Instant Theatre-Just Add Coffee

Instant Theatre-Just Add Coffee

I looked at the ad three times. Each time I looked at it put the newspaper down, but something kept drawing me back to it:

Westchester theatre seeks actors, directors, and playwrights for a 24-hour Marathon.

I always wanted to write a play. While I’d seen these marathons promoted in Off-Off-Broadway theatres, I always told myself this wasn’t for me. And it was too much of a hassle to get downtown. Now, this would be in Westchester, where I live.

What was I afraid of? Only that:

a)    I would never be able to write a play, overnight.

b)   I would have my worst fear, that I have no talent, confirmed.

c)    I would suffer abject humiliation, and as a result…

d)   …I would never be able to leave my house in the light of day again

And yet I still want to move forward and try and write a play, so I leaped into action.

Not really. I procrastinated.

When my wife told me that the shelf paper in the kitchen cabinets did not need to be changed, again I was out of excuses. I pulled up the theatre’s online application form, answered a few brief questions, and I was done. Although I don’t see how answering “Who is your favorite character from Harry Potter?” tells anybody anything. Not having read the books or seen any of the movies, I googled Harry Potter. I picked Prof. Severus Snape, only because he was played by Alan Rickman. I still didn’t know who the character was and prayed to God that no one would ask me about it. Still, there was a very good chance that I wouldn’t be accepted which meant I wouldn’t have to face my fear of failure.

But, alas, three days later, while girding myself for rejection, I received an e-mail instructing me to show up at the theatre on the following Friday at 7:00. While part of me was excited, most of me felt the way I did when I received the notice from my draft board telling me to report for my army physical. At least, I told myself, I wouldn’t be nearly naked this time-it would just feel that way.

The way the Marathon works is that people apply as either a playwright, actor, or director. They meet at the theatre at 7 pm on a Friday evening. No one knows each other. The organizer randomly puts people in small groups consisting of a playwright, a director, and actors. After an hour-long “getting to know you” period, the playwright goes off and writes. They have until 7:00 the next morning to complete a 10-minute play. The director and actors show up the next morning and are given the scripts to work on until showtime-7 pm that night. If I can’t produce anything, the people on my team will be screwed, and my fear of failure will be realized.

No pressure.

I’ve always been intrigued by these projects. They appeal to my sense of needing a deadline in order to write anything, my lack of commitment to any long-term project, and my abject boredom with anything I’ve ever created seconds after its completion.

That Friday, I expected a large turnout of experienced theatre-makers and was prepared to be intimidated, which I hoped would fuel my resolve, and jump-start my creativity. Instead, I walked into the cavernous theatre to find fourteen other people representing various levels of experience, age, and ethnicity.

The theatre’s Education Coordinator was a young energetic woman named Tracey. Tracey had the personality of a governor’s press secretary who believed in all of her boss’ bullshit as she waxed rhapsodic about her theatre. She engaged us all in exercises to help us get to know each other, so we could all get an idea about everyone’s personality, and how people expressed themselves.

During the exercises I found myself making mental notes like, “She would be interesting,” “I like his accent,” and, “If you stick me with her, I’ll kill myself.” But I did get an idea of the talent in the group.

When the pairings were announced, I was partnered with a director, Eloise, who had never directed before but is a playwright — so there was a real possibility that my play would be rewritten and badly directed. The actors were two young women from Brooklyn, Lisa, and Paula, in their early 30s. The four of us repaired to a quiet spot to talk. As for the two actors, I soon learned that English was not their first language (French and Portuguese). They’d been in the states for less than two years, but their English was just fine, and the women seemed to have a rapport with one another.

We all shared a bit about our experiences in the theatre and how we work, and then we all left the theatre; the actors and director to sleep, and me to write.

By the time I got home and had a quick dinner, it was 10 pm. I had nine hours to write the play and send it on to the director.

There was a time in my life when being up all night was no big deal. (There was also a time in my life when I did cocaine every weekend but that wasn’t happening tonight. Also, I believe my dealer is now the social director for a cruise line, so I wouldn’t know where to score). But now, it’s a big deal. I didn’t dare fall asleep as there was no guarantee I’d get up in time to write the play. So fueled with caffeine, I proceeded.

11:00 Panic had already set in, and I made an aborted attempt to retrofit a play I tried to write years ago that had been languishing in a folder.

12:00 I realized why it was still in the folder-it was terrible.

1:00 AM  Rejected the idea of a zombie psychotherapist and vampire patient.

2:00 AM  I actually get a good idea for a ten-minute play. Thinking about the rapport between Lisa and Paula I stumbled onto a premise: A woman asks a close friend to seduce her husband. (Trust me it’s funny, and it has a twist).

4:00 AM I pushed “Send.” Truth be told, I wasn’t sure the play was ready, but my fatigue had rendered any further revision pointless. As Lorne Michaels once said about Saturday Night Live, “The show doesn’t go on because it’s ready; it goes on because it’s 11:30.”

The next day I made it to the theatre an hour before the show. Eloise rushed up to me to ask if she could change a particular word. I don’t remember which word — but the meaning was the same and, for some reason, it was easier for the actor to say, so I agreed. Truth be told, at that point I would have agreed to a request that they perform the play speaking Aramaic.

Eloise also explained that there were some cultural references she had to translate for the actors. I didn’t stop to ask whether it’s because the references were quintessentially American, or because they were born out of pop culture from thirty years ago. One thing I learned from this was when writing for younger actors don’t assume they’ll know anything about Hill Street Blues. Did I really need a reminder of how much older I was than any of these folks? I guess I did.

The plays went on at 7 pm as promised and as with most projects like this, to varying degrees of success. I felt sorry for some of the “actors” (intentional quotes) who, from their expressions, looked as if they had just landed on the stage from Neptune; or the ones who, even with scripts in their hands were incapable of saying their lines. The actors in my play (because let’s face it, that’s what I was really interested in) did a really good job, as did the director.

Much to my surprise, as I watched, I realized I might have a viable, ten-minute play.

Would I do this again? Maybe. Or maybe I should sit down and without any outside deadline to move me, try to write another play.

But first I think the bathtub needs grouting.