say, “Tell me what
the play is about.” Well, I auditioned Mark. He had to bring an up number and a ballad. (LAUGHTER) Right. And? And a monologue. (LAUGHTER) Is there anything legally in the Equity contracts
about the author having the absolute right? Yes. Yes. It’s Dramatists’ Guild. Dramatists’ Guild rules! Dramatists’ Guild, gotta love that. Yeah. That’s one of the all-time great things
of the Dramatists’ Guild. That’s not the case, in terms of the playwright
choosing the director or the bookwriter, in musicals, is it? Right. In the case of SIDE SHOW, the impetus for
the show came from the director. And he and I have been great friends for twenty
years. We’ve done another project together, PAGEANT,
which again we started on together from Day One. So in a sense, Robert Longbottom is also an
author of the piece. The three of us, Henry Krieger the composer
and Robert and myself, worked on SIDE SHOW for five and a half years together, and he
was very much a part of the process. Five and a half years? Five and a half years. Wow. Where did that take place? Oh! (LAUGHS) All over. Primarily in Henry’s apartment, because
he has a piano, (LAUGHTER) so that’s where we wrote a lot of the songs. But we met everywhere. We’d go away. For instance, friends would give us their
houses in the country and we’d work there. Did you work on other things in the meantime? And you kept coming back to it. Oh, yeah. Yeah, we all worked. But really, for five and a half years, our
primary focus was SIDE SHOW, even though we were doing other things also. And he was very much involved from the beginning. He had seen a movie that the Hilton Sisters
had made in the fifties, called CHAINED FOR LIFE. It’s one of the worst movies ever, ever
made. And in 1985 he said to me, “I saw this terrible
film, and I think we should write a musical about these Siamese twins,” and I said,
“Great!” You know, Siamese twins sounded so theatrical
to me. Just inherently, the idea of two actors moving
together and singing together was really intriguing. We didn’t actually start it then until 1992,
but the idea had been planted there. And with a musical, of course, Bobby has a
great vision of how to do a number, of what a number should be. And so, in terms of the production numbers,
a lot of that came from him. And we would write into his idea of what it
should be. And we replaced those. You know, we wrote and we wrote. We have mountains of songs that we replaced
over the process. But in the collaboration area, I find, especially
with musicals, we all have strong opinions and we’re not afraid to state them, but
we do have a lot of respect for each other. And I feel ultimately that the best idea does
prevail. And it’s a mistake to get too invested personally
in any one idea. One example I would use, there was this lyric
in a song that we went round and round about. It had been written one way and then some
of the characterization changed, so I changed the lyric. And Bobby and Henry and our musical director,
David Chase, were very attached to the old lyric, which I didn’t think was right for
the new circumstance, where this song came. And we went back and forth, and I would try
to write other lyrics and alternatives. And I have journal entries that go on for
pages about this song and this lyric. And then we ended up cutting it, you know? (LAUGHTER) So it was all for naught anyway,
really. Well now, there’s the old question. What does come first, the lyric or the music? Well, it varies with different writers. In our case, primarily we work from the lyric
first. I don’t necessarily write a whole song,
but I will write a verse and a chorus, and then we will go from there. And Henry is quite amazing to me. I still am just in awe of him, because I will
give him a written lyric. He will put it on the piano. He doesn’t even read it for the most part. He just starts playing. And I would say, seventy-five percent of the
time, it’s the music we end up with. And sometimes we’ve discussed we want a
certain feel for it, or we know where it’s coming in the story. But he channels it somehow, I swear. It’s remarkable. But that question does sort of work both ways,
because even though I write, say, a chorus or a verse to a song, then when we develop
the song, I have to write lyrics that match the music that then exists for that stanza
or that pattern that we’ve created. And then, do you have to think of who will
be singing it? That definitely does come into it at a certain
point. At a certain point, not then? Because not everyone would fit in with your
concept. Right. Well, we usually are writing for a character,
but we don’t always know what actor will play that character or what their vocal range
is, what key it should be in, for instance. And we do end up fine-tuning these things
in rehearsals and readings, because different actors have different vocal qualities that
you want to try to accentuate, to give them the best shot and to make your song land best
in their vocal range. Isn’t your show exceptionally sustained
recitative in song? Yes, it’s almost all sung. It was a quite extraordinary thing to begin
like that. And I thought, with that professional knowing,
“How long can they go on like this?” (LAUGHTER) “Imparting all this information
and keeping it all in a musical framework like that?” It just went on and on. It was perfectly wonderful. Yeah. That was a difficult issue for us, because
at our very first meeting, we decided that we wanted it to be primarily sung. And we had the general parameters of the Hilton
Sisters’ true story, and I suggested, because Henry and I hadn’t written together before,
that we just start musicalizing moments that sang to us. And then, we had all these songs, and trying
to connect them with plot points, I just said, “I can’t do this. It can’t possibly be all sung.” So we would go back and forth. And then we eventually got it to a point where
every, I think, syllable was sung. And the musical director came in and said,
“It’s too much singing. (LAUGHS) You know? I think it should be spoken occasionally. It just gives your ear a rest from all the
relentless music.” And so, we’ve arrived at sort of a balance,
where it’s sung a lot. There is more spoken dialogue than most people
think. They come out and they say, “Every word
of that was sung!” And it’s not really true. Almost every moment is underscored, there’s
continual music. It’s very interesting, because one does
feel that way. And it’s almost like an operetta. Yes, right. But his music has great energy. Incredible. And he does not take a melody and recycle
it, as some composers go, with inter-recit that just repeats and repeats the melody that
you’ve heard in the song. He always tries something new, tries to give
each lyric line that’s not a song but recit, and it is a synchronicity that feels right
for that moment. I want to pick up also, Paula and Doug, about
how you brought Mark into the process, and from Bill, about five and a half years’
development. A play doesn’t take that long. Maybe it does in your head (DOUGLAS LAUGHS),
but in terms of the evolution. Want to talk a little bit about [that], both
of you, and then with Mark? Yeah, where Mark came in. How did you do it? Mark, I had written the first draft of the
play. I mean, talk about how long does it take to
write a play? I lived with the idea of Alexa for about six
years. Why? Because I had written three plays. They had been produced, and that was great,
and that was my life, and I never wanted to do movies. And then I was really, really broke, because
none of the plays were particularly successes. So I wrote a screenplay. How did you learn to write a play? A screenplay or a play? A play. A play, I learned to write -- really, college
and I didn’t jell. (LAUGHTER) So I came to New York as soon as
I could. I got a job. From where? From Wyamissing, Pennsylvania! [ALEXA’S HOMETOWN] Hold for applause. (LAUGHTER) That will never come. Everyone here likes Philadelphia. I love Philadelphia. Philadelphia is great. I was there this weekend. Okay. So. I came on a bus, Beaver Bus, came to New York. I worked in the theatre any way that I could. I was a bartender. I was a headset representative. I was a doorman. I was the elevator operator. That was in the evenings. And during the day, I would work at the Drama
Book Shop as a clerk, and that way I could read plays for free. They have a great policy, because people all
the time would want monologues or suggestions for plays. I could take the plays home at night, and
I just had to return them, put them back on the shelf. So I’d take a play every night and read
it. So that was really my education, I just read. And the great thing about that was that if
I had gone to a college where I was taught writing, someone would have pointed out the
really great plays. I had to discover them myself. (LAUGHTER) You know, to get to STRANGE INTERLUDE,
you have to read, you know, MARCO MILLIONS. You know, it just has to happen. And that was fascinating. It was a great way for me to learn. It was my particular path. I don’t recommend anyone else take it. It was ten years before I wrote anything,
but that’s the way I did it. And then what did you do with it? I mean, so you wrote it. Then what? I wrote a play. And I just would sit down, I just started
writing. I know, but then once it was written, then
what did you do to get it out there? I had an agent, and the agent sent it out. How did you get an agent? I think I met him at a cocktail party. (LAUGHTER) I go to the wrong parties. (LAUGHTER) I think that was my first agent I met that
way. And then I had my play in New York and people
came to see it and I met with them. I mean, really I think there’s a little
too much mystery to theatre, and I’m over it. I’m over the mystery of putting things together. I’m over the mystery of “How did that
play happen?” You just work. You sit down, you work, you send things to
people, you meet with people, you talk with them. I met Mark. It was set up through an artistic director. He was going to do a reading up in Maine of
this play. And I met him, and literally, within a half
an hour, I was like, “The kid’s yours, bye.” (LAUGHS) Well, how did you get to the reading, Mark? It was a plane, wasn’t it? To Maine? (LAUGHTER) Actually, in this instance, I think it was
through the artistic director at Portland Stage [Greg Leaming], where the reading was
taking place. I think [he] actually booked this. What had you done before this? Actually, I was at Actors Theatre of Louisville
at that point. But I’ve been in New York for ten years
now, and this would have been two years ago? A year and a half ago? Yeah, yeah. But I’ve been doing a lot of new work here,
in town. I had done Lynda Barry’s GOOD TIMES ARE
KILLING ME, up at Second Stage, and then done a lot of regional work. But I think it was actually through that artistic
director, that we were put together. The rare thing that we have here is a director
who’s directed, I think, three plays that are on at the same time now? Right. Just one little word about that, because it’s
most unusual. I’m glad. (LAUGHTER) No, the third one isn’t actually
on. THIS IS OUR YOUTH, by Kenny Lonergan hopefully
will be on as soon as -- once our play’s closed! (DOUGLAS LAUGHS) No, there’s not a theatre
available for it. It’s a wonderful situation. Good for us, bad for Kenny. It’s great. Well, apropos of that, when it’s on, do
you go back periodically to check the play and to see that it’s not getting -- well,
of course, they’re bright and shining and going now, but do you tend to do this? Yeah. (LAUGHS) A friend of mine, Nicky Martin, who’s
also a director, was saying the other day, “You know, the only thing worse than a flop
is a hit, just because of all the going back.” It’s a constant. It’s part of the joy of it. It’s just like going back to see an old
friend all the time, but it’s non-stop. You’re either casting understudies or rehearsing
those replacements, or just going back and seeing the play. I go back every ten days. Really? Yeah, if I can. Just to check in and see it and give notes,
and then maybe have a brushup rehearsal, if necessary. It’s very different. I want to pick up on a question that was asked
about how did you choose Mark? And I think something that you were saying,
in terms of your process being a little bit more director driven, in that the concept
was the director and there’s a five and a half year discussion period going on. Right. And it’s something, I think, that you’ve
also said, that you have to trust very quickly in the process. And (TO MARK) I don’t know if I’ve ever
told you this, but I’ve never seen any of your work, up until HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE. It’s too late now! (LAUGHTER) No, it says something, in terms of a skill
that I think Mark has as a director, and I think it’s something very necessary, which
is, oftentimes I do write work, thinking, “I want to write a play for Anne Bogart,”
and I write a particular play. Or I’m writing a play now for Hal Prince,
because I want to return to musicals. With Mark, basically it’s a small world,
if you check out your sources. “Did you work with him? How was he?” You know, “Did he make you cry?” (LAUGHTER) All that sort of thing. And the word kept coming back, “He’s incredible
with actors. He’s very respectful of playwrights. This is a really good guy.” And a number of friends said that. So I went, “Okay, great.” The deciding factor was listening to you talk. You talked on the phone to me for an hour
and a half. And you knew the play better than I knew. You had a vision of the play different from
mine, that was clearer than mine. Do you know what I mean? And just listening to you talk, when I hung
up the phone, in terms of all the other candidates, I called Doug [Aibel], and I said, “My gut
says Mark Brokaw.” He has this ability, and I mean it’s an
interesting thing in collaboration, it’s respect and you have to listen. You have to take in the other person’s vision. And there’s a focus and a concentration
that I think you have, in terms of playwrights, that is a parallel to your focus and concentration
with actors. And that is, there’s just a stillness. I don’t know if people have felt that in
their collaborations, but that’s when you know it’s right. That’s when you’re saying, “The best
idea prevails.” Right. You know what I mean? And that’s when suddenly, everything else
sort of just floats away and you’re listening to each other. Now, your title is indispensable to the whole
purpose of your play, the structure of your play. But did you worry at all about the fact that
millions of people have seen DRIVING MISS DAISY? Because that’s a key word. That word “drive” is a big word in the
American unconscious. Right. I know. Warner Shook started calling this DRIVING
MISS PAULA very early on, (LAUGHTER) when he read the first draft. But there wasn’t a problem? It didn’t seem like a problem? You know, it’s one of those things. I wrote the play in two weeks, after thinking
about it since age twenty. You know, it’s like the title’s always
there and you go, “That’s the way it is.” And there’s so many driving plays. Actually, there’s so many car plays where
you’ve got people sitting on stage, that I thought, “Well, what the heck? One more won’t hurt.” Titles are an interesting thing. Now, you have this wonderful, wonderful title
which is so lyrical. And you thought that that was going to be
understood by everybody, but apparently it was not? No. Tell us about that, because that is fun. AS BEES IN HONEY DROWN, it’s just one of
those beautiful titles. I had actually seen it on a sampler, as part
of the Arts and Crafts movement around Elmira, New York. And I just thought I had to [use it]. And you know, I thought it was from the Bible. It’s not! (LAUGHTER) But I was just like, “Oh, it’s
so beautiful, and I just love the image.” And it was just really what I was feeling
like in my life, with regards to these Alexa people that I was meeting. After TO WONG FOO, I would go in these meetings
and I would meet these people, and I just felt like a little bee, like just kind of,
“Oh, this is the good life! I’m dying, help!” (LAUGHTER) And I had this title, and I knew, I was like,
“This is it! This is STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE! This is how good this title is!” (LAUGHTER) And the first person to call for
tickets asked for tickets for ASS BEAR DROWNING IN HONEY. (LAUGHTER) And the second person wanted tickets
to THE BEEKEEPER’S DAUGHTER. (LAUGHTER) THE BEEKEEPER’S DAUGHTER? What is that? It’s a Wendy Kesselman play. Oh, exactly! Is it about Sylvia Plath? No, it’s a wonderful play. Could you tell us very quickly what you think
the play is about? Because J. Smith-Cameron was on our performance
seminar, and she told us very quickly. Sure. What I think the play is about? I think the play is about everything that’s
wrong in America right now. (LAUGHTER) I do! I think it’s absolutely what is wrong with
the world. Which is? That fame, success, financial reward, beauty,
glamour, those are the things that are important. And it’s not about art. That I think is what is wrong with America
right now. (APPLAUSE) Yeah, yeah! Change it to a rally! (LAUGHTER) We’ll get Jane Alexander back,
we will! (LAUGHTER) But that’s what I think the play
is about, and it’s why I wrote it. You know, as much as people say, you know,
fluffy comedy and all that stuff, I can’t sit down and write a sparkly, witty funny
comedy, unless it’s something that completely infuriates me. Are you writing something now? Yes, and I’m very mad! (LAUGHTER) Your new play is called? THE COUNTRY CLUB, it’s going down to the
Long Wharf in January. Or up, as the case may be. Well, up and over. Yeah, you Philadelphia people don’t understand
geography at all, that’s all. Down east. Well, it could be “down” that way. Well, I met going “down” in kind of a
ghetto slang kind of a way. (LAUGHTER) It’s going down there. (LAUGHTER) Who’s involved in casting? Who makes the decisions on casting? The playwright? The director? It’s both. On a musical, it’s the authors, the director,
the musical director and the casting people. And we collected our cast over a period of
two and a half years, because one of the ways we developed the show was through a series
of full cast readings. Now, I think when Paula and Doug do a play,
it’s easier to get a group of actors together and if they’re right for the parts, you
can almost do a cold reading and get a sense at least of what you have. But because SIDE SHOW was nearly all sung,
even to get through it with scripts in hand required hiring actors for a week, just to
learn the roles enough that they could sing it. And we did a series of those, and then we
did the workshop production and collected the cast over that period of time. That’s unusual to hire a cast for a week
just for that. Or that becoming now done? Well, I think it’s maybe becoming more usual. Our first reading was done by the Manhattan
Theatre Club, and they have a series of what they call twenty hour readings. Where you can hire an actor, you can only
rehearse them for twenty hours during this week, including the performance, any one of
them. You don’t have to have them all together
for those twenty hours, but no actor can be rehearsed more than twenty hours. Well, in the case of our leads, the Siamese
twins, at that point they had something like sixteen songs. So I think they gave us a little extra time. I shouldn’t say that, maybe. But that was a model then that we used when
Manny Azenberg came to that first reading and became involved with the show. And by the way, at that time, the title was
SONGS OF THE SIAMESE TWINS! Which I thought was just a gorgeous title. It was poetic and it said “musical,” and
it said it was Siamese twins. And Manny went, “Change that title!”,
you know? (LAUGHTER) Immediately, he said, “That’s
a terrible title.” You were about to say something about titles,
too. Right, right. Well, I have an AIDS piece called ELEGIES
FOR ANGELS, PUNKS AND RAGING QUEENS. And talk about slaughtering titles! I mean, people will ask for ALLERGIES TO THOSE
RACING DRAG QUEENS. (LAUGHTER) And it just threw me. I did that show, I did three productions in
London. I directed it, actually. And over there, I remember one day, the first
theatre, we were standing outside. And these two middle class couples came up
and looked at the title and said, “Oh, that’s the funniest title! It must be just a barrel of laughs!” And of course, it’s this piece about AIDS,
which did have its humor. But they just, over in England, thought that
was the funniest, you know. Which I don’t mind at all, but. That’s another thing. Would you, or any of the three writers, ever
like to direct your own work? Oh, no. The beauty, the genius part of being a writer
is that any moment you can get up and leave the room and nobody freaks out. (LAUGHTER) Like, I can be at the very first
performance, I can get up and, “He’s writing. He’s got something. Bye, bye, now!” (LAUGHTER) If I were a director and I’d
do that, people would die. They would just fall down and die! “Look, he just left!” But also, I think you want someone there looking
at it. And you want to worry about the words and
the images. You don’t want to have to worry about Becky
Sue’s cup of coffee, you know, where does that go? Do you feel that way, Paula? I don’t know. I could just listen to Doug. (LAUGHTER) Irene Fornes says that playwrights
should direct their own work. Yeah, so does Edward Albee. Yeah, and is very staunch about that. Whereas I think that that’s a confusion
for me, of what the collaborative process is. To me, you want other visions other than yourself. You don’t want your own. You agree with that, yeah. Well, yes and no. I do some directing of other people’s work. Right. And I don’t necessarily like to direct my
own stuff. But in the case of ELEGIES, which has the
structure sort of SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY. It’s written in free verse monologues, interspersed
with songs. And when I started doing the initial readings
of that, it was just convenient for me to direct. And as I directed it, it was an incredible
experience. Working with actors on it, I’d go, “That’s
there? I wrote that there?” I found all of this stuff that I just wasn’t
conscious of as a writer, that was in the poems that I discovered as a director with
actors. Right, right. And because that was such a personal piece
and written in verse, I felt very much about my rhythms and I really enjoyed doing it. So I did continue to ask when it was produced
in London that I direct. And of course, a lot of people say, “No! That’s the worst idea, an author directing
his own work.” But they let me get away with it. Actually, it’s an interesting thing about
that, though. Because I’ve directed my own work. And I think that there can be a tendency to
correct the problems of the script directorially. Well, that’s true. Which means as long as you’re directing,
it’s fine. But if someone who doesn’t know you across
the country picks it up, they don’t know what’s in your mind. And I really actually have a problem sometimes
with doing cold staged readings with wonderful directors and actors, because they make my
script look too good, and I can’t see where the problems are. They fix it through their interpretation. I’m actually a believer of getting friends
who are not actors, and like playwrights particularly, around a table, people who can not act to
read the first reading. And then I see what works and doesn’t. What do you do, you record and play it over? I’m not that brave! (LAUGHTER) Get me the finest actors in the
English language! (LAUGHTER) Because if there’s a flaw there,
then you know! It’ll be like, “If she can’t make it
work, she’s a genius.” I’m sure community theatres will do my plays
and they’ll be lovely, but I’m not going. (LAUGHTER) See, that’s the other thing. I mean, I come from the community theatre. Oh, I do, too. I come from the community theatre. I believe that if you can do a play on a hundred
dollars, you can do it on a budget of three hundred thousand, and that you have to start
with a hundred dollars. I believe in “Towards a Poor Theatre.” And I mean, I think that at the process of
rehearsal, right? The directors and the actors are going to
show you every flaw in the rehearsal process. Sure. But if you’re directing that process -- this
is just for me -- I worry. I want to have a script that an eighteen year
old with a full heart can deliver and make meaningful in a town of five thousand people
in Iowa. I think if it can work in community theatre,
if it can work with people like me who can’t act their way out of a paper bag, that you’ve
got a script that, quote unquote, is “universal.” But I find when I’m directing my own work,
with ELEGIES, that I often would, working on it with an actor, would go, “Who wrote
this? You know, this is terrible!” You know? Right. Fire the playwright! Right. Even a director does. Because it’s not working for you as an actor. So it was interesting. But it’s not something I aspire to do all
the time, by any means. Mark, what’s your take on this? Well, I think there are some authors who do
it very well. To me, part of the reason for doing theatre
is because it’s fun. You know, it’s fun to be in the room with
Paula. It’s fun to be in the room with Doug. It’s fun to be in the room with all those
actors. And I just think, it’s one less person to
have fun with. And it’s just fewer ideas in the room, also. I think that, you know, part of the joy of
it is when something isn’t working or isn’t going well, is figuring out, is it because
the production isn’t working or is it because there’s a textual problem? And I think that it’s just one less eye. And I just think you’re maybe potentially
biased in a certain way. You know, because you also wrote it. But I think it works either way. The thing that you’re saying about that,
going back to [what you said], and we’re not going to talk about the moment, but I
enjoyed fighting with you every moment. We always fought the good fight. And I would go and leave a fight or a discussion
feeling really very uplifted, do you know what I mean? That’s when you know you’ve got a good
collaboration, when you have really good fights. And I said something to you, and I saw your
eyes cross (MARK LAUGHS), and I thought, “Oh, man, he thinks I’m crazy!” But it’s like really wonderful finely woven
rugs, where you deliberately put in flaws in the making of the rug. That you deliberately put in problems that
aren’t neat and tidy and they have no solution and I have no idea how to do it. And a couple of times I turned to you and
I said, “I have no idea how you’re going to do that, but that’s your problem.” Because it seems to me that scripts with huge
problems become the problem plays of Shakespeare or become the problem plays of Albee, you
know what I mean? It’s the problems to me that directors get
jazzed about, and go, “How the heck did you do that?” “Oh, yeah, we’re going to have an angel
crash through the ceiling.” “How the heck did you do that, and how do
you do it on a hundred bucks?” That’s where to me, it’s like, “All
right, I want an elephant at the end of the play.” Now, obviously, you have to choose your problems
wisely or you’ll never get produced. But I think that this play, I think it’s
a miracle that I listened to you and I went, “This is it.” Because when I wrote the play, I went, “Who
the heck is going to be able to do this?” There are so many problems. I feel like it’s a minefield. And it would be so easy to derail, and you
didn’t. You know, you just didn’t. Because I think you’re an amazing problem
solver. And to me, a good playwright poses problems
and questions and doesn’t answer it. Let everybody else take care of it. Now, you said you’ve written twenty-two
plays? Yeah. Lot of problems. (LAUGHTER) I want to go back to England. As a director, did you change your direction
in England? Was it different? Did the pace of it change, the emphasis? It was different. The British sense of humor is so mysterious
to me. And ELEGIES is an AIDS piece, and it’s of
course very serious. But it had a lot of humor in it, and I was
really a whore for the laughs, because I just thought they were so essential. And one night, the audience would scream and
yell and applaud and laugh. And then the next night, to all evidence it
seemed like exactly the same performance, sit stone-faced through the whole show, not
a titter. And then at the end, just erupt into applause. So that question of how to fine-tune the humor
was paramount there. There was some tinkering with language, because
things don’t mean exactly the same as certain words. But I think good acting is good acting. And British actors have a different kind of
training. They’re more adept with language. In America, the emphasis is more on musical
theatre, I think, when you’re going through high school and college. There’s a lot more opportunity to do OKLAHOMA! And over there, there’s a lot more opportunity
to do Shakespeare. Yeah, a couple of those playwrights on their
side. (LAUGHS) Yeah, right. You know, speaking of all that, Bill, and
also because you’re a lyricist, I’d like to also go back a minute and tell us a little
bit about your background. I mean, are you a poet? Do you write poems? I do. And I’ve written poems from the time I was
in high school. I grew up in South Dakota, the Black Coast
of South Dakota. I’m near Mount Rushmore. And my family were ranchers. Everybody called my father “Cowboy” because
he was a cowboy. And where I got this theatre bug, I have no
idea. But I can remember in kindergarten, they were
going to do GOLDILOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS, and I thought, “If I don’t get to play
Papa Bear, I will die!” (LAUGHTER) At that point, I didn’t realize
I probably wanted to play Goldilocks, but that was another issue. (LAUGHTER) Well, it was the lead, you know? (LAUGHTER) Well, you’re right. She has all the good scenes! Right! She does! So people that want fame? And the best costumes, too. Right. Exactly, sure. And I also remember, in sixth grade, the teacher
went around the room and asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, and I said,
“A playwright.” And everybody turned around and said, “What’s
that?” I mean, there isn’t a lot of theatre in
South Dakota, really. And my mother was very encouraging. She was a teacher and she read to me a lot
and she loved movies. And I guess I showed some musical aptitude,
so she, you know, signed me up for piano lessons at an early age. But I have written poetry and continue to. Where did you go, from kindergarten to college? Keep going. Well, I went to college for two years, a small
college in Sioux City, Iowa, called Morningside College. And during the summers, I worked at a resort
in New Jersey where you were hired as a waiter or whatever, but they did staff shows and
I directed shows. And that’s where I met the composer who
I first wrote a musical with and continue to work with to this day. Janet Hood is her name. She wrote the score for ELEGIES. She was at Oberlin. And I was very inspired by HAIR, (LAUGHS)
which, you know, is sort of the wrong thing to say, I think, because people don’t look
on that so well, now, but it was such an exciting [piece]. I like it. I know. I love the music, I love the show. Yeah, it’s great. Well, great, you know. This side of the [room likes it]. I would agree. Nude scene, Act One Curtain. (LAUGHTER) What could be better? I just loved HAIR, but I thought maybe it
would be possible to do something with that kind of music, with rock music which really
inspired me, that had a real book, a real story. Which the show didn’t have as much as the
film of HAIR did. And we wrote a musical by mail, entirely. She was at Oberlin. I went then to the University of Kansas. Mandy Patinkin was there and Don Johnson,
who ran away with one of the married female professors just as I was getting there. (LAUGHTER) There’s a lot of good dirt on this show! Really! And we wrote this whole musical by mail. And one of my professors from the first college
had transferred to KU to do graduate work. And he had a directing slot in their theatre
season, and I told him I was writing this musical. He said, “I will do it, if you finish it,”
which was just great incentive. And so, that’s basically why I went back
to school. I was sort of over it at that point, like
you were, but I went back to get this show on. And we did it there, and then it won a national
contest from BMI. They, at that time, sponsored a contest for
original musicals produced in colleges. And that was sort of where it came from. Is there a course? Is there a college for lyricists? How do you learn to be a lyricist? I just did it by doing it. I think there’s a graduate program at NYU
now. NYU. Right. For musical theatre, which is really good. (APPLAUSE FROM THE AUDIENCE) Hold for applause here. Go Owls , go! And there’s the BMI and ASCAP workshops,
of course. Yes. But I took a detour into pop music, because
I was always interested, and still am, in where contemporary or popular music meets
the musical theatre. And I worked with this composer, Janet Hood. She had another friend from Oberlin that became
a duo, two singers called “Jane and Sarsaparilla,” and I wrote their lyrics and managed them. And so, it was sort of trial by fire, you
know, writing specifically for those performers who were working every night. And that was a great experience, a great way
to learn to write lyrics. While I’m here, we’ve done this in other
seminars too, and I’d like to throw this one out, and what I’m hearing from you,
Bill, too, is the influence of a parent on the development of a talent. I’d like to have anybody else talk about
that. Paula? Actually, I had a really phenomenal experience
with that. My father brought me up on musicals. Yeah, mine, too. And I loved musicals. And he left home when I was ten, and I didn’t
see him for maybe twenty-five years. And he came back to help care for my brother
when he was dying of AIDS. So we spent a lot of time talking to each
other. And one night, while we were drinking cognac,
he said, “Paula, do you like the American musical?” And I said, “Dad, I love the American musical!” He said, “Good! Because only through the American musical
can we understand Bertolt Brecht in this country.” And I had this shock, because that’s what
I lecture at Brown University. And I said, “How old was I when you said
that?” I mean, it was this voice of recognition. Yeah, I think that parental thing is very,
very important. But I also think, and I’ll bet you there’s
another thing that’s in common, and I’ll bet every theatre artist will say this, there’s
also the search for an alternative family structure, of a place to belong. Yeah. Right. Of feeling like an outsider. Whether it’s in Maryland or South Dakota
or whatever. That when you get into the rehearsal hall,
it can be in high school or it can be GOLDILOCKS, you go, “I’m home now.” Right. And how do you stay in the room and stay with
people that feel more family to you than family? Most people’s parents don’t know anything
about Bertolt Brecht. (LAUGHTER) What was your father’s occupation? My father never got out of high school. He was fifteen years old. One of the things that I very much feel, and
my mother never got out of high school and she was a secretary, is a respect for the
incredible intelligence of the working class. And that intellectualism has nothing to do
with class or university education. Right. And yet, very -- yo-ho! (APPLAUSE) This is like the Late Show. People are really sweet. Absolutely. A very similar background, but not nearly
as traumatic, was that my folks just took me to the theatre a lot. There was a wonderful system that has pretty
much gone away in the summers which was called summer stock. And you would go, and there would be a barn
in just about every [town]. And you would go into this barn and you would
see New York actors do the creakiest of plays and it was so much fun! And it was exciting and it was live and it
was dangerous. And I just remember as a kid just going to
that and just being so -- part of it was I was so afraid for the actors, that at any
moment they were just going to fall off the stage or not say the line right and everything
would [stop]. Or a murder mystery, someone would just say,
“I can’t stand it -- it is the butler!” (LAUGHTER) You know, I was so, “It’s too
good! I can’t keep --” I was so excited by it,
and I loved it. And my parents knew it and let it happen and
nurtured it. And when I did some very controversial things,
like not go to college, but just get on a bus and go to New York, they were there and
they just said, “That’s okay.” And it was ten years of people going, “What
is your son doing?”, you know? Do you have siblings? I have two sisters. They’re both teachers. I’m going to have to interrupt you now,
because we’re almost up to the end of what you are doing, but we have to take a break
here. And it will only be a minute, so you can stand
up and stretch and turn around and get right back to your seats again. And we’re going to continue this seminar,
and I want to go around some more and see what we’re talking about with everyone,
who influenced you most. (APPLAUSE)
(BREAK) (APPLAUSE) We’re continuing the American
Theatre Wing seminars on “Working in the Theatre.” And these are coming to you from the Graduate
Center of the City University of New York. This seminar is on the playwright, director
and lyricist, how they work alone and how they work together. And when we went off before, we talked about
the influence of the family on the careers. And I think, Mark, we did not get to you,
but I think we would like to. Indeed. I grew up on a farm in Illinois. I never saw a professional play until I was
eighteen, when the Acting Company passed through the University of Illinois, where I was studying
to be a short story writer. But you know, I think, my family was a musical
family, but there was no one [in theatre]. I don’t know where it came from, you know,
where the Mickey-Rooney-Judy-Garland syndrome came from. But I always knew I wanted to be a director. And I was the one who, you know, was the cliché,
putting on the plays with the cousins at Christmas. You know, dragging them into the back room
to rehearse. And you know, wrote plays and put them on
in junior high, and then decided I thought I would be a short story writer instead, for
a very brief time, until I discovered I wasn’t very good at it. And then, kept on directing all the way through. And my family was always very supportive. I don’t think they every really understood
or necessarily know what a director does. I keep trying to explain it to them. And then
I went to graduate school and studied directing. Where? At Yale. What does a director do? (LAUGHTER) You opened that up! Oh, great! I knew that was a mistake as soon as I said
that! (LAUGHTER) I think that would be very good. What does a director do? I think they create the world, bring everybody
together and help them collaborate. Kind of serving as the center, in helping
everybody get along and helping them all be on the same page and make sure that we’re
creating a world and that everybody knows the rules of that world, and that each world
is unique and each play is unique. And kind of bringing everybody together and
serving as the center of that. Not the center in any kind of power kind of
way, but just the center in terms of making sure that everybody is collaborating and that
everybody is on the same page. Now suppose that it happens with a group of
actors that you’ve chosen, that one of them simply can’t get with that, with the sense
of ensemble, and you just have to let them go. That’s a tough day. Yes, that is. I’ve never actually been in that circumstance. One reads about it, it happens. Well, I think that, you know, once again,
it’s necessary if it reaches that point, because I think what’s important is the
work is important, and a single person in the work is not the most important. At least, that’s my point of view. And you just say, “I’m sorry,” I guess. Has that ever happened to you, Bill? Oh, yes, definitely. It happened even in SIDE SHOW, with the Broadway
company. We did have to replace someone early on in
rehearsals. It just wasn’t working out. And it’s always difficult, but I’m glad
we did it. Is that your job to do that? No, thank heaven. No, it’s not. That’s the director’s job. You know, there’s another thing. We were talking about the evolution of these
plays. Did any of the plays, I know SIDE SHOW was
workshopped, and I guess BEES was in Portland, did they all go out of town? We talked about this also on the seminars,
about the advantage of going away, because then you’re not conflicted by having to
-- I mean, people become a family, a world, much better out of town. Would you all agree with that or not, rather
than workshopping it right in town on the same stage or something? I think it’s a different kind of pressure. I think that there’s a different kind of
freedom maybe, when you’re up in Portland, Maine, and you know there isn’t a production
coming up in four weeks. But I think that, you know, that sense of
family, you can create anywhere. You can create it, you know, downtown in the
studio at NYU or you can create it at Actors Theatre of Louisville or down at the Vineyard. So I don’t think that [is it]. I think it’s more the pressure. I think that you can create a family anywhere. It depends on how close the production is
breathing down your neck, regardless of where you are. Would you agree with his interpretation of
what the director does? Absolutely. I think he’s the daddy, you know? (LAUGHTER; PAULA NODS) I mean, the writer
is like the peculiar uncle or aunt (LAUGHS) who kind of comes in and shows everybody a
good [time], you know. But actually, the playwright is the mother
and the director is the daddy, is how it works for me. I’m there, and it’s gotta be that. We’ve been told from time to time here that
a playwright is so close to the play, that leaves out very important things that a director
can bring out by probing questions. “Why didn’t you tell us that Aunt Mary
had a lisp? You know, that’s important to know.” (LAUGHTER) “Well, everybody knows she has
it, you know.” “But I didn’t.” Now, is that part of what you mean by getting
it all out, or were you thinking of just making sure everybody knew what they were doing? I think it’s just part of making sure everybody
understands the same things. That everybody’s idea of who Aunt Mary is
is the same, so that you don’t discover later on that people are in different chapters. Is it accidental, do you suppose, that now
with several plays, the actors are having to play multiple roles? Of course, in the case of SIDE SHOW, it’s
actually two people. But JEKYLL AND HYDE, he has to play two people. (TO DOUG) Your heroine, Jeannie is playing
two very different people in one. And then, there you are. How many roles did you write? Oh, golly, I don’t know. Twenty roles, yeah. It’s perfectly wonderful. That’s part of the fun for the audience. Yes. Because, “Now what? Now, she’s the grandmother.” I wonder if that’s accidental, the sense
of the multiplicity of roles. For me, it’s about I just really love actors
a lot. When actors talk on a stage, I’m one happy
boy. And in this I wanted to be able to write lots
of people who would come and go very quickly. The idea of writing a part that would be very
small and have someone backstage suckin’ on a pack of Luckies, bringing the energy
down, “I only got one scene!” (LAUGHTER) You know? But the idea of an actor, you know, impenetrability
of disguise goes a long way with me. You know, I love it. I love the facility that actors have. I love when people just turn and suddenly
they’re another person. It’s exhilarating for me. I love it, and that’s why I chose to do
it with this play. And my next two plays, I’m not doing it. And it happens to be that Paula’s play has
the same kind of thing, that there were lots of actors doing lots of parts. I just happened to like that idea. And how do the actors feel about that? They all seem to be having a great time. I think they have a great time. They love it. I also think that for me, there’s a different
reason. I think that women writers and writers of
color have to, when they’re writing plays, think about the economics. And that is the only way we get a shot, is
suddenly a play drops out of the season at Seattle or ACT and they spent all of their
money on the first flashy show of the season and they’re at a deficit and they go, “Quick,
find me a three character play! What’s cheap to do? Oh, look, BALTIMORE WALTZ, 3 characters. Oh, look, DESDEMONA, three characters.” And it’s how to get the biggest bang for
the buck, because one of the things is that I don’t think that we really explore the
magnificent talents that actors have enough. And transformational acting does that. But two, the only way we’re going to break
in in a season is that we’re cheap to do. I’m sorry to be saying that. But I would love to have a larger canvas. And that’s one of the reasons I am writing
screenplays and one of the reasons I’m turning to musicals. But you know, I just wrote an Op-Ed piece
about Lieutenant Flynn, where I pointed out that there’s only been one woman put in
charge of a million dollar piece of equipment and there’s only one woman, usually, per
season that’s allowed on Broadway. And I think that there’s an economic issue
here. The classic example of not understanding the
economics of theatre was Wally Shawn when he wrote his first play. And he didn’t realize about the economics
of paying anybody, so he had a hundred characters in his first play. Great! Right. Now, that requires some pruning. As a white man, allow me to say, it’s the
same. I mean, you know, six actors, one set is what
you get to play with. That is the language of theatre now, just
because of the rules of what you must pay people. And that’s the way it is. And that’s fine. But poverty enriches us. Exactly. It’s the negatives that always turn out
to be your biggest plus. The positives, yeah, yeah. It’s weird how it works. But the one thing like, “Oh, we don’t
have any money. So we’re just going to do it with one set
and some chairs.” And that’s what’s exciting. Yeah. “We don’t have money. You know, it’s a story about a beautiful
dress, but we don’t have money for the dress, so we’ll just pretend she’s wearing a
dress.” Suddenly the audience creates this beautiful
dress in their minds, and everyone is saying, “Thank God you didn’t put a dress on that
stage.” It’s always that stuff that makes theatre
great. I’m always conscious of economics when I’m
writing it. Actually, the show ELEGIES had thirty characters. And I intended to do it with a small cast,
five or six people, with each of them playing five or six roles. And I did a couple of readings that way. And then, this downtown theatre company called
Tweed , they do a festival of new works every year, and they owed a lot of actors favors. And they said, “How about casting one actor
in each role?”, which meant a cast, with the singers, of thirty-four, thirty-five. And I said, “Oh, I can’t imagine!” I mean, just organizing, you know, five of
them. But I thought, “When am I ever going to
get to work on that size a scale?” And so, I dove off a cliff. And now, I won’t do it any other way. Right. And it has limited the show, because a piece
about AIDS with a cast of thirty-five is not on its face the most commercial experience. So we’ve done it as benefits. We’ve done it both in New York and in England,
where the actors were basically donating their time to the cause and were happy to do it. And it turned out to be just a wonderful experience
because of that. Well, it’s like there’s a whole new life
now for Stephen Sondheim musicals, because we’re now rediscovering the kind of concert
or stripped-down Sondheim. Right. And we’re recognizing that there’s a whole
other dimension to his work, I think. I’m all for economics in the theatre and
anything that could take off this ten million dollar cost of bringing in a musical. But on the other hand, do you want to be bound
by how much it’s going to cost for the talent? I’m not talking about the sets and the creativeness
that goes into it, but only six people instead of the eight that you need or the nine, when
you’re writing the play and directing? If the six actors are J. Smith-Cameron, Cynthia
Nixon, Mark Nelson, Josh Hamilton, any of them. Right. If they’re Mary-Louise Parker! She’s worth five. That’s right. I’ll take her. She’s worth ten. I mean, if it is those actors, that’s it,
that’s all you need. And I mean, AS BEES was put together from
a collective of artists. And we did that show very cheap. I think it was fifteen thousand dollars to
put that show on. I mean, literally Mark’s shirt was on in
the first scene. (LAUGHTER) I had a pair of shoes that are
on in the third scene. It’s your wardrobe up on stage! Right. I got it back, though. He got it back when we moved. When we moved Off-Broadway, we got a new shirt. So the stuff is like you just put it up. And before we get to the exciting question
and answer repartee section (LAUGHTER), I just want to say that if I have any advice
to give anyone who’s going into the theatre at all, it’s like just put it together and
do it. Don’t sit around and wait to be hired. You know, don’t be sending your plays out
to everybody and just sit and wait and “Oh, I hope.” If you’re a playwright, find actors, find
a director, get it on. If you’re an actor, find a play you love,
find other actors, talk about it, do it. Don’t sit around. And so many people are in this mentality of
wanting to be hired. It ain’t gonna happen. Right. You have to put it on. But that’s my advice. Thank you very much. We have some more questions now for you to
answer. Won’t you come on, please? My name is David Mencken. I’m an actor studying at New York University. My question is directed to Douglas and Paula. The interaction between playwright and director
is very important. You discussed that earlier. Can the same be said between playwright and
actor? I feel that’s not my place. There are playwrights who feel that they should
be talking to the actor. I make a point of being supportive and nurturing
to actors, but I would no sooner give a note to an actor or tell them what to do. That’s the director’s place. I disagree. Oh, geez! (LAUGHTER) I think that a playwright belongs in the room. Oh, yeah. I think that a playwright belongs in the room
to open yourself up as a resource. Not to give notes, not to make decisions that
the director is making, not to do acting advice, but simply to be there to ask questions or
to open oneself up as a resource which the actor and director can choose to use or not. I think we’re in agreement. I just think in terms of, like, performance,
I don’t give notes. I think we’re saying the same thing. Do you want to, Mark? Could you get into this? I think they were saying the same thing, actually. Rats! She wants to be contrary, so much! We’re supposed to mud-wrestle. No, I actually agree with both of them. I think that, you know, for me, I want the
writer there as much as possible, because they know it. There are lots of things they have inside
them that I don’t know, because we’re not mind readers, and so, I’m glad to have
them there. I’m glad to have their input. The next question. Hello, my name is Karen Schulton. I’m an actor and playwright. My question is for Doug and Paula. Can you comment on the play submission process? Submitting your plays to theatre, selecting
those theatres, getting feedback from dramaturgs, and what you do with that feedback when you
get it? I’m going to launch into, real quick, the
XYZ letter conversation that I talk about to my playwrights and my students, which is,
you should submit your work to theatres that are doing the work that you love. Do that research, submit to them. And when someone sends you a letter, lick
your finger and run it over the ink. And if the ink runs and an actual human person
signed that letter, it actually means someone read your play. It wasn’t rejected in the first cut. It was read by two readers, and they’re
encouraging you. They’re not rejecting you. Write a note back to that person by name and
thank them. And within five years, that person will be
opening the door and mentoring you and helping you form your career. Thank you. Next. Very strong. My name is Ann Hamada and I’m from the O’Neill
Center. The question is for the whole panel, but especially
Paula Vogel. Who are your literary influences? John Guare, Caryl Churchill, Maria Irene Fornes
are the three that I call my gods. That’s a pretty good trio. Pretty great trio. For me, it would be Chekhov, Kaufman and Hart,
and somebody contemporary ... Nicky Silver! (LAUGHTER) Yeah. Bill, you want to pick that up, too? Well, for me as a lyricist, I grew up with
Rodgers and Hammerstein, and then I sort of rebelled against them because I was into rock
music and the Beatles. And so, a lot of my influence as a lyricist
comes from Joni Mitchell, the Beatles, Paul Simon. I mean, people that influenced me musically
when I was growing up. In the theatre, I was very influenced by Edward
Albee, who doesn’t write musicals for the most part, but the playwright part of me was
definitely very influenced by him. And later on, Shakespeare. Just awesome. Mark? Literary influences? I would agree, Chekhov, and David Mamet, and
Sam Shepard, when I was growing up in school. Thank you. Hi, I’m Jeffrey Lanman, a performer at NYU. My question is directed to Paula. You’ve mentioned that you are a female,
obviously. (LAUGHTER) Pass him a tip! Thanks for telling us. Thank God you mentioned it! (LAUGHTER)
JEFFREY LANMAN My question is regarding how you see yourself,
as whether you consider a playwright who happens to be female, or if you see yourself as a
female playwright? And that question is posed often and it’s
more complicated than that. I think that I am a playwright. I think that there are particular challenges,
in terms of writing female characters in the twentieth century. I think that every male character comes on
stage carrying behind him the legacy of Hamlet, whereas women characters are fighting against
the legacy of Linda Loman or Gertrude or the secondary roles, and that that’s something
that’s [there]. And it doesn’t necessarily mean by sex that
one can write great female characters. To me, the greatest writers of female characters
are Chekhov, Tennessee Williams, and John Guare. But as a woman, I want to be very careful
to try and add to the legacy that I’ve been given for actresses in the future. (APPLAUSE) Well, Shaw wrote great women’s roles. How do you account for that? It’s interesting. Shaw wrote great women characters and great
male characters, because Shaw actually, I think, is thought driven and not character
driven. So he didn’t think about “What is a woman
supposed to be?” or “What is a man supposed to be?” but “What is the idea?” What is the point of view, yeah. And the idea is not bound by sex for Shaw. But he really wanted women to be great women. Yes! God love him. He was an extraordinary figure. And he himself didn’t want really to have
anything to do with them on a personal basis. Yes. He’d rather read a good book, he said! Well. (LAUGHTER) Okay. Hi, my name is Jeffrey Solomon. I’m a playwright and an actor. And my question is for Paula, Douglas and
Bill. How important is reflecting gay and lesbian
lives or perspectives somehow in your work? Shall I jump in on this one? Why don’t you jump in on that one, yeah. As a gay white man, (LAUGHTER) I think gay
sensibility is a major part of theatre anyway. It has always been a part of theatre. It has always been a voice that’s heard,
even when we didn’t know it. I tend to write gay characters in my plays,
just because I’m always on the side of the outsider. I like the person who doesn’t have the world
handed to him, and that’s why I choose to do it. It’s also my voice. My next play does not have a gay character
in it. That’s basically what I feel. It’s there anyway. It is a sensibility that is in most theatre. And I use it openly when I choose to use it. Does that make sense? Yes. Very good! It’s very important to me, to answer your
question. My first professionally produced show was
a musical called FORTUNE, which was specifically a gay farce. And growing up in South Dakota and Wyoming,
I had no role models. I felt like such a freak. I knew I was gay from a very early age. And so, it’s very important to me as a writer
to try and give gay characters life, so that other people won’t feel as out of it as
I did. Paula? Well, I’m hoping, and I don’t think it
will happen in my particular generation, but I think my magnificent playwrights that I’ve
taught will do this. I am longing and looking forward to the day
that we have a lesbian Tony Kushner, who can be accepted and embraced. There are many wonderful lesbian playwrights
in this country, and we are really ghettoized. So. Thank you. How about you? Hi. My name is Javier Munos. I’m also at NYU, and I have a two part question,
kind of. Paula, if you could briefly talk more about
the other plays that you’ve worked on, and some of the inspirations and contents of those. And for all of you, what is the moment of
satisfaction for you? What is that moment where you as an artist
are satisfied in the process of your work? That’s a great question, actually, about
the moment of satisfaction. I’m writing a new play, I’ve been working
on a new play called MINEOLA TWINS, about good and evil twins in the Eisenhower, Nixon,
and Bush/Reagan years. (LAUGHTER) And we’re about to do a reading
at the Roundabout, with Joe Mantello directing and Annette Bening. And I’ve been working on that for two, three
years. For me, my favorite, people have been asking
this. I’ve had three really magnificent experiences
in the theatre in twenty-five years. One of them has been HOW I LEARNED TO DRIVE. One of them was BALTIMORE WALTZ. And the other was MINEOLA TWINS, in Juneau,
Alaska, the opening night. And for me, the moment of satisfaction and
the reason that they were so wonderful actually comes from having loved the process more than
anything I could possibly write or envision. Having loved the artists I’m working with. So for me, the moment of satisfaction is that
first preview. Feeling that I perfectly belong, feeling embraced
and loved, and feeling proud is to me the great moment of satisfaction. Wonderful. Yes. Hi, my name is Sarah Invar. I’m also at NYU. I was wondering, as playwrights, when you’re
writing a play, do you usually have the end in mind as you go along, or do you create
as you go along and does the end surprise you? Anybody. I usually have the end in mind, and it’s
never the ending that I end up with. (LAUGHTER) I have a very generalized [idea]. Characters tend to go. Right. Characters just start off, and you go, “This
is where I’m headed.” And characters, you’re taking dictation
by page ten, I find. Yeah. Sometimes, yeah. After a while, you just, “Who are these
people? They’re talking away.” Like, with SIDE SHOW, I knew that I felt it
should end -- one of the Siamese Twins got married on the fifty yard line of the Cotton
Bowl, as the finale of the Texas Centennial. This really happened. And they charged admission to the wedding. And I just felt that the wedding should be
the end of our show, because weddings are a traditional ending of comedies and of musicals. This was a very ironic wedding, but it just
seemed right to me. But how to get to that was a big mystery. Well, I’d like to ask a question, if you
could go around with me. Since our audience is made up of a lot of
students, and the majority of them are actors, performers, what advice would you have to
give to them as they go on? How do they get an agent, how do they get
to see you? What happens with them, when they start to
go out looking for work? I thought Doug’s advice, just do it, is
absolutely right on the money. You know, even if you’re just getting friends
together to read your play, it’s very important. And also, his experience of doing any kind
of theatre work he could when he came to the city, that’s invaluable, because you make
connections, you make relationships that who knows when they might pay off. I worked at a box office at a theatre in Boston
in the early seventies, and the man I worked for now is very important in the Jujamcyn
Theatre Organization and came to see SIDE SHOW last week, and it was just such a thrill
to me that that relationship is still pertinent. Most of the actors who’ve been in my plays
knew me, like Mark Nelson knew me from being a doorman and I would talk about plays with
him. And doing a bartending in the theatre, that
sounds like I was just so desperate to be in any part of the theatre, just even that
far away. No. I used to be able to come into the theatre
early and watch the director and the playwright give notes to the actors. And I would sit there in the back and just
kind of listen and learn. You just do that. And again, you just put it together and you
do it. It is not so mystifying. Within this room is the next circle and generation
in the American theatre. And my advice would be, remember that circles
rise together. You know very talented friends that you would
love to work with. Be true to each other. Be generous and believe in each other. Because it’s hard to sustain one’s belief
alone, all isolated. Circles will rise together. If there are people you would love to work
with who are in your class, in your neighborhood, be true to them, and you will rise together. It’s hard to recognize it now, but you are
the next generation. And ten to twenty years from now, you’ll
say, “I can’t believe I used to drink beer with this person. They’re my colleague.” Absolutely. And because theatre is collaborative, I think
a large part of succeeding is finding the people you want to work with. Yes. (GENERAL AGREEMENT) Yeah. And I think the beauty is that there is no
one way to do it. I think that you can talk to a hundred people,
how they started working, and you have a hundred different ways of doing it. (GENERAL AGREEMENT) And that’s really the
glory of it, I think, is that you find like-minded souls and just do it together. And however you do it will be the right way. That’s right. Henry James said to a young writer, “Be
bold and generous and pursue the prize!” And that’s it. (LAUGHTER) That’s great! That’s great. Well, I have to be bold and say this is coming
to an end. And each time, our seminars have so much talented
[people] and they have so much wonderful knowledge in it that I wish it would go on and on and
on. But unfortunately, there isn’t enough time. And I thank you, the audience, but I also
thank these wonderful people that share their talents and their time with the American Theatre
Wing. This is just one of the many year-round programs
of the Wing, and we are doing the seminars from the Graduate Center of the City University
of New York, which is located on 42nd Street, in the heart of Times Square. And it is part of what we’re saying today,
that New York is a wonderful campus, because there is such an opportunity to see theatre. There are student tickets at almost every
show, and I urge you to take advantage of it. See the theatre. It’s wonderful. Go to it. Thank you all for being here. (APPLAUSE)
