Month: April 2019

…I’ve never thought about that! I guess I would form a group. Of course, the first thing one must decide when forming such a group is what the talent base will be, and if it’ll be a garden-variety community/regional theater or specialize in particular types of casting/material (one local example of the latter is Providence Black Repertory, which offers programming inspired by the African Diaspora’s cultural traditions). The type of group you decide to create will inform your audience base as well. Bearing in mind how I started in this industry, and at what age, I think I’d like to run a program that offers performing arts and technical theatrical training to youth between the ages of, say, 12 and 21, with a specific focus on musicals, and in particular discovering and sharing things about pop culture, and how we view ourselves as a result of it, through them. I feel like this would interest a lot of parents of potential performers (and techies), because the performing arts offer kids an opportunity to enhance their literacy skills and discover latent talents, and in the best setting, they instill self-confidence that fosters hope for one’s future. It also helps develop an appreciation for the arts that is sadly not being reinforced in the American school system today (as I’ve mentioned before). The ideal experience for these kids would share insight into personal responsibility, introduce the fascination involvement with performance can bring, and generate discerning audiences of the future. I wouldn’t be looking to develop professional artists, although it’s great if that’s what they want to do; my goal would be to encourage creativity and a love for the arts and to use them to inspire growth, teach skills, and inform. A success story for my group would be someone who got involved and became a transformed individual, able to tackle any challenge and ready to become a contributing citizen.

That’s an interesting question, and there are two ways to answer it: getting started on a revival or being hired to replace a previous creative team on a show (a good example of which would be Finding Neverland, which opened in the UK with one writing and creative team and had replaced all of those elements by the time it reached Broadway). So, with that in mind, my answer will focus on both possibilities. Working on a revival is simpler, to me, than replacing the team on something new; the show already exists, and you know it works, or else it wouldn’t be coming back. It’s a proven commodity if you will. The only real hassles are getting the rights, which can be denied to you for a variety of reasons at any time, and, if you’re commercially minded, the fact that the pie, so to speak, has already been sliced and consequently, instead of making tons of money on an original, you’re mostly raking in the dosh for other people instead. Taking over an existing show and reshaping it is a horse of a different color; it’s stimulating, but for other reasons. On the positive side, your work is cut out for you — there’s already an existing version of this show, and you know it doesn’t work or you wouldn’t have been called in. Having something to look at allows you to trust your judgment and avoid making the same mistakes in your overhaul, or to plead the case of something on which the head honcho is missing the boat. But the negative is that you’re constantly walking on eggshells, in terms of both navigating the previous creative team’s hurt feelings and also the possible animosity of actors (provided the cast is retained), who get very protective of people and material they’ve already worked with, to the new boss. (I’m reminded of the story of how Stephen Schwartz auditioned his new score for Godspell to the original cast, who sat there with blank faces before grabbing a couple of guitars and running through their rougher previous version.) If you can do a better job than what you saw, it considerably lessens the sting, but it’s no picnic. Still, the success, should it come, is worth the effort. (In fact, one of our best original projects is one where my boss came in and replaced the whole creative team; it works, and it’s going to get even better once we give it another shot of adrenaline.)

The actual first project is lost to the mists of time, sadly. (Because of the sheer volume of projects, not all of which reach fruition, I believe producers’ memories age faster than the average schmo; as my boss once put it, “It all becomes art fudge.”) A cursory glance at the Yahoo! email account I used at the time, however, shows I initially received budget proposals for a Hair revival and an original Whoopi Goldberg-targeted vehicle as examples of what kinds of shows I’d be working on.

In the industry, it’s something to be ashamed of, but I out-and-out love Tanz der Vampire. However, though I see a lot of love for Elisabeth, Rebecca, and more out there, I find I just can’t get into other foreign shows. (Among those that bug me: I’m surprised Notre Dame de Paris has a fandom; I find it a lovely candidate for an insomnia cure. I much prefer Disney’s Hunchback, which, though it’s had foreign runs, is technically American in origin. Just don’t get me started on how I prefer the original Berlin production to the licensed version…)

One of my greatest highs was the first time I made money on a project. I’d been producing since I was 15, and as is the case 99% of the time in this business, it looked like all talk and no result until then. I tried to tell myself that while it doesn’t pay 24/7, 365, it’s what I love to do and I do it well, but back then, people looked at it with a jaundiced eye and frequently asked me when I’d get a real job. That is, they did, until I handled an image rights negotiation for the Estate of Michael Jackson in the Asian market in 2009 (a pachinko manufacturer wanted to use his likeness and clips of his performances for a themed device). Though the project involved came to naught, I made a couple of grand for my trouble. It was the first tangible proof my work was worthwhile, so I can’t fault that as a high point. The lowest point, sadly, involves one of my great loves, Tanz der Vampire. But because legal action may be coming up on that project within the next twelve months, I can’t say much more about it here. (I’m sorry I have to leave such a tantalizing breadcrumb without the rest of the loaf, but you asked and I chose to answer as honestly as I was able.)

Another question with two possible answers; in this case, I could answer from a purely artistic standpoint or a purely economic standpoint. As is my wont, I choose both. Artistically, my view on the current state of musicals is immaterial, because opinion in the arts can only be subjective. Speaking for myself, do I like most new musicals? Nah, they’re not my style; they’re not what I grew up with or what I like. And I question why someone would pay $200 a ticket to see the musical version of a movie that plays constantly on TV for free. But what I like has nothing to do with what sells, and what sells is ultimately the key indicator of success for a producer. From that standpoint, Broadway isn’t dead or dying, and never will be. Broadway can’t be “destroyed” by anything. Now, I get why folks are upset; the days of producers taking a risk on a show that didn’t rely on big-screen familiarity or popular music seem to be over. Like today’s movies, Broadway shows are so expensive to produce that investors are reluctant to buy into an unproven property. And risk-averse Broadway wants as much of a sure thing as it can get. So they produce a glut of “sure things,” and then discover they aren’t a blueprint for success 100% of the time. But there has never been a time in my memory when everyone was happy with the state of Broadway. Go back a quarter century, and people bitched that all the big shows were imports from London’s West End. Over the past few decades, every time trends shift slightly, people (I call their type the “Nostra-dumbass”) bemoan the death of the Great White Way, and they’ve never been right. Unless every theater suddenly closes up shop, they’ll have a hard time convincing me otherwise. This trend of jukebox and screen-to-stage musicals will pass, and it’ll be replaced by something new for us to complain about. Complaining is part of the Broadway experience. As long as there’s an audience willing to believe in it, and to shell out the money, Broadway’s not going anywhere any time soon.

Well, damn! First of all, actors, this is a perfect example of how you frame this question: all the info up-front about the workshop that a person could need to help them give more targeted advice, what kind of roles they usually put people in (better not to prepare something funny for a workshop picking leads for a weepy drama), info about yourself as a performer that may be relevant… this dude has it down pat, and he’s only 16! Kudos! Now, to answer the actual question: you say their actors usually do dramatic roles, which of course means they don’t always. If they don’t specify how many monologues you can do, I’d say prepare one serious one, and one funny one, and see what reaction you get from the people you run audition pieces by before auditioning with them. If you can do both, do both; show them you’ve got range. As for specific pieces, I’m not great at selecting monologues; there are plenty of books and websites out there that help with that sort of thing. If you think you’re good at the Caligula one, go for it, but have an alternate option just in case, and a funny option as a backup.

My favorite project to work on, that I can disclose, has been an original musical called Excusez Moi, which is currently in development for production. It’s easily my favorite of our overall project slate and probably has been since I joined my company at 15. It boasts (arguably) one of the most unique scores in theater history, and is uniquely suited to casino showrooms or club venues. For more on this, you’ll just have to keep an ear open.

Finally, someone asks me about the classics! (I post about musicals a lot here, but I do have some stuff to say about plays too, y’know.) Well… the most ridiculous Shakespeare interpretation I can think of has already come to life. Or have you never heard of the Tiny Ninja Theater Co.’s renditions of Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, and Hamlet? (I shouldn’t judge. Some people I know and trust say that it’s kinda fun. But I’m judging unless or until I see for myself.)

For all the knocks I gave it in my notes on the show, if I could go back in time, I’d see the original Broadway production of Jesus Christ Superstar in 1971, just for the sheer insanity of that particular rendition. Reviews of the time allude to a curtain that doubled as the stage floor, laser beams, smoke and wind machines, dancing dwarfs, shuffling lepers, hooded demons, Jesus crucified on a golden triangle, intricate bridges descending from the ceiling, and incredible costumes appearing out of the floor. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not how I view JCS at all (to me, it’s not a circus of show-biz gimmickry, it’s a simple, moving rock opera, the story of Christ’s Passion told in the vernacular, and the appeal for me has always been the music and lyrics giving a new spin to this age-old story), but still, I’d like to have seen it, just for the gonzo spectacle.

Put simply, it was realizing, “I can either do something I’m good at or fail at other stuff.” As an actor, I read well, and I can more or less memorize blocking after a few tries; memorize my lines, though? In the words of Hall and Oates, “no can do.” Unless it’s a show I already know and love well, I just don’t retain new material. I dunno why, that’s just how it is. (You can see how that would be a stumbling block, I’m sure.) As a writer, I discovered I’m a better idea man and editor all around; playing with someone else’s stuff is way easier than trying to cultivate your own “voice,” and I could see that, unlike others who graduated from fan stuff to original work, that would never be my path. I wanted to be in charge and to play a vital role, and a producer calls the shots, raises the money and says we have a show. What’s more vital than that? I didn’t know I had an aptitude for it, honestly, until someone spotted it and believed in me enough to tell me I should pursue it. (This is a story for another post.)

…you chicken shit son of a bitch. Alright, let’s see… I’d develop a Cabaret revival that utilizes the three-act structure attempted — and dropped — in the original production’s out-of-town tryout. It’s always been a three-act story to me, and three acts are the ideal structure for a play if the story can justify it. The intermissions give the audience a chance to digest and then move to a higher level of concentration. Cabaret’s story is so rich with meaning that it certainly supports it. If you put something wonderful in front of an audience, you won’t lose them. If it’s not wonderful, why are you putting it on? Visually speaking, it’d have more in common with the Hal Prince / Ron Field staging than the now-ubiquitous Sam Mendes / Rob Marshall revival, but the book would be more like the latter than the former, and the numbers common to the show and film would retain Bob Fosse’s choreography. (One does not simply waste classic Fosse.) Score-wise, “Willkommen” plays like the 2006 West End revival, wrapping in and around Cliff and Ernst’s opening scene; “Telephone Song” becomes a transition to the Kit Kat Klub and includes the full extent of “Telephone Dance”; Sally can sing either “Don’t Tell Mama” or “Mein Herr” but not both, because each sets up her character differently, so I’d re-assign “Mein Herr” as a commentary song to Fritzie / Fräulein Kost; intermission after “Tomorrow Belongs to Me”; new Act II opens with “Why Should I Wake Up,” then Sally drops the bomb, Cliff tells her “Don’t Go,” and she responds with her non-diegetic thoughts (“Maybe This Time”); “The Money Song / Sitting Pretty” as combined for the ’87 revival is used; “Meeskite” is included; intermission after “Tomorrow Belongs to Me (Reprise)”; and then the show continues more or less as written from there (full version of “I Don’t Care Much,” and classic version of the finale with various character flashbacks if you’re curious).

It’s the ultimate of the performing arts — of all the arts for that matter. It’s also the platform with the greatest freedom and ability to say something of import.

Hell no! Compared to some of these people, I’m a relative newcomer to professional production. In that sense, I might as well not be from the theater world. Put delicately, I know a lot about a little and a little about a lot, but that doesn’t make me an insider. (Yet.)

Ouch, right in the tenders! Okay, well… if I said there wasn’t, I’d be lying. I’ve got the basics of processing agreements and budget proposals down, but unless I’m looking for something specific, sometimes I still get lost when reading the fine print of a contract, or some of the financial statements. Also, when I see most press presentations today, I fear for my taste in advertising. But being wobbly in these skills doesn’t bother me. I look at it this way: I can sing well enough, but I don’t dance and I barely act. That’s what my actors, dancers, and singers are for. I may not have all of my essential abilities as a producer down to a science, but that’s what I’m there for. I’m grateful for those who can do what I can’t, and those who can’t do what I can are (hopefully) grateful for me as well. The performing arts are a collaborative effort — the work of a tribe. But somebody has to be the chief. At the end of the day, that’s me.

Funny, I was just talking about that! I’ve acted in elementary and junior high school, and also in some liturgical drama and fundraisers with Beneficent Church in Providence. (None of that “I’m only involved with theater that moves me” crap, I’ve been in the trenches!) I’m told I acquit myself well enough, but if I’m being honest, I’d starve if that was my career. I can’t dance, and though I can sing well enough, I can’t read a note of music. Do I occasionally succumb to acting or directing aspirations? Yes, thus some of the experiences I share on this blog. Could I do either of those jobs regularly? Nope. I could never do what actors do, on that kind of schedule, by any means. And being a director means putting up with actor idiosyncrasies on the ground level. But, while I’m glad I’ll never do those regularly, I’m also glad I have them under my belt. It was essential for me to do that, so I could understand what those positions need from me. Everything that I’ve learned about direction or acting helps me in my chosen role — that of the producer.

While I identify strongly with the “ascended fan,” I’d like to think that I’m picking up as many of the good traits from all of those categories as I can. I’m “green” by comparison to most of the theater people I know; I’ve been a professional producer for only thirteen years at the time of writing (believe it or not, that’s still “wet behind the ears” to most people in the industry), so I can’t say I’ve developed a distinct style or method yet. Frankly, I’m still trying to find a term for the figure that I cut when I started in the business… my colleague, Richard Haase, has frequently remarked that on the Internet I come across as a very imposing and scary person at times; his nickname for me when I was new was “Caligula.” I left such an indelible impression of that type that, when he met me in person, he couldn’t have been more surprised to find I was rather polite and easygoing, for the most part. (My new nickname became “Jekyll and Hyde.”) It’s a weird dichotomy that I’ve relied on, to my advantage, as a producer over the years. But what do you call the type that can turn on a dime from charming eccentric to utter pit horror when the situation calls for it? 😛

I wouldn’t say it’s difficult, but I will say that there are some very closed ranks in the artistic community, be it theater, film, the music scene, or whatever. It’s only because of this phenomenon that I consider opportunities in New England kind of rare. Other people would tell you to relocate to increase your career options, but I have different advice. If you’re a film major, you’re likely either already making a film, or you’re going to be doing it shortly. Keep making films, period. Once one has grasped the absolute basics, the arts, no matter the specific field, are one of the few places where one only learns further on the job; consequently, the most important thing is to always be working. So keep making films. The more you work on it, the more you’ll learn what kind of film you’re good at. Once you’ve learned what kind of film you’re good at, keep doing it, and do it well, whether it’s with a boatload of money or with a Big Mac coupon, catnip, and a rubber mouse. If camp is your forte, make campy movies. If you can’t make anything but porno, do it. Make film! You’ll be known by the work you produce, and by its quality. That’s how you get into an industry and stay there.