The best part about being on a contentious chatboard was firing off a blood-rushing, eye-brow pulsing ball of righteous indignation. With the personal element removed, everything was stunningly black and white. Anyone who disagreed was obviously an idiot (or worse). These no-holds-barred conversations were more about high-fiving people on my team than about changing anyone's mind on key issues and that was fine. This was a good, old-fashioned, adrenalin-filled snowball fight: keep throwing until you run out of ammunition and then take a look around to see who is still standing. I did that for several years before deciding to bow out.
It was actually pretty hard to walk away from the snowball fight because I love a good rush of adrenalin. But these were not powdery snowballs, disintegrating as they flew and landing with a playful thump. These were icy snowballs--hard packed snow wrapped around a chunk of ice, frozen again, and lobbed, rapid-fire, at somebody's head. They were words said in anger and received in anger among strangers who didn't have any reason to trust each other. When I looked at it objectively it was a waste of time and energy.
Eventually I stopped having off-the-cuff snowball fights in real life too. In the spirit of choosing my battles, I chose silence. I couldn't trust that people would be generous in their assumptions as I worked through my thoughts out loud. In political and religious discussions, people rarely are. Here in Utah there is no subject where this is more true than homosexuality and the LDS church. Think you know my thoughts on this subject? I doubt you do. But I'm not choosing silence today. And the reason I'm not is because I want to trust you.
I've moved around a bit in my life but now, for the first time in my adult life, I'm really putting down roots. I've had ties to Utah my whole life, went to BYU as an undergrad, and have visited Utah County for major holidays for 20+ years but I still feel a bit new around town because it was only a few years ago that we moved here with no intention of moving away. So I have long time long-distance friends that I'm figuring out close-proximity friendship with and I have formerly-close-proximity friends that I'm figuring out long-distance friendship with. I also have a big group of new friends that I am building trust with. I love the metaphor for building trust that Brene Brown uses in her talk The Anatomy of Trust: a jar of marbles.
I am very aware, lately, of the small things that add or take away marbles from your friendship/trust jar--simply showing up (or simply not showing up), answering a text (or letting silence shut down the conversation), speaking your mind with compassion (or speaking your mind in anger). It's that last one that has been cutting deeply in the past few weeks. Like the contentious chatboard, social media creates an environment where you have niche conversations with like-minded people that are actually broadcast widely. I'd like to believe that if you were looking right at my face you would choose your words more carefully but the reality is that you didn't. And you lost marbles from your jar. Those of you who had precious few marbles left lost your jar entirely.
It's not just people who have jars; institutions can earn or lose trust too. This is why even though I was shocked and upset when I read the updated pages of the LDS church handbook that were leaked in November, I did not denounce anything or anyone. The church has earned a lot of marbles with me. I wholeheartedly believe that a prophet of God is on the earth. That is not something to take lightly. I also believe in taking time to see the whole picture and to let things percolate in my brain (I'm still in that process currently).
I love all of you--those who have lost the very last marble in their church jar, those whose jars are overflowing, those who live in a black-and-white world, and those who truly see where the colors blend. I welcome a thoughtful, in-person discussion with any one of you. But leave your icy snowballs--your snarky memes, your hateful language, your assertions that "in the Last Days more persecution will come from within the church than without"--out in the cold where they belong.
P.S. Apologies to those who thought I was going to weigh in on the specifics of the controversy online. I thought I was going to as well. Turns out I wasn't.
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Not For the Faint of Heart
Pilot Program
by Melissa Leilani Larson
Plan B Theater
April 18, 2015
On the drive up I resolved to see fewer shows in Salt Lake City. The logistics just about did me in. All of my good intentions about giving myself plenty of time to make the Herculean drive past the Point of the Mountain dissolved into 5 minutes here and 5 minutes there (my only consolation is that I will return to a weed free house with clean counters and folded laundry). In the end I was yelling at my children, driving faster than one ought to, and making muttered offerings to the traffic and parking gods. And resolving not to do this again. We have talented artists in Utah County. Maybe Salt Lake City theater is something to do when the children are grown. Darn you, Plan B, for undermining my perfectly logical resolution.
I arrived at my seat with 1.5 minutes to spare. Long enough for pleasant chatter with the folks on either side of me. Long enough to absorb the beautiful set before it became a more practical work of art. It was a basic living room set with lamps everywhere--as if the space itself was grasping desperately for light. It was all a very gauzey, warm glow with curves and soft corners everywhere. I loved how the lamps and lanterns extended far above the traditional living room space (heavenward?) with three large globes, each higher than the last, which made me think of the three degrees of glory. It had the effect of making heaven ever present in the show. Into this space the show was born for the third-to-last time.
The main character and narrator, Abby, sat on the couch and gently wove such beautiful lines that the performance poet in me almost snapped my fingers as a reflex gesture of solidarity and appreciation. There were so many moments like that in the play, generally when Abby had a monologue. One in particular stands out: the monologue about the dripping faucet. Not only was the image gorgeously evoked and the perfect illustration of the situation, the very image of this woman sitting in the kitchen studying the dripping faucet in this level of detail was a heartbreaking commentary.
But let me dial back to the opening scene again. We are presented with a faithful LDS couple who have just returned home from an interview with an area authority where they were asked to be part of a pilot program for the reinstatement of polygamy. They are as rattled as most people would be, with the wife (Abby) more unsettled than the husband (Jake). Jake was very supportive, one of those "truly good guys." I liked him, but by the end he really bugged me because he had no spine and no true spiritual center. Abby refers to herself as the "broken" one, but she's the one truly seeking the Spirit. Jake doesn't seem to have his own opinion on the situation until it's already done. When he assumes she is upset because she doesn't want to do it he bends over backwards to assure her that he's ok with that and that they will be spiritually fine with that. When she makes the decision to do it, he does as he is told (with very little pushback). I'm not saying he's a horrible person or anything but, good gravy, did you really just do something as big as take a second wife without seeking your own confirmation??
It made for an interesting dynamic, though, to have the polygamous marriage not be male-driven at all in the context of the play (setting aside the whole called-by-an-all-male-church-leadership-to-do-it-in-the-first-place thing). It's very much a love affair between the two women in the beginning (not a romantic love affair but more of a kindred spirits situation). This doesn't last, though, as the romantic love affair begins between Jake and the proclaimed younger version of Abby (Heather). They are all good people trying to make the best of the situation but the inevitable fracturing is, well, inevitable. Between the strict "visitation" schedule and the aching loneliness, it feels less like a marriage than like a joint custody agreement. There are flashes of loveliness (like the crossword puzzle) but it's never enough to recover from the punch-to-the-gut rawness that lurks under the surface of all of their interactions. That's what really touched a nerve for me because I know that loneliness, I know that rawness, I know what it's like to lose your husband.
Some people feel that these are the sorts of marriages we'll all have in heaven and if this play is an accurate representation of heaven I'd probably be the first resident of heaven's luxurious padded cells (with the straight jackets made of minky fabric. Soooo soft. Mmmmm). I'm sure equally interesting plays could be written from the perspective of Jake and Heather and would illustrate what they've lost too, but this is Abby's story and it's Abby we see losing pieces of herself as the story progresses. We see this quite literally as she removes coats, sweaters, and jewelry piece by piece, with no fanfare. She just keeps giving bits of herself away until in the end she gives away her voice and her husband comments that she seems to have disappeared. In the final moment of the play we see the original couple on the couch we started on, having one of those tiny, lovely moments. With the weight of the play behind it, though, it isn't lovely. It's wrenching. They had a beautiful marriage. And now they are connected forever but still essentially single. They share space but they are no longer a unit. There is just so much more pain there than love.
It made me think of two things: how whitewashed the scriptural version of Lehi's exodus from Jerusalem must seem when compared with a realistic depiction of the sacrifices and hardships they endured and also the words of the hymn O My Father. "In the heavens are parents single? No, the thought makes reason stare." I don't know how this issue will play out in the eternities (or even in this life, as pointed out in the opening scene), but I hope that Eliza R Snow was truly inspired when she penned that "truth is reason." Or at least I hope that when I have my husband in the eternities I won't still feel single.
by Melissa Leilani Larson
Plan B Theater
April 18, 2015
On the drive up I resolved to see fewer shows in Salt Lake City. The logistics just about did me in. All of my good intentions about giving myself plenty of time to make the Herculean drive past the Point of the Mountain dissolved into 5 minutes here and 5 minutes there (my only consolation is that I will return to a weed free house with clean counters and folded laundry). In the end I was yelling at my children, driving faster than one ought to, and making muttered offerings to the traffic and parking gods. And resolving not to do this again. We have talented artists in Utah County. Maybe Salt Lake City theater is something to do when the children are grown. Darn you, Plan B, for undermining my perfectly logical resolution.
I arrived at my seat with 1.5 minutes to spare. Long enough for pleasant chatter with the folks on either side of me. Long enough to absorb the beautiful set before it became a more practical work of art. It was a basic living room set with lamps everywhere--as if the space itself was grasping desperately for light. It was all a very gauzey, warm glow with curves and soft corners everywhere. I loved how the lamps and lanterns extended far above the traditional living room space (heavenward?) with three large globes, each higher than the last, which made me think of the three degrees of glory. It had the effect of making heaven ever present in the show. Into this space the show was born for the third-to-last time.
The main character and narrator, Abby, sat on the couch and gently wove such beautiful lines that the performance poet in me almost snapped my fingers as a reflex gesture of solidarity and appreciation. There were so many moments like that in the play, generally when Abby had a monologue. One in particular stands out: the monologue about the dripping faucet. Not only was the image gorgeously evoked and the perfect illustration of the situation, the very image of this woman sitting in the kitchen studying the dripping faucet in this level of detail was a heartbreaking commentary.
But let me dial back to the opening scene again. We are presented with a faithful LDS couple who have just returned home from an interview with an area authority where they were asked to be part of a pilot program for the reinstatement of polygamy. They are as rattled as most people would be, with the wife (Abby) more unsettled than the husband (Jake). Jake was very supportive, one of those "truly good guys." I liked him, but by the end he really bugged me because he had no spine and no true spiritual center. Abby refers to herself as the "broken" one, but she's the one truly seeking the Spirit. Jake doesn't seem to have his own opinion on the situation until it's already done. When he assumes she is upset because she doesn't want to do it he bends over backwards to assure her that he's ok with that and that they will be spiritually fine with that. When she makes the decision to do it, he does as he is told (with very little pushback). I'm not saying he's a horrible person or anything but, good gravy, did you really just do something as big as take a second wife without seeking your own confirmation??
It made for an interesting dynamic, though, to have the polygamous marriage not be male-driven at all in the context of the play (setting aside the whole called-by-an-all-male-church-leadership-to-do-it-in-the-first-place thing). It's very much a love affair between the two women in the beginning (not a romantic love affair but more of a kindred spirits situation). This doesn't last, though, as the romantic love affair begins between Jake and the proclaimed younger version of Abby (Heather). They are all good people trying to make the best of the situation but the inevitable fracturing is, well, inevitable. Between the strict "visitation" schedule and the aching loneliness, it feels less like a marriage than like a joint custody agreement. There are flashes of loveliness (like the crossword puzzle) but it's never enough to recover from the punch-to-the-gut rawness that lurks under the surface of all of their interactions. That's what really touched a nerve for me because I know that loneliness, I know that rawness, I know what it's like to lose your husband.
Some people feel that these are the sorts of marriages we'll all have in heaven and if this play is an accurate representation of heaven I'd probably be the first resident of heaven's luxurious padded cells (with the straight jackets made of minky fabric. Soooo soft. Mmmmm). I'm sure equally interesting plays could be written from the perspective of Jake and Heather and would illustrate what they've lost too, but this is Abby's story and it's Abby we see losing pieces of herself as the story progresses. We see this quite literally as she removes coats, sweaters, and jewelry piece by piece, with no fanfare. She just keeps giving bits of herself away until in the end she gives away her voice and her husband comments that she seems to have disappeared. In the final moment of the play we see the original couple on the couch we started on, having one of those tiny, lovely moments. With the weight of the play behind it, though, it isn't lovely. It's wrenching. They had a beautiful marriage. And now they are connected forever but still essentially single. They share space but they are no longer a unit. There is just so much more pain there than love.
It made me think of two things: how whitewashed the scriptural version of Lehi's exodus from Jerusalem must seem when compared with a realistic depiction of the sacrifices and hardships they endured and also the words of the hymn O My Father. "In the heavens are parents single? No, the thought makes reason stare." I don't know how this issue will play out in the eternities (or even in this life, as pointed out in the opening scene), but I hope that Eliza R Snow was truly inspired when she penned that "truth is reason." Or at least I hope that when I have my husband in the eternities I won't still feel single.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
The Review Where I Try Not to Be a Spoiler (But Readers Should Still Be Alert)
As a writer, my reaction to something well written (be it play, movie, novel, poem, advertising copy...) is usually "Dang! I wish I had written that!" It was on my lips as I left the movie theater after watching the movie Freetown (and in the back of my head for the two hours prior).
One thing I loved was how seeds of future actions or plot turns were carefully sewn into the script without feeling forced or out of place. For instance, a fun scene illustrating street contacting in Monrovia effortlessly establishes that an elder is having a hard time with a cold contact approach to proselyting ("opening your mouth"). This elder later opens his mouth at just the right time, which was immensely satisfying. Little moments like that are found throughout the movie, making it feel like all of the little threads have a through-line.
The journey of the movie is both a physical journey to Freetown and a spiritual journey for the man charged with keeping the missionaries safe. This charge bookends the events in the movie and spurs him on in the physical journey, which moves him along in his spiritual journey too. Issues of faith and practicality are the central struggle in the story but the script doesn't sermonize. A well placed word or phrase (or no words at all) speak more than a monologue could. The write trusted the powerful images on the screen and did not let the characters talk more than they ought to.
The movie shines in many aspects, of course, (not just the writing) and the story itself (a true one) is incredibly compelling. There were shots that created images not soon forgotten--the line of baptismal candidates queued up beneath the lookout holding a semi-automatic rifle, the convert on the bus with religious icons on the window behind her, the return of one man when two were expected (with just the closing of the door and no words). It felt like every shot was rich with information about life in Africa, life as an African missionary, and life as an African Latter-Day Saint. My heart thrilled to see their faith and courage.
The only complaint I had (besides wondering sometimes why no one thought to barter with those big, shiny watches they were wearing) was that there was one character we don't quite see safely to the end of his story. Those of you who have watched the movie might know who I'm talking about. The rest of you should stop reading right now because I won't be able to rest until I know......
What happened to our LDS rebel friend?? I half expected him to come tumbling out of the car on the ferry but he was nowhere to be seen. I love that he made his stand at the end, but he still seems very unsettled to me. Where did he go? What were the consequences of his bold action? Earlier we are given to believe that helping the missionaries would have dire consequences but the bad guy seems so thwarted at the end that I don't feel like his threat is credible anymore and yet I don't know for sure that this is the case. Also, the rebel is asked several times to join the group fleeing but he chooses to stay with the rebel group. Then he breaks with the rebels but doesn't join the fleeing group? Perhaps this is a minor point, but it stands out as a loose thread when all other threads are so beautifully tied off.
Overall, this was a highly engaging film. I enjoyed watching it and encourage you to do the same. This film with stick me for a long time (and not just because I dearly wish I had been the one to write it).
One thing I loved was how seeds of future actions or plot turns were carefully sewn into the script without feeling forced or out of place. For instance, a fun scene illustrating street contacting in Monrovia effortlessly establishes that an elder is having a hard time with a cold contact approach to proselyting ("opening your mouth"). This elder later opens his mouth at just the right time, which was immensely satisfying. Little moments like that are found throughout the movie, making it feel like all of the little threads have a through-line.
The journey of the movie is both a physical journey to Freetown and a spiritual journey for the man charged with keeping the missionaries safe. This charge bookends the events in the movie and spurs him on in the physical journey, which moves him along in his spiritual journey too. Issues of faith and practicality are the central struggle in the story but the script doesn't sermonize. A well placed word or phrase (or no words at all) speak more than a monologue could. The write trusted the powerful images on the screen and did not let the characters talk more than they ought to.
The movie shines in many aspects, of course, (not just the writing) and the story itself (a true one) is incredibly compelling. There were shots that created images not soon forgotten--the line of baptismal candidates queued up beneath the lookout holding a semi-automatic rifle, the convert on the bus with religious icons on the window behind her, the return of one man when two were expected (with just the closing of the door and no words). It felt like every shot was rich with information about life in Africa, life as an African missionary, and life as an African Latter-Day Saint. My heart thrilled to see their faith and courage.
The only complaint I had (besides wondering sometimes why no one thought to barter with those big, shiny watches they were wearing) was that there was one character we don't quite see safely to the end of his story. Those of you who have watched the movie might know who I'm talking about. The rest of you should stop reading right now because I won't be able to rest until I know......
What happened to our LDS rebel friend?? I half expected him to come tumbling out of the car on the ferry but he was nowhere to be seen. I love that he made his stand at the end, but he still seems very unsettled to me. Where did he go? What were the consequences of his bold action? Earlier we are given to believe that helping the missionaries would have dire consequences but the bad guy seems so thwarted at the end that I don't feel like his threat is credible anymore and yet I don't know for sure that this is the case. Also, the rebel is asked several times to join the group fleeing but he chooses to stay with the rebel group. Then he breaks with the rebels but doesn't join the fleeing group? Perhaps this is a minor point, but it stands out as a loose thread when all other threads are so beautifully tied off.
Overall, this was a highly engaging film. I enjoyed watching it and encourage you to do the same. This film with stick me for a long time (and not just because I dearly wish I had been the one to write it).
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Eat Like a Girl
Dear Readers,
I wanted to bring this to your attention in case you, too, have been upset by seemingly "small" ways that our girls are told that being who they are is a pejorative. If you see something like I describe in my letter below, please speak up! And if you feel thus inclined on this issue, please write Cubby's and let them know it bothers you too or blog/tweet/post about it with the hashtag #EatLikeAGirl #LikeAGirl
February 11, 2015
Cubby's Chicago Beef
1258 North State Street
Provo, Utah 84604
Dear Cubby's,
I had the great experience of discovering your restaurant
last week in Provo. The servers were
polite and friendly. The food was
wonderful. The atmosphere was fun. The menu wall was engaging and infuriating. I know you’ve heard about this before because
when I posted the following picture (see below) on my Facebook page one of my
friends said that she complains about it every time she goes to Cubby's. I’m talking about the designation of the levels
of spiciness as “girl, boy and man.”
Yes, I know it is meant to be in keeping with the fun loving atmosphere
of the restaurant. It was a joke. We should all just laugh it off or, if it
really bugs us, go eat somewhere else.
But I really like your food and I’d like to keep eating there. In order to do that, I can’t just remain
silent on this issue. It bothers me that
it is still considered ok to characterize women and girls, across the board, as
being less than or weaker than men.
There are a hundred other fun-loving ways to designate the levels of
spiciness of the food. Why was this
designation chosen? What message is it
sending? Yes, this is one tiny little
thing. But our girls are bombarded with
tiny little things that define them as less than. The weight of all of these tiny little things
adds up. As we saw in the excellent
Always commercial during the Super Bowl, young girls don’t recognize being a
girl is a pejorative until we teach them it’s a pejorative. Please don’t be one of the voices teaching my
daughters that to be who they are is the weakest thing on the menu.
Marianne Hales Harding
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Two Minds: The Count of Monte Cristo
The Count of Monte Cristo, A New Musical
BYU
January 22-14; 27-31, 2015
Music by Frank Wildhorn
Book and lyrics by Jack Murphy
Directed by Tim Threlfall
Musical direction by Gayle Lockwood
Choreography by Nathan Balser
Creative producer: Jeffrey Martin
Long before my brief stint as a resident of Las Vegas, I was a fan of big spectacle. Raised on opera, I learned as a child to put my inner playwright on the back shelf and just enjoy the overblown drama, the unearned emotion, and, most of all, the music. This is also the reason I love large cast musicals. No judgment about how they got from Point A to Point B; let's just listen to them sing. Especially when the heroine's songs all fall within my range! Shut up, inner playwright! No one was talking to you.
It was in that vein that I enjoyed this new musical adaptation of the classic novel The Count of Monte Cristo. Folks, they had a body double for two of the main characters so they could fly them across an ocean themed screen and have the characters actually swim across the stage to the hidden cavern. This was Spectacle (note the capital S!). I love stuff like that! I also loved the graphic design of the opening slides, even though I'm not a huge fan of slides-as-exposition. The drawings of waves moved like waves. It was supercool.
It was about a third of the way through that my inner playwright started bugging me. We had just had a beautiful duet between the True Love in a church praying for Our Hero's safe return and Our Hero in the prison, sustained by the mere thought of his True Love. Great song. Then Our Hero leaves and the Weaselly Bad Guy attempts to woo True Love. In time Our Hero returns to the prison part of the scene, but with substantial beard growth. True Love and the Weasel continue as before. So are we to suppose that the Weasel persisted over the course of many years before turning True Love's heart to his? A major plot point refutes that explanation and I once again must say, "Shut up, inner playwright! No one was talking to you!"
When condensing a lengthy novel for the stage, significant emotional journeys are sometimes (ok, often) reduced to the barest brushstrokes so that we can more easily move from one song to the next. Sometimes I have to tell myself that surely this is more fleshed out in the novel. I had to do that at several points in the musical and now I can't decide if I want to ever read the novel. What if it doesn't give us reason not to hate True Love? I'm holding on to that last thread (remember, all of her songs are in my range so I am inclined at the gut level to like her), because based only on what we see in the musical this is a girl I want to smack. Hard.
First, she spends a high percentage of her stage time half-raised from the floor, in emotional turmoil. I can forgive that because I love emotional turmoil songs, but the complexity that I am really hoping is in the novel does not come across in this script. I am hoping that she married the Weasel because she knew that as a woman in this time period her options were limited and she wanted her unborn child to have the advantages of a male protector. On stage, she is too dumb to see how bald the Weasel's romantic machinations are, takes his lies at face value, and only requires a couple of awkward, forced hugs to break her will. Looks like the Weasel really did know best when it comes to True Love.
There are two types of women in this play: those who exist within the patriarchy and those who do not. Both are somewhat off-putting. There's True Love (whose whole life is controlled by the actions and decisions of men), Apprentice True Love (who is in love with True Love's son), and the Pirate Queens (who keep a surly, all male pirate crew in line with the power of their cleavage and their propensity for random violence). I know I'm supposed to like the Pirate Queens because they are so sassy but the whole scenario seemed terribly unlikely. Honestly, when they first came on stage I wondered if I was still watching the same musical I had been watching. So the only female character who can say things and be heard and make decisions for herself is pretty much a joke. And she, too, is helpless when it comes to Our Hero. He runs the place, folks (with the help of his body double). Within 5 minutes of meeting Our Hero, the Pirate Queen changes her policy on how a fight to the death ends, changes her destination (by hundreds of leagues), and changes her pirate instincts (did she get even one coin of the treasure? Did she even try?). The worst was when Our Hero and Mini Me sing about those silly women they love (True Love and Apprentice True Love, respectively). The women end up looking like porcelain dolls instead of living, breathing human beings and their portrayal throughout the show does pretty much the same thing.
The other time my inner playwright wept was when True Love reveals that Mini Me is actually Our Hero's son (gasp!). I did not believe their joyous reactions. Ok, I can believe that Our Hero is joyous about having a son despite being in prison during his prime family-making years. But Mini Me, who not only just lost the only father he has ever known but was the person who did the killing, is surely not going to have a first reaction of unadulterated joy. "You mean the alcoholic, abusive man I just killed isn't my father? It's actually the lying, angry man who ruined my family's good name and who, earlier today, I tried to kill? Sweet! And my mom had a secret life she never told me about? Could this day get any better?" Shut up, inner playwright! No one was talking to you!
Based on the standing ovation all around me, though, and the raucous cheering of the four busloads of appreciative high schoolers, nobody else had a pesky inner playwright casting a pall on what was, really, a very fun afternoon of Spectacle and Song.
The moon expanded as they sang louder as a graphic representation of all of their dreams coming true. If you can't have fun with a magical expanding moon then you, my friend, won't ever have fun.
BYU
January 22-14; 27-31, 2015
Music by Frank Wildhorn
Book and lyrics by Jack Murphy
Directed by Tim Threlfall
Musical direction by Gayle Lockwood
Choreography by Nathan Balser
Creative producer: Jeffrey Martin
Long before my brief stint as a resident of Las Vegas, I was a fan of big spectacle. Raised on opera, I learned as a child to put my inner playwright on the back shelf and just enjoy the overblown drama, the unearned emotion, and, most of all, the music. This is also the reason I love large cast musicals. No judgment about how they got from Point A to Point B; let's just listen to them sing. Especially when the heroine's songs all fall within my range! Shut up, inner playwright! No one was talking to you.
It was in that vein that I enjoyed this new musical adaptation of the classic novel The Count of Monte Cristo. Folks, they had a body double for two of the main characters so they could fly them across an ocean themed screen and have the characters actually swim across the stage to the hidden cavern. This was Spectacle (note the capital S!). I love stuff like that! I also loved the graphic design of the opening slides, even though I'm not a huge fan of slides-as-exposition. The drawings of waves moved like waves. It was supercool.
It was about a third of the way through that my inner playwright started bugging me. We had just had a beautiful duet between the True Love in a church praying for Our Hero's safe return and Our Hero in the prison, sustained by the mere thought of his True Love. Great song. Then Our Hero leaves and the Weaselly Bad Guy attempts to woo True Love. In time Our Hero returns to the prison part of the scene, but with substantial beard growth. True Love and the Weasel continue as before. So are we to suppose that the Weasel persisted over the course of many years before turning True Love's heart to his? A major plot point refutes that explanation and I once again must say, "Shut up, inner playwright! No one was talking to you!"
When condensing a lengthy novel for the stage, significant emotional journeys are sometimes (ok, often) reduced to the barest brushstrokes so that we can more easily move from one song to the next. Sometimes I have to tell myself that surely this is more fleshed out in the novel. I had to do that at several points in the musical and now I can't decide if I want to ever read the novel. What if it doesn't give us reason not to hate True Love? I'm holding on to that last thread (remember, all of her songs are in my range so I am inclined at the gut level to like her), because based only on what we see in the musical this is a girl I want to smack. Hard.
First, she spends a high percentage of her stage time half-raised from the floor, in emotional turmoil. I can forgive that because I love emotional turmoil songs, but the complexity that I am really hoping is in the novel does not come across in this script. I am hoping that she married the Weasel because she knew that as a woman in this time period her options were limited and she wanted her unborn child to have the advantages of a male protector. On stage, she is too dumb to see how bald the Weasel's romantic machinations are, takes his lies at face value, and only requires a couple of awkward, forced hugs to break her will. Looks like the Weasel really did know best when it comes to True Love.
There are two types of women in this play: those who exist within the patriarchy and those who do not. Both are somewhat off-putting. There's True Love (whose whole life is controlled by the actions and decisions of men), Apprentice True Love (who is in love with True Love's son), and the Pirate Queens (who keep a surly, all male pirate crew in line with the power of their cleavage and their propensity for random violence). I know I'm supposed to like the Pirate Queens because they are so sassy but the whole scenario seemed terribly unlikely. Honestly, when they first came on stage I wondered if I was still watching the same musical I had been watching. So the only female character who can say things and be heard and make decisions for herself is pretty much a joke. And she, too, is helpless when it comes to Our Hero. He runs the place, folks (with the help of his body double). Within 5 minutes of meeting Our Hero, the Pirate Queen changes her policy on how a fight to the death ends, changes her destination (by hundreds of leagues), and changes her pirate instincts (did she get even one coin of the treasure? Did she even try?). The worst was when Our Hero and Mini Me sing about those silly women they love (True Love and Apprentice True Love, respectively). The women end up looking like porcelain dolls instead of living, breathing human beings and their portrayal throughout the show does pretty much the same thing.
The other time my inner playwright wept was when True Love reveals that Mini Me is actually Our Hero's son (gasp!). I did not believe their joyous reactions. Ok, I can believe that Our Hero is joyous about having a son despite being in prison during his prime family-making years. But Mini Me, who not only just lost the only father he has ever known but was the person who did the killing, is surely not going to have a first reaction of unadulterated joy. "You mean the alcoholic, abusive man I just killed isn't my father? It's actually the lying, angry man who ruined my family's good name and who, earlier today, I tried to kill? Sweet! And my mom had a secret life she never told me about? Could this day get any better?" Shut up, inner playwright! No one was talking to you!
Based on the standing ovation all around me, though, and the raucous cheering of the four busloads of appreciative high schoolers, nobody else had a pesky inner playwright casting a pall on what was, really, a very fun afternoon of Spectacle and Song.
The moon expanded as they sang louder as a graphic representation of all of their dreams coming true. If you can't have fun with a magical expanding moon then you, my friend, won't ever have fun.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
What Movies Do Best: Thoughts on _Selma_
On hot button issues I tend to follow the example of Mary: "But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart" (Luke 2:19). It's a matter of self preservation. In most issues you are damned if you do or damned if you don't. I used to find a good flame war invigorating, but now I can't stand the taste of bile. Aware of what I don't know, I hesitate to draw a line in the sand. It seems, too, that there is a deep chasm between the two sides of any issue. Knowledge and understanding are not acknowledged as malleable and progressive. You choose a side and view everything through that lens. The word "ignorant" is hurled back and forth like it was a cardinal sin rather than a universal fact. I am ignorant. Love me anyways (as I love you, in your ignorance). Educate me without rancor (and I will try to return the favor).
With that preamble, I will uncharacteristically share my thoughts on a one such issue (with fear and trembling for the personal ignorance I am sure to reveal). I didn't really learn any big new facts from the movie Selma. I am somewhat educated and know my history. The power of the movie for me was the power of the medium: perspective, empathy, emotion. Watching the movie with my father I was struck with the realization that he, too, was in his 30's in the 60's--living in the same world and yet in a very different world. If this struggle was in my immediate background, as close as the man sitting next to me, how would that affect my initial response to the death of a young black man at the hands of a policeman?
I know this all sounds like Empathy 101 or Things You Learn When You Are Twelve but there is a difference between knowing something intellectually and having it really land emotionally. The struggle depicted on the screen was not far away at all. It was right here, within the scope of my immediate family, nearly within the scope of my lifetime.
And as I think of my family's history unfolding alongside these seminal events and yet not seemingly touched by them, I don't have to wonder what it would have been like to experience that. I'm currently experiencing that. How much pain is outside the scope of my daily influence? How many moments are there where I would stand up and be counted if I had any real awareness of them? This is not to say that my sphere of influence does not contain pain or moments of truth and courage. But, oh, how I would like to take a stand for truth in all instances. How I would like to view life from all perspectives, even if only briefly. How I hope to keep being emotionally educated. And how I hope we can always do this for each other with love.
[And, yes, I know I promised some musings on a current hot button issue but that mostly got the ax. That's not my bag, folks.]
Here is a poem I wrote a week or two ago that seems particularly relevant to my musings tonight:
Maps
With that preamble, I will uncharacteristically share my thoughts on a one such issue (with fear and trembling for the personal ignorance I am sure to reveal). I didn't really learn any big new facts from the movie Selma. I am somewhat educated and know my history. The power of the movie for me was the power of the medium: perspective, empathy, emotion. Watching the movie with my father I was struck with the realization that he, too, was in his 30's in the 60's--living in the same world and yet in a very different world. If this struggle was in my immediate background, as close as the man sitting next to me, how would that affect my initial response to the death of a young black man at the hands of a policeman?
I know this all sounds like Empathy 101 or Things You Learn When You Are Twelve but there is a difference between knowing something intellectually and having it really land emotionally. The struggle depicted on the screen was not far away at all. It was right here, within the scope of my immediate family, nearly within the scope of my lifetime.
And as I think of my family's history unfolding alongside these seminal events and yet not seemingly touched by them, I don't have to wonder what it would have been like to experience that. I'm currently experiencing that. How much pain is outside the scope of my daily influence? How many moments are there where I would stand up and be counted if I had any real awareness of them? This is not to say that my sphere of influence does not contain pain or moments of truth and courage. But, oh, how I would like to take a stand for truth in all instances. How I would like to view life from all perspectives, even if only briefly. How I hope to keep being emotionally educated. And how I hope we can always do this for each other with love.
[And, yes, I know I promised some musings on a current hot button issue but that mostly got the ax. That's not my bag, folks.]
Here is a poem I wrote a week or two ago that seems particularly relevant to my musings tonight:
Maps
I’ve been high on life, drunk on love, and addicted to soap
operas, but I couldn’t tell you what alcohol tastes like or how random pills you
haven’t been prescribed feel when they slip into your brain.
That’s not my path.
No judgment.
It just isn’t mine.
That’s on Main Street; I’m on Center.
If you want a tour guide, I can’t help you with that street.
It isn’t a personal failing not to have first hand, intimate
knowledge of every street in town.
That’s what maps are for.
Guidebooks. Blogs.
Because I’ve been beaten down but never beaten.
I’ve begged for seconds but never for rent.
But I have listened to enough travelers to know that no
roads are without rocks.
We all have bloodied feet, even if it isn’t apparent when
observed from a distance.
So instead of throwing stones between the blocks, perhaps we
should work together on a more comprehensive and detailed atlas.
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