Emily C.A. Snyder's Blog, page 6

Captain Jack Sparrow

A brief meditation on Captain Jack Sparrow (mostly from the first movie):

So, this picture is being posted apropos of nothing other than it's bloody striking and it's bloody Jack Sparrow and it makes one want to jump through computer screens and onto the bounding maine...but it also makes me think a few other (slightly deeper) thoughts. Things that make me go "Hmmm."

When I first saw the "Pirates" movie, it was fine - it was better than some other recent fare (Geena Davis, I'm looking at you) - the costumes were good, the actors were decent, the bit with dropping the sconce was an acceptable meet-cute...and then:

CAPTAIN JACK SPARROW.

The most remarkable thing about his appearance to me (besides the genius of his entrance which showed us pretty much *everything* we needed to know about his character, and which to me is still probably the Best Entrance/Introduction of a Character Evah) was that as soon as I saw him, Captain Jack Sparrow HAD ALWAYS EXISTED.

Cole Porter and Mozart have this quality. One can hear their songs for the first time, and be sure that they've always been singing in your bones. Shakespeare's characters are so indelible that while there are a plurality of people who have played Hamlet, there can never be another Hamlet - not really. It's also fun to be able to say, "Oh, I was playing Ophelia," or "Lady Bracknell" last week and not to have to explain who she is or from what play...the way one must do if one is playing, say, "Betty." And then explain, "From 'Sure Thing.' By David Ives. 'All in the Timing?' It's a really great play. It's about two people meeting at a cafe? And they keep starting over. There's a bell? Nevermind. But you should totally read it."

The opposite of this effect, however, is that the Archetype of Jack Sparrow is so strong that the writers (and to some extent Johnny Depp himself) forgot the most HUMAN part of Captain Jack - which aren't his catchphrases or his quirks - but his real LONGING, LOVING of the freedom of a ship and the open sea. Which this early picture captures.

So it is when we're writing/acting/directing new work: there's the thrill of finding the unexpected human contradictions that make great characters great. And there's the danger of falling into "either/or," archetypical or caricature when we return to that work again and again and again.

For me, I'd love to see Captain Jack Sparrow return with a bit of his secret soulfulness intact. For now, I'm content to watch him here, dreaming forever after of that horizon.

When Purple Prosedy Attacks! (And How to Tame It...)

In 2009, I attended a theatre conference in NYC where, naturally, I was drawn to any workshop that breathed the words "Shakespeare"or "verse drama" or "iambic pentameter" in the title.  The workshops were all individually excellent, but I did notice one hilarious similarity between them:

Every bloody workshop, independent of each other (!), used the following speech from ROMEO AND JULIET in their presentations:

ROMEO.

Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

In one workshop, we looked at this from a movement standpoint, from other we really delved into the words and expressing the antitheses, and in the last we explored the punctuation.

You'll notice, though, we didn't delve into the entire speech or its surrounding lines, which actually reads like this:

BENVOLIO.

Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

ROMEO.

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?

BENVOLIO.

                                     No, coz, I rather weep.

Why, you may ask, did each workshop cut off the parts surrounding those six lines?  The answer is simple: every other line is motivated.  And the parts in italics were the result of:

(Cue dramatic music.  In fact, cue this:)


Writing in Verse: Pretty Pitfalls

As a director, I sometimes wondered why Shakespeare would occasionally "just go off" into rhapsodies  of verse that stop the action cold.  I'm not talking about "To be or not to be," I'm talking precisely about what we see above.  But I'll give you a few other examples:

From HAMLET:

HORATIO.

A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets:
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse:
And even the like precurse of fierce events,
As harbingers preceding still the fates
And prologue to the omen coming on,
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our climatures and countrymen.--
But soft, behold! lo, where it comes again!

From A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM:

Titania's ready for ALL THE TALKING!TITANIA.

These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which falling in the land
Have every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents:
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread are undistinguishable:
The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which:
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension;
We are their parents and original.

Prospero's got STUFF TO SAY!From THE TEMPEST:

PROSPERO.

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,
Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure, and, when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.

Now, as a director, I have to make a choice as to whether to cut out parts (typically, yes) or to leave them in.  The bits that I highlighted, while beautiful poetry, tend also to be repetitive poetry for an audience, that is, for those listening.  It can also be a little wearying for the actor to justify why s/he keeps speaking.  Although there may be better examples, let's keep with the four above.

1) Romeo and Juliet: Granted, the "O this, O that" are good poetry, granted too that Romeo is of a poetical disposition, and granted this part isn't easily cut because it's become so well known, regardless it stops the action cold.  Romeo was in the middle of finding out why Benvolio's got a cut or a weapon or there's a body lying on the ground or something.  The important philosophical idea is: "O brawling love!  O loving hate!"  The rest of it are just variations of a theme.  Variations that the actor has to work hard to convey as varied, interesting, and crucial to be said aloud, but which for the sake of clarity could have been cut.

2) Hamlet: Horatio's lines begin with a cause: he's reminding us that during times of national upheaval, even nature seems to reverse itself.  But then he goes on.  And on.  Poetically.  In this case, a director/actor may justify that Horatio is just spinning time out so that the Ghost's reappearance is a sudden shock...but we really don't need "extra bits" in a play that's already four hours long.  (See below for Blackadder's thoughts on that!)


3) Midsummer: Many scholars have tried to draw correlations between this speech and the natural goings-on in Shakespeare's day.  They may not be wrong.  But again, by continuing on and on and on and on, with variations and repetitions and florid example after florid example, the audience gets tired.  The actress may be brilliant...the audience is tired.  Midsummer doesn't suffer from being overlong, and the speech is fairly well known so that about half the actresses keep the whole intact, but in point of fact, we only need one or two examples of how the world's gone mad, and then cut right to the heart of why she's speaking which is, "This same progeny of evils comes from our debate, from our dissention, we are their parents and original."

4) Tempest: This show is actually chock full of loads of poetry with minimal (seeming) motivation.  This comes at the end of the show, and it's gorgeous poetry...but again, repetitious.  Especially at the end of a show, the action should be faster, quicker - we want to see all the resolutions fall into place.  So while directors may keep some of the list of spirits under Prospero's command, they may not need all of them listed.


Now, there are those folks who are going to bristle that I even criticized Shakespeare's poetry at all, but hear me out.  Or rather, hear out Sir Rowan Atkinson and Hugh Laurie:



The Play (Not Your Poetry's) The Thing

So, what can we learn from five hundred years of folks struggling with Shakespeare?  Quite a lot, actually.  When writing verse drama, we need to keep in mind that while we're going to have a tendency to fly off into dizzying ecstasies of the English language, in fact, the audience just wants to know What Happens Next.

That's not to say that you couldn't or shouldn't go off with the Purple Prosedy Monster every once in a while - after all, what's the point of writing verse drama if you don't get to write verse drama?  But that poet-playwrights need to keep first and foremost in mind whether the poetry assists or impedes the forward momentum of the play.

To think of it another way, consider what the Rowan Atkinson character above would cut from your play...and consider cutting it now.

Some Tips to Keep in Mind

Before you cut, consider asking yourself these questions:

1) Does the poetry reveal something about the character?
2) Does it move the plot along?
3) Does it cover up some action (a length of time, etc.)?
4) Does it set a mood?
5) Can the actor and director easily motivate it?

If the answer is "yes," then keep the poetry as is (at least for the space of a reading!).  If, however, you find that:

1) The poetry doesn't sound like the character;
2) The forward motion is completely and unnecessarily stopped;
3) The poetry is repetitious and can be summed up in one or two examples;
4) The poetry is at odds with the mood you need to sustain;
5) The actor and/or director are asking you what the hell this means;

Then consider cutting or rewriting your verse.  It'll be painful to lose your good lines, but the best lines you can probably fit in somewhere else, or showcase them independent of an entire sonnet.

REMEMBER!

The audience is listening to your play for the first time!  They're getting the exciting experience of hearing words as if they've never heard language before.

No one's done thesis upon thesis on your poetry - it's raw, it's new - it needs to keep the drama going.

No one in the audience is reading your play, either.  It's one thing to read a line or two of verse, put it down, and consider it before picking up where you left off.  The audience doesn't get that leisure.  They're listening to fast rich language.

So keep it elegant, but simple!  And make friends with the Purple Prosedy Monster...or better yet, tame it.

See also: Writing in Iambic Pentameter and Where Have All The Iambic Pentameter Plays Gone?

Write Like Shakespeare

YOUR FACE HERE!Are you in love with verse drama?  Have you ever wondered, "Where have all the iambic pentameter plays gone?"  Are you a lover of all things Shakespeare (or Sophocles or Moliere)?

Then come join Emily C. A. Snyder for a SIX WEEK INTENSIVE CLASS to learn how to write like Shakespeare.

Whether you've already written a journal full of sonnets, or you're just entering the world of purple prose, this is the perfect class to learn techniques, tricks, and secrets that make verse drama the number one most produced form in the Western World.  By the end of the six weeks, students will have completed the first draft of a 3-10 minute iambic pentameter play or scene.

Please be advised: A maximum of SIX students will be accepted for this course.

Where: The Space on White, 81 White Street, NY, NY 10013

Time: Monday nights from 7:30-9:00

Dates: October 8, 15, 22, 29 and November 5, 12

Cost: One-time Intensive Rate $175/six weeks

Contact: writelikeshakespeare (at) gmail (dot) com

About the Instructor:

Emily C. A. Snyder is an accomplished playwright and director, whose own five act iambic pentameter play, Cupid and Psyche, the third of the Love and Death Trilogy, premiered in Boston in 2009.  Her published plays - which have been produced throughout the United States, and internationally from Christchurch, New Zealand to Dublin, Ireland - are available through Playscripts, Inc.

Snyder studied John Barton's approach to verse drama with the Theatre-in-England/Shakespeare School in London and Stratford-upon-Avon, England, under the direction of former Royal Shakespeare Company actors.  There, she had the great fortune to play Rosalind from As You Like It just steps away from Shakespeare's birthplace!  Back in America, she studied Kristen Linklater's vocal and emotional approach to the text from Maureen Shea at Emerson College, where Snyder was glad to play scene studies as Beatrice (Much Ado About Nothing), Gertrude (Hamlet), and Titania (A Midsummer Night's Dream).


Since then, Snyder has directed most of Shakespeare's major works, including Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, As You Like It, The Taming of the Shrew, The Tempest and many others.  In 2006, she founded her own summer Shakespeare company, Gaudete Academy, which combined the scholarly approach to verse drama with her own kinaesthetic sensibilities.  She has been a much sought after guest lecturer on these techniques, speaking throughout the northeast, including Emerson College and the New England Festival Conference.

A Non-Actor Becomes a Star!

Hey, folks - here's some information about a really interesting film project I'm part of.  Take a look!



Non-Actor to Become Star of 24-Hour Immersive Movie forNew York Film Festival
New York, NY-- On September 19, 2012 from 6:00 - 8:00 p.m., Wirth Creative will hold a casting event at the Brooklyn Industries store in Union Square, where one lucky young woman will become the star of her very own movie, Whispers in the Dark, that will premiere at the Film Society of Lincoln Center's 50th New York Film Festival.  No previous acting experience is necessary, but the winning participant must be willing to live "in character" for 24 continuous hours in an immersive story that will unfold in real-world locations throughout New York City.  A cast of professional actors will engage the participant and an invisible camera crew will capture her journey.  In the story's final hour (2:00 p.m., September 30, 2012), the experience will culminate at the Film Society of Lincoln Center, where an audience will view the participant's adventure as a part of Convergence Weekend of the New York Film Festival.
According to Executive Producer Jeff Wirth, the lead role is open to women in their early 20s who are available from the afternoon of Saturday, September 29 through the evening of Sunday, September 30.  Those attending the audition at Brooklyn Industries will be asked to tell a one-minute story about a spooky moment from their life in front of an in-store audience of friends, customers, and a professional casting panel.  While only one young woman will be cast, everyone who auditions will be entered for a chance to win Brooklyn Industries merchandise.  The store will also offer an exclusive 15% discount on all full-priced items during the Whispers in the Dark casting event only.
Executive Producer Jeff Wirth has created and developed over 100 interactive story experiences over the past 30 years, consulting for such top tier clients as Cirque du Soleil, Blue Man Group, and Disney Imagineering.  Mr. Wirth authored the book Interactive Acting and served on the faculty at the University of Central Florida, where he founded the Interactive Performance Lab.  Recently transplanted to New York, he now runs Wirth Creative, a company dedicated to the development of interactive story experiences for entertainment, training, marketing, and research.  More information can be found at www.wirthcreative.com.
The Film Society of Lincoln Center's Convergence program arrives at the 50th New York Film Festival on September 29 & 30 with two full days of transmedia programming.  Presented throughout the brand new Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center, NYFF Convergence is designed to be an intimate gathering for creators, designers, thinkers and fans.
Brooklyn Industries is a cutting edge design company that sells its innovative clothes exclusively through its 15 retail stores and online website. Founded by visionary artists Lexy Funk and her partner in 1998, Brooklyn Industries' stores engage the local community in art, clothing, design, and style.
Open Casting CallWhispers in the DarkWednesday, September 19, 2012, 6 - 8 p.m.Brooklyn Industries Union Square (801 Broadway)
Whispers in the Dark ScreeningConvergence Weekend, 50th New York Film FestivalSunday, September 30, 2012, 2 p.m.The Film Society of Lincoln Center's Francesca Beale Theater144 W. 65th StreetTickets available at filmlinc.com

Maternity Wardens

So, due to - y'know - moving to New York City, holding down a full-time job before that, and then directing/producing A Midsummer Night's Dream prior to that (phew!) all in the month of August, 31 Plays in 31 Days has gotten less attention from me.

Wall and Thisbe from "A Midsummer Night's Dream" 2012However, I did manage to write a play based on something I saw on the NYC subway a few days ago.  There was this real Wall Street guy sitting across from me.  Handsome, but with a very stern face, like he was refusing to grant the world a smile.

However, next to him was this adorable little Oriental girl in a stroller.  She wasn't doing anything particularly noteworthy, just sitting there being four years old, but she caught the eye of Wall Street man.  And he started grinning at her.  A little duckling of a grin.

His eyes became softer.  One could almost see stars and pink roses and fluffy forest creatures emanating out of his gaze as he looked at her.  It was both beautiful and highly amusing how much Wall Street Man melted.

We came to a stop, and Wall Street man immediately put on his sour look again.  He caught my eye, and his face become more poker like.  Not trying to dissuade him, I glanced away - still keeping the guy in my periphery - and sure enough, as soon as the train started up again and everyone become pointedly anonymous, his gaze went right back to that little girl and his face expressed "Oh!  If only!"-ness.

A few stops later, Wall Street Man went off...and was immediately replaced by Wall Street Man #2.  This fellow was buffer, cooler looking.  He didn't look stern; his poker face read Bored, Now.

But sure enough - one look at that little girl in her stroller, and Buff Wall Street Man melted into daisies and candy canes and wistfulness and yearning as much as Dour Wall Street guy had.

Hence, this play .  Enjoy!

Directors can be Playwrights, too!

Preach it, Jeffrey Sweet !

There's a saying that never, ever, ever under ANY circumstances should a playwright be allowed to direct their own works.  And while it's true that some of the pieces of mine I've directed I need a little bit more time and perhaps another pair of eyes to help out in round two, by and large, I find that I can playwright/revise better when I do it in the rehearsal room.  As Mr. Sweet put it:

Also it mustn't be forgotten that some people write in rehearsal as they direct.  Their writing process is to direct....Writers who are also directors may indeed face the problem of objectivity as they stage their own stuff, but many others have the discipline and professionalism to know how to adjust for this. That's what you have other collaborators for – the actors, the designers, the producer, and the rest of the people in the room who are presumably there because they know something about how to make theatre.  Directors with any sense will pay attention to and solicit advice from colleagues.

  Check out his entire article !  And then his blog . Good stuff!

Write What You Know...But Don't Post It

So, as many of you know, I've joined the 31 Plays in 31 Days group, which is basically NaNoWriMo for playwriting.

And as many of you also know, I think I can safely brag that I'm no slouch when it comes to writing new plays.

So imagine my surprise, then, when on the first day of writing...I found myself completely out of ideas.

Ladies and gentlemen, This. Simply. Does. Not. Happen.

Terry Pratchett , one of my favourite authors of All Time, writes several times in his novels (such as in Wyrd Sisters ) that he believes the universe is full of ideas that just sleet down through the sky.  Most people may only be hit a few times in their lives - while there are some other (un)fortunate few who, like specially tuned magnets, are pummeled with this ideological sleet nearly every moment of their lives.

He then goes on to make fun of William Shakespeare and the musical Cats, which can only be to the good, but the idea of ideas sleeting from the sky has always seemed an apt metaphor.

Most authors lament that the first question anyone wants to ask them is: "How did you come up with that idea?!?"  Much like the actor's dreaded, "How did you memorize all those lines?!?!?" this question is both impractical and infuriating to answer.  How did I come up with that idea?  Why the idea has been there all along.  It lodged itself in me, and I've been trying to exorcise it from me ever since!  (Actors in this regard have it considerably easier, since they "merely" have to memorize someone else's ideas, which they can then keep or more usually discard as pleases them.  Lucky actors.)

So, again, imagine my surprise when on day one of writing, I sit down to my computer...and have nothing to say.

What surprised me, more, is that all the usual suspects bobbed to the surface, only to disappear soon after.  They were all too long; too involved for a day's worth of writing.  Too much for a page or five.

I stared at the screen.

It stared at me.

I waited for the universe to sleet down ideas.

The universe was silent.

And so I was forced to go to that well within me, and lo and behold, I ended up writing a very personal play.  That was followed by a completely useless Mr. Bean-lite , and another David Ivesian pursuit of verbal futility...and then another dangerously personal play.  And one more - a musical, this time, naturally.

As a result, I've absolutely nothing I'm going to show anyone right now!

What surprised me about the need to move inward was that I have long been a proponent of "Write What is True and Mask It."  Being a fan of fantasy, I enjoy a distancing device - be it poetry, or dance, or another country, or another time.  I enjoy style.  I find it stylish.  Nor do I think that there's dishonesty in those pieces I've written stylistically.  As Stephen Sondheim wrote, "Content Dictates Form."

But what style also allows for is presentation.  Should I post at least three of the five plays I've written so far, there are those who would recognize themselves (and myself) right away.  I was interested to see, as well, how much those three plays were done in silence (always saving the musical, where one can sing what one feels). 

I feel like it's been a while since I've really had a good silent scene (a la Hamlet about 6 min in, or Romeo and Juliet about 16 minutes in, or my most recent Macbeth in the silence after we killed all the Macduffs) - and silence is always more revealing.

We'll see what comes in the remainder of the month!  But what about you?  Do you draw primarily from within or are you pelted from without?  Sound off in the comments!  And if you have time, make sure you join up for this great playwriting adventure!

Are You Playwright Enough?

There's an exciting NaNoWriMo -like challenge starting tomorrow for all playwrights:

31 Plays in 31 Days is the challenge for playwrights to produce a play a day (one page minimum) during the month of August.

I'm terribly excited by the idea.  I've known a few other playwrights who've managed to do a play a day for a year...trying to make a month is about enough for me!

Today's the last day to sign up officially (I think) so make sure you send your info in!

Nothing's Gonna Change My World

I hate moving.

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

I hate packed bags; I hate packing bags.

And yet, curiously enough, I love travel, and adventure, and being on the go.

It's the expectation of movement that's the worst.  As Eliot puts it so succinctly in The Hollow Men :

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

I've made quite a few movements in my life.  It used to be that when people would ask me where I was from, I'd heave a sigh and explain that I was born in Amherst, Massachusetts - but don't remember it - and then moved to Worcester, MA - which I do remember - and then in Nursery School to Portsmouth, NH - which I loved very much - and then wrenched out of there mid-fourth grade under trying circumstances to the (initially) trying home of Pompton Lakes, NJ.

Jersey took four years or so to become home, once I made friends four years later in high school - but soon after it was off to Steubenville, OH for college, which was more home than home because in 1997, mid-college, my family moved from Jersey (where I'd finally felt rooted) back to Massachusetts (which I could barely remember)...the very summer before I went abroad for a semester to do nothing but travel - which was wonderful, and trying, and perilous, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

My body was in MA from summer 1997 on, but home was Ohio - and remained Ohio for a good year after graduating.  Hence, I didn't really live in Massachusetts until 2000, after I came back from a stint to England, and began teaching and - much to my surprise - put down tentative roots, fifteen years in the making.

And now, just as my roots are secure, I am moving again.

What makes this particular move more difficult is that I'm not going with family, as I did when a child, or with some particular goal, as I did when I went to college.  I'm not going with a set job (I'll be temping); nor roommate; nor even immediate goal.  Yet, I am going.  I am, to put it frankly, being sent.

I'm walking on water; I'm hoping there's a handy whale with a bad digestive system.  I'm speaking with Isaiah and Samuel's words, "Here I am, Lord!  Send me!"  I'm hoping His parable about the lilies of the field is accurate.

Yet, even as I look at the choppy waves, and the whale's enormous esophogas, and the fall of every sparrow, I'm reminded of a few things:

I was terrified of little things when I left everything at Hudson Catholic (and it forcibly left me) to pursue my Master's at Emerson College .  I remember, I worked up all this gumption to go on the silly train to and from Boston, and nearly freaked myself out over a trial-run a week before classes began to scope out the train, and the campus, and my classrooms and everything.  Yet, now these places are my stomping ground.  There was nothing frightful about the change, other than the possibility of having to share a seat on a crowded commute.  And that little change out of my comfort zone of six years back in Hudson is what first set the groundwork in me to realize I could make a living as an artist.  All it took was the gumption to get on a train. After I finished Hamlet , our first production of Gaudete Academy and the beginning of the end at HCH (although I didn't know it), I was in a state.  I was still deep in the world of Hamlet, I was feeling called to leave HCH, I couldn't believe that we'd actually pulled off Gaudete Academy, I was losing my first "theatrical child" - whom I'd directed in something like fourteen plays - to college, I was exhausted.  So naturally, my mother sent my sister and myself for a week to Ireland.  I didn't want to go - not that I didn't want to travel to Ireland, but rather we were leaving the day after the show closed, and I wanted time to collapse. A sign we saw in Dublin.The first few days were tough: Mum had arranged for us an itinerary of meeting distant cousins and staying in abandoned houses they owned (sleeping on the floor) or in nunneries, and drinking more tea than even my constitution could stand.  It would have been my Mother's dream trip - she's a genealogist - but it was tough going for us.  (As was driving on the wrong side of the road while jetlagged in the middle of the night on roads we didn't know to places we'd never been.)  However, when in Dublin we went off our itinerary.  We saw The Importance of Being Earnest by an all male-cast.  We visited the university.  We took taxis.  And at last we went the "wrong way" on the road, followed the mountains out of Dublin sans map, and found ourselves in perhaps the most beautiful part of Ireland I'd ever seen.  Which is to say, sometimes going under extreme pressure and choosing right or left by His whim lead one to the bits one ends up loving the best. Not all adventures are successful: I shouldn't have gone to Paris alone (or at least, I shouldn't have spoken to strangers in Paris), and tromping off alone and attempting to scale cliffs while upset at the world and in tennis shoes with no traction while the ground is muddy wasn't my best idea.  

However, going off alone in London to Hyde Park to practice Rosalind's speeches to a tree and then running into some legitimate Shakespearean actors who inquired of me information (which I was too young and fearful to pursue their friendship) was a good idea (it was also daylight!).  And saying, "Bollocks" to pretty much everyone who's ever said, "No," or "We're not sure," or "It can't be done," re: doing some piece of theatre and just doing it instead has nearly always panned out.

Those times when I haven't hidden (such as at Emerson) have always been better than those times I have (such as in Hollywood).  Those times I've stuck to my guns have been better than those times I've caved.  Those times I've pursued friendship have been better than those times I haven't.  Those times I've jumped with God (such as when I grabbed my unpacked bags and ran off after the train to Italy) were better than those times I've fried my brain on TV (too often).  Those times I've walked with God are better than those times when I've moped on my own.

Last, but hardly least, I'll keep in mind my first day of first grade.  My mother dropped me off - herself weepy; myself as well.  Then, unbeknownst to me, Mum watched through the window to see if I was all right.  She saw me muttering to myself, and getting ready for the day.  Later that night, she asked me what I had been doing.  And I, ever precocious, looked her in the eye and said very gravely, "Well, I was scared.  So I thought to myself, 'I need a pep talk.'  So I gave one to myself.  And then everything was all right." What's also amusing is how encouraging everyone has been.  Amusing solely because it's the response of someone who's been There and Back Again, someone who knows there are dragons and they can be fought...and who also knows that the dragons are less numerous than the multitudinous other unexpected beauties along the way.  Having now sent off quite a few students to college, I've been that amused person more times than I care to admit: the person who's excited for the adventure my student is going towards, even as my student quakes with fear at the unknown.  So it is now; only I'm the student without a school this time.  I'm Bilbo, setting forth from the Shire, unaware of the adventure that lies before him.

I'll end with the best pep talk my Dad ever gave me.  He's the sort of fellow who'll buy a birthday card and then put speech bubbles and captions all over it.  One birthday, he gave me a picture of the companions from the Wizard of Oz, and on the back he wrote this:

And all the people said, "Ahhg! A Lion!"

And the Lion turned around and cried, "Oh No! Where?"

Remember: You are a Lion.

On the Need for Martyrs

I've always been a fan of martyrs.

I think many Catholics are.  Martyrs have some of the best stories, some of the best one-liners (1) , and frankly some of the most inspiring lives - no matter how cut off in their prime - of anyone who've ever lived.  Check it out:

St. Cecelia
The patron saint of music, St. Cecelia was a beautiful young Roman noblewoman who was forced by her pagan father to marry another nobleman, Valerianus (we'll call him Val), despite having sworn her virginity to God.

Nevertheless, the marriage went through, and on her wedding night as Val entered the honeymoon suite, he was greeted by his new wife who informed him that she was terribly sorry, but she was a Christian, and - what's more - a consecrated virgin, and that incidentally if Val tried any hanky-panky, her angel would cut him down.

"Go take a walk," Cecelia ordered Val.  "Think about it.  Come back and tell me what you think."

Val went out for the walk, and when he came back, he saw Cecelia talking to her angel.  Val converted pretty much on the spot (and agreed to the no-sexy-times relationship).  Soon after that, Val's brother also converted.

Unfortunately, the boys were caught early by the anti-Catholic government officials of Marcus Aurelius, who had the men put to death immediately.  Cecelia lived on a while longer, converting many, until she was finally caught, subjected to various tortures, and at last put to death by beheading.

The rule at the time was that executioners only had three tries to cut off someone's head.  They tried three times...but failed...and so left St. Cecelia to bleed out.  She died and was buried in the catacombs, having arranged her fingers to show "three" and "one" on each hand - to indicate her belief in the Trinity.

Several centuries later, her body was discovered in the catacombs - incorrupt.  Her body was moved across the Tiber and in the crypt of a new basilica, now known as the Basilica of St. Cecelia. (2)

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St. Maximilian Kolbe
A humble Franciscan priest, taken into Auschwitz for opposing Hitler.  When someone stole some food out of desperation, the Commadant decided to put several of the prisoners at random into a starvation cell.  One man who was chosen, broke down and begged for his life: he was a family man.  St. Maximilian Kolbe, who had not been chosen to be starved, volunteered in the man's place.  While starving, St. Maximilian was heard not only offering spiritual counsel and confession to his fellow prisoners, but also leading them in songs and in jokes.  They did all eventually die of starvation.  The man whose place St. Maximilian took did survive, was reunited with his family, and testified on St. Maximilian's behalf at his beatification.

St. Robert Southwell
A distant cousin of Shakespeare, Southwell not only chose to become a Jesuit priest (the thorn in the side of the anti-Catholic English monarchy) but begged to go from the safety of France back to his native England, there to say mass, hear confessions, and minister to his persecuted countrymen.  For several years, he managed to live in England secretly, moved from Catholic house to Catholic house.

During this time, Southwell, an accomplished poet himself, wrote a letter to Shakespeare - who was just beginning to write a few plays and poems and enjoy celebrity - saying, in effect, "Your work is very good.  You have much talent.  It's a pity you throw it away on writing trivial stuff.  Think of what great work you could do, were you to write about more than fluff."  (At this point, Shakespeare had written Comedy of Errors, Titus Andronicus, Love's Labour's Lost, and probably Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night's Dream.)

Soon after, Southwell was found out by Queen Elizabeth's chief priest-hunter who imprisoned and tortured Southwell.  After enduring several years of this, Southwell was at last ordered to be executed by being drawn, hung, and quartered (3) .  The day of his trial, the crown tried to publicize the execution of another criminal in order to keep people from viewing Southwell's death (since many had converted several years earlier at St. Edmund Campion's execution). 

However, when he was being hung, Lord Mountjoy and many of the other onlookers rushed forward and pulled on Southwell's body so that he would die in the hanging.  His lifeless body, therefore, was quartered, and not one person in the crowed called out the traditional "Traitor!"

After Southwell's death, Shakespeare - who was very likely in the London crowd that day - began writing plays with richer significance and greater depth and glory.

I could go on and on.  St. Joan of Arc, St. Thomas More , St. Edith Stein , St. Isaac Jogues ...all those persecuted for being Catholic in the last century in Spain and in Mexico , or previously during the Reign of Terror in France...all the Catholics who to this day are persecuted and killed in China and Japan ...all those Catholics who are, to this very hour, being murdered while at prayer in Muslim-held territories from Egypt throughout the Mideast.

It's pretty staggering, when you think about it.

Yet, in light of current events, I can't help but think that America is long overdue for her martyrs. 

I remember the day the news came out that the Supreme Court had acquiesced to Obamacare - just two weeks ago, now.  My entire household, as Catholics, held their breath regarding the ruling.  Would we be forced to fight for our religious rights?  Would we be forced to pay for the death of infants?  Would we be forced to shut down our relief services because of government command?  Would we, in effect, be persecuted thanks to a clever legal loophole?

It's not an impossible thought.  Look at the martyrs listed above. 

They all faced the ruling forces and would not kneel.

My mother held out hope that the entire bill would be struck down. 

But somehow I knew, I knew, as I sat at my job with the vein under my right eye twitching (a result of a high-stress job, not of the ruling), that the Supreme Court would bow to Obama . 

I knew, even as I said my rosary for the Fortnight of Freedom - sneaking in a decade here and there as I went to the bathroom or drove to and from lunch - that the Catholic Church would be made to fight. 

I knew, I knew, even as I fervently prayed that God would spare our country, that He was sparing our country.  He was doing it at this very moment.  He is pouring out His graces - but in the way that He always has:

Through His blood we are healed.  Through His cross are we granted salvation.

He didn't say, "I come to bring fluffy bunnies."  He said, "I come with a sword." 

He didn't say, "Pick up your remote control and follow me."  He said, "Pick up your cross." 

He didn't say, "Blessed are those who grow fat and comfortable and forget about their God while sprinkling themselves insensibly with holy water when I can be bothered."  He said, "Blessed are you when people insult you, and persecute you, and utter false things against you for My Name's sake.  Rejoice and be glad!  For your reward is great in Heaven."

However, He also didn't say, "Run into buildings, take out a bunch of infidels with you, and follow me."  Christ didn't unleash His power upon His persecutors - He forgave them.  In fact, He even promised to bring the thief to Heaven that very day.

Is it any wonder, then, that as in Egypt when God allowed His people to suffer under Pharoh, as in Soviet Poland from whence our late John Paul the Great came in opposition to persecution, that He would allow our human government once more to feel its full power and therefore to truly ask of us, "Who do you say I AM?"

Is it any wonder when, like with the debaucheries of Rome, He saves us by allowing the world to truly witness (what "martyr" literally means) what their debaucheries were getting them: the circus, the death-matches, the Christian holocausts of the first centuries. 

The Church requires her martyrs.  By the blood of the martyrs - those brave fools, those men and women who would not bend even when the world was being trampled, those ordinary folks like you and I who said "I am God's servant, first, and my life is His," those glorious saints who are a bafflement to their peers, a scandalon in the soft shoe of the comfortable, a stumbling block to make men stop and look and think and believe.

I do believe that we are heading towards a time of martyrdom - of bloody martyrdom.  I pray we are not.  But I fear that we have become too comfortable.  We must wake ourselves.

We need those martyrs who stand up for the waking truth, even in the midst of a world gone mad with nightmares.  God, give us Your grace.  Amen!

Directions: from the Coliseum, go left towards St. Peter's/the Vatican.  Right before you'd go into St. Peter's, turn left, keeping the Tiber on your right.  Head down about half a mile until you could go left again and see that crazy round head thing from Roman Holiday which is supposed to cut off your hand if you tell a lie while your hand is in its mouth.  By the way, it doesn't work, but it freaks you out when you do it, anyway!  After you've had fun with the crazy round pagan lie-detector, go back right and over the Tiber via the closest bridge.  The Basilica is on your right, and they tie on fake roses to the bushes (at least in November).  It will look like a teeny villa, but don't be deceived!  It's her humble Basilica!

When I got there, I was disappointed to find that the doors were locked.  Fortunately, a very pretty organist came up - one of those with a carefully careless beard, rosy cheeks under dusky skin, and brown curly hair falling into his eyes, head mostly bowed, music tucked under his arm, as he rushed up to the basilica muttering to himself, keys swinging from his pocket.  Very pretty.  I went up, batted my eyelashes, begged to be let in (in my broken Italianish), and was let in.  However, then pretty boy was trying to...flirt back?  And I was in full pilgrimage mode and didn't much believe that I was bait for gorgeous Italian men.

Note to self: invent time travel and punch my former self in the windpipe.

The victim is first drawn from his place of imprisonment to his place of execution by means of a sled, so that his back, head, and torso are dragged along the road and the filth.Next, the victim is hung only to suffocation, not to death.Then, the victim's torso is cut into in a cross form (light enough to keep him alive).  Then his arms and legs are tied to four separate horses, who are then sent off at a gallop in different directions, so that the prisoner is alive as his abused body is literally torn apart.Yeah.   Nnnngh.  The Tudor's favourite form of execution.