Month: January 2019

Since I’m de-mystifying a handful of things about theater on this blog, I thought it might be a good idea to untangle the pre-production process on a musical or play for my readers, especially as one phase of development is starting to get a lot of attention in the news lately.

How did I realize how important this topic was? A few years back, I had the privilege of associate producing the staged reading of a new evening of one-acts, American Asylum. The experience was quite successful, in that it resulted in a signed deal for a Broadway company. (You haven’t heard of it? Look, development takes a long time, people.)

But when I got home from NY and began explaining what I’d just been working on to a layperson friend, I did something that troubled me a little bit. As I tried to clarify, I found myself using the terms “reading” and “workshop” interchangeably, yet insisting that they weren’t the same thing. They pressed me to articulate the specific differences, and I struggled to come up with an answer. The more I asked around, both within and without the industry, the more I realized I wasn’t alone. And with disputes between Actors’ Equity and the Broadway League over “developmental labs” now forming a big part of show biz news, I began to feel that maybe it was about time someone sat down and explained it.

More than one developmental process is now considered fundamental to a show’s creation, though they are relatively recent in origin. They’re all technically different, but people tend to use the terms for them fairly loosely; this is understandable, as these days there is considerable bleed-through of each into the others. Still, the distinctions are important at a contractual level and a… I’ll call it spiritual… level, so it’s worth the lesson. (My very loose definitions of readings and workshops, as well as their origin stories, are derived from Stephen Sondheim’s book Finishing the Hat, a good source in any event, but are not particularly binding, and indeed the two overlap at points.)

Readings

During the development of Larry Gelbart, Burt Shevelove, and Sondheim’s musical comedy A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, they were courting legendary director/choreographer Jerome Robbins (who had just collaborated with Sondheim, with much success, on West Side Story and Gypsy) to lead the creative team. Unfortunately, due to Robbins’ busy schedule as a ballet choreographer, he was unable to commit to definite meetings about directing the piece, and he informed the authors that since he had several questions about both the script and the unfinished score, it might be a good idea to assemble a group of actors and have them read through the show while the composer played and sang whatever songs he had written.

To quote Sondheim: “The reading, of course, turned out to be a revelation. Unadorned by scenery and costumes, unrehearsed, sung (by me) with no refinement and only approximate pitch, the show was stripped naked, plain for all of us to see at both its best and worst, as well as the dangerous territory in between. […] in that large, empty room we could see the show for what it was […] So much that had to be rewritten or filled out or cut down was suddenly clear. And, best of all, it was still malleable. […] What we had effectively done was to save ourselves large amounts of time that would have been spent fixing the show in the customary rushed, exhausted late-night ambiance of out-of-town hotel rooms. […] The notion worked so well that [they frequently repeated the process subsequently], and over time other producers and directors started to recognize its value. Before long, every gestating musical held readings…”

(Incidentally, Robbins, for whom the process was created, ultimately could not commit to the show but came back to fix a few things last-minute out-of-town, and his improvements led it to be one of Sondheim’s earliest hits.)

At its barest essentials, a reading can be as simple as actors sitting around a table with scripts they’ve barely had time to read and a composer singing solo at a piano. This type of reading, predictably enough, is commonly referred to as a “table reading.” Generally, there is little rehearsal; maybe some private sessions, a music rehearsal or two if the cast is singing as well as reading the piece.

A variant of this process, the “staged reading,” differs in that the actors are for sure singing the score (in the case of a musical), they have around a week of rehearsal, and they present the material at music stands rather than seated around a table. The rehearsal period for each actor can’t be more than 29 hours according to Equity, and there are to be no props, costumes, sets, choreography, or production values period. Everyone involved gets paid for these, and it’s generally very low.

Workshops

Workshops are something else again, the “inevitable afterbirth” (as Mel Brooks put it in History of the World: Part I) of the reading, and not quite so simple as all that. As Sondheim put it, “What had begun as a learning experience for the authors became transmogrified into a thinly disguised backers’ audition […] so that the producers can raise the production money and start the highly desired (and overrated) anticipation known as ‘buzz.'”

Don’t get me wrong, workshops are equally aimed at the authors being able to discover the strengths and weaknesses of their work, but there are a few more moving parts, to understate it considerably. Today, a workshop can be — and often is — a semi-production, a full presentation of the material in a rehearsal room with a carefully chosen full-sized fully-miked cast, skeletal sets, suggestions of costumes, minimal props, elaborate staging and choreography, and an orchestra in the form of a small or even full-sized band (in the case of a musical). Throw in a large invited audience, usually of deep-pocketed strangers hoping to be entertained, and let it be the kind of event with performances scheduled to run sometimes as long as two weeks, and you’ve got the average workshop. It’s not unlike seeing a rehearsal of a finished production before it moves into a theater and they start adding the design and tech elements.

The actors are pretty well paid, though there is ultimately more money down the line than upfront, as they receive a small collective percentage or “points” in the final production and all subsequent productions of that script, which dates from the kerfuffle over Michael Bennett’s development of A Chorus Line, a process that consisted largely of using the stories of actual dancers (initially) without proper compensation. It’s certainly not unfair, as the project in question being work-shopped is in development and changing based on everyone’s work, with actors frequently inspiring, say, changes to the script, like cuts or even actual lines. It is for this reason that the right of “first refusal” (i.e., they ask the actor in question to play their role in the final production before anyone else) is built in as well; if the character is cut or changes enough that casting someone else is a better idea, the producer is obligated to buy them out with four weeks’ salary.

(In all honesty, under either this or the following conditions, I feel not all actors in all situations deserve a cut of the show’s future profits; it should be treated on a case-by-case basis. But that’s unlikely to change any time soon.)

Developmental Labs

Developmental labs… where do I begin? They’re fairly new to the game, and it shows. To this day, no one has been able to adequately explain to me what a developmental lab accomplishes that a reading or workshop doesn’t. There is no earthly reason for this distinction to exist, contractually or otherwise.

There is a wide range of options for what a finished lab would look like, with differing levels of rehearsal time, staging, and memorization (on the actors’ parts), the idea being that a given lab is devoted to whatever is deemed most useful to the creative team at that specific phase of the show’s development, but who said a workshop or a reading couldn’t have a specific aim? Provided one has the backing, one can do as many readings or workshops as necessary en route to the desired destination, focusing on whatever one wishes.

The primary difference, as far as a producer is concerned, seems to be the money. As of this writing, under a developmental lab contract, actors are paid more weekly upfront, in part to compensate for the fact that they do not receive any percentage/points in the final production of the show and are not guaranteed the first refusal on their part. Actors’ Equity OK’ed this arrangement because shows no longer follow a predictable route to Broadway and there are more developmental steps needed in the current commercial climate. (“…Are there?” is usually my response.)

Producers have taken huge advantage of this lightened financial burden; rarely if ever is a show developed under a traditional workshop contract anymore. Sound business sense, to be sure — when the majority of productions are not profitable, producers don’t want to gamble even more money. Equity, realizing too late that they’ve made a mistake and are interested in preserving union work, has recently begun a campaign (trending as “#NotALabRat” on Twitter) to restructure the developmental lab agreement to better include the actors who helped create the show. They’ve gone on strike, putting developmental labs, workshops, and readings on their “do not work” list and stating further that any non-union person who takes part in a lab, due to producers not being able to afford union performers due to Equity’s demands, will be banned from ever being able to join Equity. Union actors, for their part, are divided in this fight on whether it’s better to work more or be paid more.

Speaking for myself, I agree with Annoying Actor Friend’s words on the subject in 2015. I don’t see why the developmental lab agreement exists, or who thought this was a good idea. Further, you can’t say that Equity isn’t doing exactly what a union is supposed to do in this situation. Section 7 of the National Labor Relations Act states in part, “Employees shall have the right […] to engage in other concerted activities for the purpose of collective bargaining or other mutual aid or protection.” This fits the bill.

I also feel, however, that Equity is having the wrong conversation with the Broadway League. For no discernible reason, they’re fighting to adjust a shit contract that shouldn’t exist to resemble a fine contract that already exists (i.e., putting labs on virtually the same level as workshops). Not to shit-talk, but I’m sure this is why the leaders of Equity are described as “smart fellas” by dyslexics. The more logical choice would be one of two options: 1) fight to abolish the developmental lab contract option, meaning we’re back to just readings and workshops, and if producers switch to readings because workshop money is prohibitive, then that can lead to a whole other discussion (namely, a fight for better compensation for readings), or 2) move to amend the existing workshop contract in some way to reflect today’s economy and bring it somewhat in line with the “advantages” of the developmental lab agreement. I would picture the latter conversation being along the lines of “Look, we’re done with developmental labs, it was a bad deal in the long term, there is no earthly reason for this distinction to exist contractually or otherwise, how about we amend the workshop contract to two options: standard salary, percentage, and right of first refusal, or take more money upfront, agree to a smaller percentage down the line (which is still substantial money if it’s a Wicked or Phantom), lessen the buyout amount commensurate to the other new math, and everybody goes home happy.”

Additionally, I think that striking from anything not directly related to a lab such as workshops or staged readings is horseshit, especially as the negative publicity surrounding labs will almost certainly lead to producers — even temporarily — pursuing the more lucrative workshops or more stable readings instead, and you would think they’d encourage making fair money under those agreements, but clearly, neither I nor anyone else can tell them how to run their railroad.

And lastly, I don’t believe it’s morally correct for Equity to threaten non-union performers in this way. It doesn’t surprise me in the least (Google “AFL-CIO” and “strong-arm tactics”), but I also don’t know what they hope to accomplish by doing so. For one thing, there are many talented actors, some of them legends (for example, Ted Neeley, who dropped his union status in the mid-Nineties to continue with a North American tour of Jesus Christ Superstar that went non-union and has never rejoined), who make rather a decent living without being in the union. Further, unless SAG-AFTRA backs them up in solidarity (and, as this is so solidly a theater fight not affecting any of their status quo, I doubt they will), non-stage union performers will have no trouble finding film work. Or they join up with AGVA and stick to other performing arts, some of which overlap Equity jurisdiction anyway. For another, we’ve already heard, several times, of Equity performers taking non-union roles under other names to make ends meet, particularly in the present economy. If they seriously think that a person who thinks working more now is more important than making more money later won’t cross the picket line if they need the dough, they’re sorely mistaken.

Then again, one cannot always credit Equity for intelligence; Lord knows they did the same thing when they invented the tiered and SETA national tour contracts that have virtually decimated the use of the full production contract on the road.

So, what is the best way to go?

Stephen Sondheim, in his book, thinks that such a process is most valuable only when used for the creators’ education and that a workshop (or developmental lab) that is practically a mini-production is virtually worthless and nowhere near as instructive as a simple little reading; he’s not the only one of this persuasion.

As far as I’m concerned, I think that each — at least for as long as people think developmental labs are a thing — is effective for different reasons, and rather than hew to just one or the other style, I believe that any original work would benefit from all of them, repeated various times in the production process, both to chart the progress of where the show is at for interested investors and to educate the creators.

(Note: Some of the information above was originally posted at gdelgiproducer on May 20, 2013. In the wake of Equity’s #NotALabRat campaign, I thought it singularly appropriate for this to be the next entry ported over. It has been modified for its present audience.)

On Producing and Producers

By performingartsadvice

On January 9, 2019

In Producing

People always ask me what it is I do as a producer. The answer is both obvious and complex: there are all sorts of producing jobs with somewhat different requirements. Budgets vary dramatically, and politics often change based on the money available. And no matter what, producing is a very involved job; after all, a producer ultimately calls the shots. They raise the money, they book the theater, they run the office… actors, directors, choreographers, designers, everybody from the highest to the lowest has their part to play, but as Mel Brooks put it, “The cast is great, the script is swell / But this we’re tellin’ you, sirs / It’s just no go, you’ve got no show / Without the producers!”

Honestly, I love producing. I love the camaraderie; I love leading a big team, negotiating, debating; I love the fights, the “Kumbaya” moments, the planning, the creative ah-ha’s; I love the meals; I love all the people around. Perhaps that has something to do with the fact that the other half of my life is spent, for the most part, without a social life. Maybe all that alone time makes me need some social time for balance in my life. I can’t say for sure. All I know is that I love producing, and there is, without a doubt, an art to it.

In all fields of entertainment, but particularly in live theater, you run into many kinds of producers. Is one kind better than another? Well, I leave that in the eye of the beholder; “by their fruits, ye shall know them.” But it’s important to know the differences between them, so I’m going to outline each type with a brief description, bearing in mind that most of this is a gross over-simplification of these types’ traits.

A performing producer comes from a performance or generally artistic background (but usually an actor, hence the “performing” half of the label). Sometimes they’ve migrated to producing because they’ve been unable to achieve their desired success in their field of choice, sometimes their run of success ended or peaked, and sometimes producing just interested them. Regardless of the reason, they’re generally proficient at a given producing talent, and their position on the team is largely owed to that. There is much industry respect for well-regarded performing producers, and in my opinion, it’s one of the better positions from which to start.
A suit is, frankly, my least favorite kind of producer, for a variety of reasons. First of all, they usually don’t come from an entertainment background; as the appellation suggests, they tend to focus on the bottom line instead of the big picture. The kind of people who put the “business” into “show business,” if you will. There’s nothing wrong with that per se, and indeed a suit can be a valued member of a team, but the lack of an entertainment grounding almost certainly comes with a huge knowledge gap in certain areas. However, particularly if the suit has an aptitude for math, you want them doing the books, as it were.
My personal favorite, partially because I am one, is the ascended fan. (Why yes, I do read TV Tropes, thank you for noticing.) An ascended fan’s strength comes from their deep-rooted understanding of the field and its history. They gain all of their knowledge from evaluating their favorite — and least favorite — shows. Because their obsessiveness has made them keenly aware of techniques used to positive effect over the years, they often know innately what works, without necessarily knowing why. An ascended fan brings to the table what an interior decorator brings to a living space: the vibe. Through their exhaustive knowledge, an ascended fan can often bring a fresh vision to the scene. (So, yes, some of you may have a future career thanks to fandom, if you choose to focus and stay the course.)
A writing producer (a/k/a a self-producer, in the event this person isn’t necessarily the author) not only developed a work of their own but has the money to put it up themselves. There are two extremes in this role, no in-between: either they are surprisingly wonderful or a dreaded spoiled brat. On the one hand, if they just happen to be an ancillary producer and not the creator of the project in question, they can be particularly useful as a creative element if someone walks from a show, and — extremely occasionally — sometimes the person who knows what’s best for a project is the person who gave birth to it. On the other, there are perhaps a handful of people in the world who can successfully produce their work themselves, and when it goes badly, it goes very, very badly.

(Let me clarify: there is nothing wrong with producing your original work to gain experience, but if your goal is to be a successful artist, then you need to leave the producing to others. Producing is a full-time job, with requirements that you as the artist can’t perform objectively. Without any designated producer besides you, there is no instant external feedback, no one to take care of mundane-but-necessary organizational stuff, no one to keep the pulse of the production and make thoughtful, rational decisions about where to go next, and no one to offer encouragement or propel the vision forward when others’ enthusiasm is flagging. Generally speaking, it’s usually much harder to talk yourself down from the proverbial ledge than it is for someone else to do it.)

Next up: do you work for a corporation that invested in the musical or play? Are you the only person reporting to them about it or involved in producing duties on their behalf? Congratulations, you’re the walkover! (Or, if you prefer, producer by default.) Usually, you’re not treated very well by your corporate parent if you’re in these shoes, so if you can pull it off, I recommend somehow proving yourself valuable to the rest of the team. Sometimes you can negotiate credit for yourself, thereby establishing a new career for yourself separate from the corporate schmucks.
Any theater enthusiast who has read more than one Broadway Playbill is familiar with the kind of producer I call the landlord. (I’m sure the names Shubert or Nederlander, or other lovely family-owned organizations, are ringing bells at this point.) Often the literal owner of the venue (be it a studio, a theater, etc.), sometimes a company that is the corporate parent, or associate of the corporate parent, of the walkover above, the landlord offers the kind of support that, nine times out of ten, merits a slice of the pie automatically.
Some slap the pejorative of flop collector on this next crowd (and it’s an easy descriptor, to be sure), but it’s not always a case of people with too little taste, too much money, and not enough discernment. Some in this crowd purposely seek out shows in need of excessive enhancement. That kind of flop collector, frequently with a background in marketing, is usually the sole person with talent and skill in the crowd and has just one thing on their mind — the sale. The artists they’re supporting generally aren’t that great, and the producers in this situation not only think their product sucks; in some cases, they know it sucks. But the fun for them is in manipulating the elements they have, hoping the gamble pays off and they can sell ice in a snowstorm. Some are successful, most aren’t, and neither will turn down the tax write-off (and sometimes as many royalties from foreign and amateur licensing as returns their initial investment; see “most Frank Wildhorn shows”).
Then there’s the Luddite. Fuck me, the Luddite. Ask them to resolve an issue, any issue, but especially a creative difference — you’ll never get an answer. Why? Because they seek good vibes over all else, and the one intelligent thought they ever had is that not having a firm opinion on something, waffling out of difficult decisions, and staying everybody’s friend, is the shortcut to good vibes, however artificial they prove to be. They’re the kind of wishy-washy, useless prat who, when cornered, will tell you that “art is art” and “you can’t objectively say [this song, this line of dialogue, whatever] is bad.” That attitude is no help when we’re trying to solve what everybody else recognizes as a problem. Their bullshit doubt can poison the well, saving a potential show-killer (bad song, awful joke, crappy dialogue, temperamental performer, etc.) from elimination. Thankfully, in their purest form, Luddites are all but extinct; however, every genuine asshole I’ve ever worked with had Luddite tendencies that appeared at the worst possible moment.
Due partially to economic factors, and partially to love of the things they enjoyed or that influenced them when they began producing, all of the above — and, likely, the below — often periodically suffer from the devastating disease known as revivalitis, the desire to take a fresh look at a classic, bypassing something new or untried in the process for old favorites in new clothes. It’s not unusual for this person to stockpile revival concepts, hoping to pair them with artists whose creative flow comes from their case of revivalitis. The role of revivalitis sufferers is crucial to the existence of revivals in the first place. Though revivals often (justly) get a bad rap when they’re truly awful, I find that they can be a highly creative medium where the process is often the definition of teamwork. (I admit to some bias, as I have a set of concepts for musical theater chestnuts that I will drag out on this blog at some point.)

(A brief word on revivals, and why some consider them to be more trouble than they’re worth: if you’re a professional producer, it becomes much harder to acquire the rights to revive a favorite of yours, even on a strictly limited basis, without some form of red flag going up to those in control. And your production can fall victim to a quagmire: sometimes the rights are tied up owing to the intricacies of the original production, sometimes professional jealousy rears its ugly head and one may be flagged as “too big” to get the rights [as was the case in 2010 on a great idea I had for Jesus Christ Superstar], etc. The point is, for a variety of reasons, there’s a good chance of blowback. Fighting one’s way through the red tape is possible — hiring an innocuous, unknown partner [a “cut-out” or “gray person,” if you will] to apply for the rights and joining them as a presenter, creating the best must-see production possible, and crossing one’s fingers that the “Glenn Close effect” [named for her replacing Patti LuPone in Sunset Boulevard after garnering such attention, press, and sales on the West Coast that Andrew Lloyd Webber was willing to break Patti’s contract to bring Glenn to Broadway instead] takes hold — but the process gets too involved, comes with a lot of unnecessary agita and risk, and for what result? If one is successful, a lot of money goes into other people’s pockets, as the royalties are already divvied up at least once because of the original production(s). As a producer, the sensible thing to do is to cultivate a catalog of original pieces that put more cash in your hand as opposed to someone else’s. Having said that, however, some can’t stop loving other shows, and wanting to put their personal stamp on them, any more than they can stop breathing.)

Next up is the person that I call Charlie (referencing the title character from Charlie’s Angels), or Phil if you prefer a more current metaphor (referring to the agoraphobe who largely communicates by speakerphone from American Dad). If you’re like Charlie or Phil, you’re an absentee producer who rarely bothers to show up in person, and more often works from home or some other location, or in the worst-case scenario hires a walkover to do their grunt work uncredited. A Charlie or Phil is pretty rare, almost the rarest breed in the business; unless you’re an industry mogul, generally you can’t get away with this, but there are certain exceptions (I say, as I nervously glance in the mirror and realize I’m a young man still living with his family who can’t avoid spending more time in NY for too much longer). At any rate, the fun part of producing is what goes on with the show while you’re there, so being a Charlie or Phil is not something to which one should aspire.
On the exact opposite side of the coin from a Charlie or Phil is a Steve, here referring to the late Steve Jobs and his hands-on management style as CEO of Apple. A “Steve” never wants to leave the room. Ever. For anything. Whatever their definition of a great moment may be, they never want to miss it. Generally, they are involved in nearly every aspect at all times; they may delegate certain tasks, but they carefully inspect the work upon completion, and even when they’re delegating, a “Steve” usually resorts to the “helicopter parenting” kind of delegation. Again, nothing wrong with that, per se, but one again runs the risk of losing sight of the big picture. Where a suit might lose sight of it because they’re not looking at it closely enough, a Steve might lose sight of it because they’re so detail-oriented they’re looking at it too closely.
This one is always a pain in the ass in real life, and no less so in the boardroom. Remember when you were a kid, and you and your best friend decided to… I dunno… go on a trip? And you planned it out and discussed it for a long time; it became really important to both of you, and you got super excited about it. And then, inexplicably, your friend decided to include someone only they knew. Someone who instinctively rubbed you the wrong way because they thought their outsider input was just as valuable as yours and kept offering their unwanted two cents. And suddenly your friend listened to them more than you, and this fucker gummed up the process and you never went on the trip because your friend got irritated when you weren’t as open to the third party’s ideas. Well, that little shit grew up, learned different ways to insinuate themselves, and now they’re the interloper on your team. The interloper is usually the friend — or at least has the trust — of someone on the creative team. If the show happens to be that team member’s brainchild, you have a 50/50 shot of being fucked. Every show-related decision you make is going to be second-guessed if you don’t deal with the interloper post-haste. Pro tip: give that person some busy work. You may hate to admit it, but this type usually has some actual chops, and they’re not trying to piss you off; if working hard will please you, there’s a good chance they’ll do it. Once the interloper effectively buys into your leadership, they relinquish their influence.
For this next one, take the interloper. Increase their ego, and decrease their skills and understanding of the producing process. Add to the soup that they are (often) a member of the creative team; let’s say their agent got them a generous creative control clause in their contract that turned into a nebulous producing role. What luck! (For them anyway.) You’ve got the armchair quarterback. Far more overbearing than the interloper, the armchair quarterback believes that, just because they know something about another part of the process, they’ll be able to run the production. Like the interloper, you have a 50/50 shot of being fucked; if you let them effectively take over, it can work in your favor if they genuinely know what they’re doing, but if they suffer from cranial-rectal inversion (i.e., their head is firmly wedged up their ass), the results can be disastrous. And giving them busy work like you would the interloper is a risky call unless you want to clean up after them and deal with the resulting bruised ego. The worst part of this equation is their (possible) position on the creative team. If you piss off an interloper, there’s a better-than-decent chance they’ll just leave and you can count your blessings; piss off an armchair quarterback, and you’ll likely still have to deal with them every day. My simple advice: when necessary, assert yourself in a way that leaves no doubt about who is in charge.
Finally, rarer than a navel on Adam, the elusive hybrid, the balancing force in production, who usually has the best qualities of all of the above. If you can find them, fit them for LoJack, implant a tracking chip, whatever it takes. You want this person on your team for life, at all costs.

Hope you have a slightly better idea of what I deal with, what I do, etc. Just don’t ask me how the hell I handle it!

(Note: The above was originally posted at gdelgiproducer on April 18, 2013. It has been modified for its present audience, incorporating some material from a post at gdelgidirector on May 25, 2016.)

Practical advice for the performing arts