The Other Side of Niceness: Lasso, Chalk Circle, Mockingbird

First things first, know that you can count me among the people disappointed with season two of Ted Lasso. There’s an old adage that comedy is fast and there was very little fast about this season. That too many jokes were full of air would not be so troublesome if the show had maximized its best feature, namely a willingness to look past the earnestness so many of its characters strive for. The episodes that did go in an entirely different direction, like Coach Beard’s bizarro, post-FA Cup semi-final odyssey, stick out a lot in that landscape, and for all their incongruity, I found myself wanting more of that surreal, form-breaking fun. Ultimately, it seemed like the show, which still had many good moments, was suffering from some growing pains, unsure how to balance its rom-com send-ups with its darker strains of melancomedy. Finding that balance could have done a lot for the theme the show did explore very well: the other side of niceness.

A lot has already been made about the Great Nate Debate, the discourse surrounding kitman-turned-assistant-coach Nate’s transformation from timid nice guy to self-absorbed prick. I won’t spend too much time on the debate here except to say that I found many of the moves heavy-handed (the hair, really?) and sometimes confusing, to the point that, despite all the ways Nate’s darker nature was exposed over the course of the season, his sudden outburst at Ted seemed to come out of the blue. I will say, though, that Nate’s arc is one example of how the show excavates what sometimes hides behind pleasant exteriors. The lesson of Nate’s story is that “niceness” does not always equate to goodness—that even those who seem harmless can harbor selfishness to the point of narcissism. This is not to discount the many ways Nate is belittled throughout the show, but rather to say that sometimes what the “nice guys” lack that the assholes don’t is the balls to do exactly what they want.

In addition to charting a seemingly new course for Nate, the show also lets some of the characters’ pleasant facades slip. We see, for example, that Ted’s relentless positivity is not impermeable; in fact, it is covering up a very serious problem with trauma that produces, among other things, an aversion to conflict. That he begins to untangle that with Dr. Sharon is appropriate, not just in that it shows her own “professional kindness” in the form of therapy is valuable, but in that Ted is able to help her, too. We discover, in Sharon’s private moments, that for all her grasp of human nature, she is lonely and therefore vulnerable to things going wrong. Here we have two people with an aptitude for making people feel good but who have not translated that same energy into personal fulfillment. Indeed, it suggests that sometimes niceness can be a barrier as much as a doorway. While some characters were enriched by arcs that revealed their fragility, other revelations were somewhat less surprising. My bullshit detector immediately started beeping when Edwin Akufo (all-star VEEP alum Sam Richardson), the billionaire Ghanaian heir apparently intent on dismantling his father’s empire, first arrived in his helicopter and started to woo sweet-natured Sam Obisanye with extravagant purchases and promises. (Never trust a billionaire who buys ambience and uses conspicuous consumption in service of an apparently decolonial project.) That he turned out to be vindictive and crude when denied what he wants puts him in a similar category to the slippery Rupert, another billionaire with charm to spare. Interestingly, Rupert, as we discover, is actually repelled by niceness; as Rebecca’s mother points out, putting on a smile proves that he cannot get under Rebecca’s skin. For him and Akufo, good manners are about mobilizing their power in the most effective and least obvious way; once they do not have the power, niceness no longer serves them.

(Speaking of billionaires and power, it’s here that I should return to my first writing on Ted Lasso and its role in the Americanization of the Beautiful Game. If season two got one thing very right about elite soccer, it is that money calls the shots, to the point of making the game a ball pit for billionaire playboys. If we can accept that there are sometimes darker—or at the very least, cynical and commercial—interests lurking behind hyper-lucrative organizations like the Premier League, we might have to accept that Ted Lasso is being positioned for the same purpose. The fact that the Premier League is going to allow the show to use official materials and highlight packages suggests they know a good marketing opportunity when they see it.)

While Ted Lasso revealed what lies beyond niceness, other texts, such as Bertolt Brecht’s play The Caucasian Chalk Circle (stay with me here), reveal the differences articulated between niceness and kindness. As my class and I studied Brecht’s text recently, I found myself thinking back on what professor and devised theatre expert Rich Brown once explained to me and others during a workshop session: that niceness is complimenting a friend’s terrible new haircut to keep up appearances and kindness is telling them the truth because you really care. In short, kindness prioritizes a person’s needs, even to the point of superseding manners and other mores of polite society. Kindness also comes with a certain cost, as Grusha, Brecht’s heroine, discovers when she rescues a noble child named Michael from the flames of a political insurrection. As Grusha flees through the Caucasian mountains to protect herself and the baby, she is constantly reminded, in typical Brechtian fashion, of the real, material costs of keeping this child as her own. It brings her under such scrutiny that she is forced to go into hiding, first as a noblewoman to get a room for the night, then from a lascivious corporal, then in the bonds of a loveless marriage. Eventually, once Michael’s rich, selfish mother comes calling for her son in order to secure her rights afforded to his heirship, Grusha is forced to defend her right to be Michael’s mother based on the care she has shown him. The women present their case to Azdak, a roguish judge who has spent the past few scenes robbing the rich to feed the poor. As in the biblical story of Solomon, Azdak devises a test: the child will be placed in the center of a chalk circle and the women will each pull on one end to see who is strong enough to extract him and claim him as her own. Kindhearted Grusha is unable to bear the thought of harming Michael and refuses to quickly relents. Azdak sees this and awards her custody, recognizing that her love forbids her from tearing at her son.

The conclusion of The Caucasian Chalk Circle alone speaks to the notion of kindness as something deeper than respectability and social conditioning. Michael’s birthmother is perfectly respectable, but it is Grusha who has demonstrated an investment in the child’s wellbeing. Even apart from the stark contrast between these two figures, Brecht’s play constantly points to the risks Grusha incurs to do what is right. From the other workers of the palace warning her to leave the baby in the first place to the sham marriage that puts her true love at risk, the real stakes of Grusha’s decision are never out of sight. This is important to recognize in Brecht’s work, which, in the Marxist tradition he practiced, always investigates the socioeconomic position the characters occupy. It does so partly by subject matter but also through Brecht’s staging and dramaturgy, which alienate the audience (verfremdungseffekt!) from the action in such a way as to invite critical engagement resulting in ethical judgments and real-world action. Understanding Grusha’s attachment to Michael, then, is not about embracing sentiment but about identifying the material wager Grusha makes by claiming Michael as her own, even if protecting him is the right thing to do. This is partly why productions such as the 2013 one by Classic Stage Company in New York use a very obvious baby doll in all its plastic glory to represent Michael: to disrupt the theatrical illusion and remind the audience that he is a costly object. Ideally, the move does not dehumanize Michael but instead humanizes Grusha by showing her willingness to break all the rules of proper society in order to protect this precious item.

If the second season of Ted Lasso is about showing what lies behind nice faces and The Caucasian Chalk Circle examines the cost of doing good, then Aaron Sorkin’s adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird (again, stay with me) shows the other side of people who take their goodness for granted. Based on Harper Lee’s classic 1960 novel, Sorkin’s Mockingbird, which I recently watched in the Shubert Theatre nosebleeds with my girlfriend, is written with a clear mission: to, as Sorkin says, converse with Lee’s novel and reshape it into something that responds to the moment. A lot of this is accomplished by expanding the role of Calpurnia, the Finch family’s Black domestic laborer, and playing up the degree to which Tom Robinson, the Black victim of racial injustice, is condemned by the tears of Mayella Ewell, the White woman Tom is falsely alleged to have raped. Calpurnia openly challenges Atticus Finch, the noble lawyer, when he tolerates his racist neighbors and accuses him of being sanctimonious after taking on Tom’s case. Mayella, meanwhile, is wound up to the point of hysterical rage at Tom, despite the fact that her father, as in the story, is undoubtedly her abuser. Calpurnia gives voice to Black pain by challenging Atticus’s assumptions and lamenting the death of Tom, who is shot seventeen times while trying to escape; Mayella encapsulates the privileges of whiteness, which allows her to construe her own pain into a rationale for condemning somebody else. Altogether, Sorkin’s efforts to bring To Kill a Mockingbird into today are obvious and, for the most part, successful in so far as they can bring this piece into the present. It may seem especially relevant in the ongoing racial reckonings that accelerated in 2020, but I would not characterize it as the play that best meets the moment. Still, by framing the action as a memory, as Sorkin does by casting the youths Scout, Jem, and Dill as character-narrators, the play does show how the past can bleed into the present. Though the conceit is manifested somewhat inconsistently, the effect is, at its best, moving and often thought provoking.

Where Sorkin’s play makes its most provocative changes is in the characterization of the iconic Atticus. The mere mention of the name calls to mind Gregory Peck’s almost saintly turn in the 1964 film, which crystalized him as the paragon of White liberal heroism. Although Jeff Daniels, returning to the role for the initial post-lockdown Broadway run, may not have quite the same gravitas as Peck, he does skillfully balance Atticus’s quiet decency, quick wit, and rhetorical grace. What Sorkin’s version of the role also demands is a certain shortsightedness that fuels a cantankerous temper. In Sorkin’s hands, Atticus’s commitment to basic human decency is complicated by the degree to which he lets racism slide out of deference to his neighbors. Throughout the play, Calpurnia and the children pick at Atticus’s stubborn refusal to call the racists out for who they are, taking it to the point that his belief in decency and non-confrontation is making him blind to the truth. As we come to learn, however, this version of Atticus is not afraid to get his hands dirty if necessary, as he proves when disarming the angry Mr. Ewell during a confrontation and verbally belittling him with surgical precision. It is a shockingly, if somewhat satisfyingly, violent moment for someone who has otherwise maintained nothing but restraint. Ultimately, even though Atticus defends Tom with skill and vigor, the nature of his commitment to resisting the full extent of racism’s power is left unclear. What is clear is that this Atticus’s above-it-all approach is not without his flaws, while the man himself is not without a certain edge. In my view, this demystifies Atticus Finch without harming the character’s legacy. If anything, it shows that complex people can perform heroic, if ill-fated work, even if they are not the saints we want them to be.

While it may seem odd to hold these three pieces together, I think all are instructive in the way they contrast the veneer of niceness with a deeper truth, whether that be the real selves lurking behind happy faces, the heavy costs of doing right, or the fact that sometimes being nice just covers up too many sins. As someone who has always gotten by on being nice, it is genuinely convicting to sit with work that asks something more of its characters. To do that in a way that invites audiences to reflect requires a willingness to peel away layers while ratcheting up the stakes. Ted Lasso excels at peeling layers and may, eventually, clarify the stakes. The Caucasian Chalk Circle and To Kill a Mockingbird, meanwhile, have stakes to burn. For them, the difference between niceness and kindness can mean the difference between life and death. As I see it, we have to be ready to make similar choices in real life, too.

It’s Not About Soccer, and Other Musings

Last month I completed a draft over a draught: a rough go of chapter one of my dissertation, with the final words lubricated by a couple of brews at one of my favorite haunts. Having a drink was a nice way to commemorate a milestone that seemed a long ways off last summer, when, according to my approved timeline, I should have already had some pages in my pocket. That timeline was always more for show, anyway; what really matters is that I have something.

While my dissertation takes a wide angle view of performance, the first chapter is very much focused on traditional plays. In it, I examine two “soccer dramas” that center high-performing women and girls: Caridad Svich’s Guapa and Sarah DeLappe’s The Wolves. Svich’s heroine Guapa, a young Latina woman living in a Texas border town, longs for an opportunity to test her futbol skills at a street tournament in Dallas. Despite seeming relatively straightforward, actually making the trip to that tournament presents a significant challenge to Guapa’s family: not only is taking their one junky car to Dallas a risk, but the prospect of success isn’t that promising. As Guapa’s guardian Roly is keen to remind her, even successful women, like Marta of Brazil, aren’t paid what they are worth. It takes a debilitating accident that robs Guapa of her ability to play to change Roly’s mind. To combat the after-effects of Guapa’s accident, which are exacerbated by trauma suffered at the hands of her step-father, the family rallies around her and uses futbol to facilitate her rehabilitation and set up a potentially fateful trip to Dallas. Despite the happy ending, the results of that tournament are ultimately left unresolved.

While Guapa focuses on a woman closely aligned with the Beautiful Game, The Wolves centers an all-girls indoor team focused on the labor of practice. The action of DeLappe’s funny, richly drawn ensemble piece unfolds in a series of warm-up sessions, during which the nine Wolves chatting about everything from post-genocidal justice to weird crushes. Their huddle is a new and intimidating environment for #46, an erstwhile world-traveler trying to fit in with a group that has been together for years. As #46 waits for her moment to shine, the other girls struggle to manage broken relationships, debilitating expectations, and the after-effects of injuries suffered on the pitch. Ultimately, the remnants of the team are forced to come together in the direst of circumstances when one of their number is struck and killed by a car. Rather than see them commemorate their fallen comrade with a win, the play ends with the team meditating on a cathartic pre-game chant and the tenuous unity they have forged.

Despite some obvious differences in their dramaturgy, these two plays share a number of qualities themes, including a nuanced depiction of success and failure. The ball-playing characters in each are driven to succeed yet constantly reminded of the limitations placed on them by the structure of the sport. Those limitations are often presented in stark contrast to the privilege afford male players, though in Guapa’s case it also includes her economic and social disadvantages. They also keep close ties to risk and mortality, Guapa through the injury suffered by its main character, an injury solved somewhat fantastically (and questionably) by a synthesis of her futboling prowess and spirituality; and The Wolves through the injuries suffered by the players, the global conflicts discussed in their huddle, and frequent mentions of the ways men dominate and take advantage of them. What I appreciate about these plays is that they problematize the “transcendent” narratives that privilege individual achievement and proffer sport as a way to “play your way” over material barriers. The barriers in these plays are quite real, which ultimately forces each set of characters, or at the very least the audience, to consider what they are meant to playing for. Then again, part of the problem, as I argue with help from other scholars, is the idea that play should have to do something at all. At some level, both of these soccer dramas trade on the idea that just getting to play and be part of a team has intrinsic value, even if that value has to be defined and contested.

Interestingly, both playwrights introduce published editions of their texts with long, thoughtful prefaces that distance soccer from their play’s essence. They literally say that their work is not about soccer as such, but about something else. Soccer is merely a vessel, a “prism,” as Svich says, for exploring these characters’ lives and the themes that undergird their stories. On the one hand, this assertion makes sense: after all, not a lot of play makes it onstage, save for The Wolves’ warm-up sessions and Guapa’s freestyling. Even the games that would conclude these characters’ journeys and seemingly validate their sacrifices are left unresolved, offstage, and out of the scope of the play. On the other hand, the idea that these plays are not “about” soccer yet are saturated in soccer suggests they are trading on assumptions about the sport – indeed, on what the sport itself can be “about”: beauty, creativity, empowerment, teamwork, pain and suffering, even symbolic violence. By simultaneously framing their plays with soccer but distancing the sport from their supposed essence, Svich and DeLappe open up opportunities to consider what it means to play – or at least, what it supposedly means to play. It’s this “meaning” that gets mobilized and challenged in the work I consider throughout the rest of the project, whether that means mythologizing a one-off historical event, maximizing a celebrity’s legacy, or cultivating political power through sport. At some level, the idea that these and other performances are not about soccer but something else furthers the notion, one commonly adhered to by fans and commentators all over the world, that soccer is “about” something more than itself.

Practicing the Art of Speculation

A few weeks ago I had the special pleasure of returning to a play after a long time away and finding that it didn’t stink to high heaven. I’ve been picking at it ever since, mostly in scratch scenes, of which I already had plenty. At some point I will need to make some choices to create a proper draft, but for now, I’m enjoying listening to my characters talk to me again. I’m also giving myself time to sharpen my speculation. The play is set in a near future where app users have the opportunity switch lives with other users – not science fiction, per se, but speculative fiction, a look at what our relationships with technology and the economy might produce next. This kind of writing has always interested me – I even wrote a short, 1984-inspired comedy that anticipated the rise of non-stop personal streaming, violence included – and it’s something the great works do really well. In fact, two stories I read this year demonstrated mastery of speculative fiction: Machinehood by S.B. Divya and the two-part Parable series by Octavia Butler (Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents). Divya’s book is part of the time-honored corpus of fiction that examines the boundaries between humanity and machines, but it also offers some striking speculation as to how that relationship might shape labor. In fact, the way people earn money, whether through minding machines or earning tips from an ever-present public watching them through swarms of cameras, was even more intriguing to me than the larger theme of “machinehood.” If Divya offers a look at what work could be, Butler, writing in the mid-1990s, portrayed a world eerily similar to the one we would inherit twenty years later. A crumbling environment and economy, a resurgence of fascists operating under the guise of religion, a pandemic of violence with global ramifications: it’s all there in grisly detail, albeit leavened by the heroine’s dream of taking her community to a better place in the stars.

It’s tempting to celebrate Butler for her foresight and test the validity of Divya’s predictions over the years, but what’s more important is recognizing that speculative fiction bases its version of the future on observations of the present. The rise of Donald Trump and the collapse of American infrastructure surprised a lot of well-placed and well-meaning liberals, but it did not surprise people accustomed to living on the margins. Keen observers like Butler saw some of this coming. Divya, meanwhile, is a trained engineer, someone who understands human and machine relationships in a way many others do not. She knows what she is talking about. For my part, I may not be an expert in lifestyle applications, but I am paying attention to how our relationships are evolving – not through technology as such but through the services technology supports. The app in my play isn’t a literal portal to another life; it’s a tool that helps consenting adults check and see if the grass really is greener on the other side. The systems that make that tool function, the hidden contracts and business commitments, are a significant interest to me, too. Ultimately, I have a sneaky feeling we may be set to turn even more of our personal lives over to some kind of management, perhaps with little appreciation for who (or what) is pulling the strings behind the scenes. Only time – and, maybe, some good speculative playwriting – will tell.

Being (with) the Beatles

Last year I hit upon a great way to fill the time while waiting for new arrivals from the library: gradually reading one very big, very dense book a chapter at a time! The best books for this purpose are the ones worth taking slowly or dog-earing for a second look. Last year’s was A History of God by Karen Armstrong (which, full disclosure, I finished earlier this year). This year’s was The Beatles by Bob Spitz, an 850-page (not including notes) beast that I just wrapped. It’s been on my shelf for years and it was worth the wait. Granted the criticism it has received (like all Beatles books), Spitz’s opus is beautifully written, complete with an in-depth look at each band member’s childhood and their early years together, not to mention a recounting of their greatest hits, on and off the charts. It was a fantastic reason to not only learn about the band but revisit their complete catalogue, which I got as a (rather expensive) birthday present years ago, before they were even on iTunes. In a way, it was like getting to know old friends.

Getting to know the Beatles meant learning more about their shortcomings and the many layers of performance that made them myths. I knew beforehand that the members of the band, John in particular, were not entirely like the mop-topped boys who kicked off the British invasion. They were competitive, even cutthroat at times; they were, by and large, woefully self-absorbed and inattentive to their mates, sometimes to the point of abuse; and they held certain prejudices of their time. In short, they were young, immature but driven guys who rose to untold heights in one of the fiercest, most exploitative industries there is. It’s no surprise that they weren’t actually nice. Of course, they were carefully cultivated for an audience that was evidently hungry for what they brought to the table. The clean-cut, besuited image they became famous for in the early 60s was the creation of their manager, Brian Epstein; before that, they were leather-clad rockers and rebels. Somehow, their new look made them global sensations and the object of then-unimaginable teen obsession, appropriately dubbed “Beatlemania” for the sheer, violent intensity of affection it prompted. Beatlemania became a prison for the Fab Four (one made all the more egregious by the shamefully exploitative licensing deals made on their behalves), so much so that they quit the stage and retreated to the studio. From there, they experimented not just with music but with themselves, hitting new conceptual heights with Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, an album enabled by a colorful persona that allowed them to step outside of themselves. From there came the “discovery” of Indian spirituality, John’s creative frustrations nurtured by the much-maligned and misunderstood Yoko Ono, a medley of side projects, and a growing disillusionment with the band on everyone’s part. Being the Beatles, whatever that meant, was eventually too much, especially after they contrived to throw away even more money with their ill-fated Apple Records escapades. Each man went on making new versions of himself in the public eye, never quite escaping the myth of the band that made him famous. They were, as Paul pointed out in a recent interview, all too human, of course, but what the rest of us see is so heavily saturated in myth and layers of performance that the truth is often difficult to determine. Not that many people want the truth; the music, and the story, tends to be enough.

The Water, The Chair, The Conference: Three Short Musings

Teaching Water by the Spoonful Now

Last year, I approached my first Texts and Contexts in Western Theatre course with a contemporary play, Dominique Morisseau’s Pipeline, set up as a sort of workshop text. I’m doing the same thing this semester, this time with Water by the Spoonful by Quiara Alegría Hudes. “Contemporary” is a flexible term, but a play that is ten years old and written with enough current references tends to fit most definitions, at least at first blush. Interestingly, Water by the Spoonful is a play that feels very “now” and yet very “ten years old” at the same time. A lot of it takes place in a chatroom for recovering cocaine addicts – no named platform, just a chatroom – and on the one hand, that makes it strikingly appropriate for students who have spent the bulk of the past two years learning online. On the other hand, when a character references signing in from an internet café, it hits a little differently (my friend Tara taught this play last semester and clued me in to that time-capsule treat). It’s a reminder that a lot has changed since the proliferation of smartphones and conferencing technology; there’s less need to find a settled spot to plug in from, or a silly screen name to cloak your identity (unless you really want one). In short, the internet isn’t quite the same place it used to be. Interestingly, Hudes pushes against the actors typing or otherwise engaging with a “computer” onstage, allowing the actors simply to speak. That’s actually quite appropriate for the Zoom era. To what degree all of this changes how students approach the play remains to be seen.

In addition to facing the internet of yesteryear, there’s also the small matter of war. In Water by the Spoonful, Eliot, one of the main characters, has returned from a tour of duty in Iraq and brought with him the ghost of an Iraqi citizen. Throughout the play, the Ghost begs Eliot to return his passport, eventually pleading so intensely that it forces a physical confrontation. We also learn that Eliot suffers from an addiction to painkillers, the after-effects of an injury sustained in the line of duty. With the United States pulling (chaotically) out of Afghanistan, it seems like the ideal time to redirect attention toward the country’s Middle East escapades and their traumatic results. I say “redirect” because, up until very recently, America’s wars in the Middle East had faded into the background for so many of us during this time of domestic upheaval. Like internet cafes, they almost seem to call from another era, even if, in the case of Afghanistan, they have been going on this whole time. So while the play still feels very “now” in redirecting our attention to the trauma brought home by soldiers and the harm inflicted on Afghanis, it also feels strangely distant. My hope is that we’ll get to explore more of that dissonance as we work further back into the canon, asking ourselves what still resonates, what doesn’t resonate, and what we can get out of holding those two things in tension with another. Lord knows there will be plenty more dissonance when Antigone comes around.

Sitting with The Chair (and Spoilers!)

Sandra Oh has been a favorite of mine ever since the early, halcyon days Grey’s Anatomy, so it’s immensely gratifying not only to live in the age of Killing Eve but to get a show like The Chair. Oh is the perfect person to lead a series that shifts from satirical to heartfelt to prescient, all while skewering many of academia’s ailments, among them the slights suffered by women, and women of color in particular. There is so much I love about The Chair – and so much that has already been written about it, including this excellent review from real-life Chair Dr. Karen Tongson – that it seems almost churlish to bring up two criticisms that I think limit it somewhat. Before I begin, it’s worth mentioning here that the whole discourse (as the kids are calling it) around verisimilitude in The Chair has been quite a merry-go-round, so much so that it has come in for some criticism of its own. As Dr. Koritha Mitchell points out in her op-ed for CNN, Oh’s Dr. Ji-Yoon Kim is a character, not a real person, and the encounters she has are designed to explicate who she is the protagonist in this story, not to present a documentary account. She also argues that an inability or unwillingness to accept Ji-Yoon as the protagonist is tied to the marginalization of women of color and other historically excluded groups. In other words, it is not enough to praise diversity in storytelling without being willing to acknowledge protagonists who don’t fit the hegemonic mold. While this is a crucial insight, I worry that, on a structural level, The Chair itself doesn’t always live up to Ji-Yoon’s status as protagonist. For a show about the lack of opportunities and the flush of additional labor put on women of color in academia, The Chair spends an awful lot of time asking Ji-Yoon, and the audience, to pick up after Dr. Bill Dobson, her messy White male colleague. Make no mistake, I largely enjoy Bill’s story and appreciate what the show does to undermine the cocksure, “inspirational” tropes he is meant to embody, and the fact that he becomes such a problem child is part of the point. But we spend a lot of time with Bill and his problems (some of them admittedly serious), so much so that he is essentially a second lead, even if his time onscreen is often unremarkable and repetitive (we only need so many wandering misadventures, cute bonding scenes with Ji-Yoon’s daughter, or hurried, illicit meetings with undergraduates before we get the point). So while I appreciated Bill’s story arc, I wonder if the show risks perpetuating the same problems it meant to combat by constantly centering him beyond the purpose of explicating the challenge he poses. It’s worth remembering that assessing what a show values sometimes comes down to just counting how much screen time it gives to each of its characters.

Speaking of Bill’s story, the other facet that left me a bit cold was, unfortunately, the ending. (Spoilers Ahead) Early on, Bill becomes embroiled in a “cancel culture” situation when an ironic fascist salute in his modernism class is captured on camera and turned into a meme. Some students quickly latch onto it as evidence that Bill may be harboring Nazi sympathies or, at the very least, is completely oblivious to how his actions might resonate. Bill stages an ill-fated town hall with the students that devolves into an argument, triggers further protests, and leaves most of the faculty scrambling. Throughout the remainder of the show, Ji-Yoon is forced to chart the best path forward, which may include terminating Bill if he is unwilling to apologize unreservedly, which he is not. In the end, she chooses not to vote for his removal and instead argues in front of the disciplinary committee that getting rid of Bill is unfair to the students; not only will they see right through their face-saving maneuver, they’ll be left without proper instruction on how to handle complex situations like this one. The problem with this move is that the students have largely been marginalized up to this point. Apart from a handful of (somewhat underwritten) characters, most students pushing for Bill to be punished are faces in the crowd, many of them barely more than “woke” mouthpieces with axes to grind. To be fair, the show demonstrates a certain wry insight by focusing on academic politics rather than what is good for the students, and the constant fear the professors have of appearing to be doing something inappropriate, even in fairly innocuous situations, speaks to how much universities are governed by concerns over liability, something Tongson discusses in her piece. Yet that only makes the sudden about-face to a sincere, inspirational plea all the harder to take. As Alessa Dominguez’s piece in Buzzfeed argues, the show may not be quite the satire it aims to be (it’s worth arguing here that many of the criticisms Mitchell confronts are brought up by Dominguez). While that could be blamed on a certain conservatism within the structures of universities, it could also be the result of trying to balance too many tones at once. In any case, while The Chair makes the right move in re-centering students, it only does so after giving those students relatively short shrift, sacrificing the very nuance it claims to argue for. It’s an ending that could be good, but I’m not sure the show earns it.

You may notice that I’ve equivocated a bit on my criticisms of The Chair. That’s partly because 1) it’s a TV show that I thoroughly enjoyed, 2) I don’t want to be one of the people trying to read it like a documentary, and 3) they’re fine points that I hope to look at closely in a second viewing. More importantly, I believe in the value of multiple perspectives, and many of the features I critique might look different when viewed from another lens. That’s something the show does quite well, actually; even the crusty old White men clinging to their relevance get their moment. And heck, if scholars the caliber of Mitchell and others are seeing what The Chair wants to show them, then what do I know?

After ATHE 2021

Last month, I chaired and presented on a panel at the Association for Theatre in Higher Education (ATHE) conference, one of our field’s biggest annual gatherings. Apart from enjoying a successful discussion on performance, power, and activism in contemporary sport, featuring the brilliant trio of Sean Bartley, Noe Montez, and Leticia Ridley, I got to attend several insightful sessions that not only got me excited for the school year but also helped me tweak my approach for future conferences. With all sessions recorded for later viewing, I decided to only attend those sessions where I might have something worth asking during the Q&A. In addition to actually engaging in some conversation, my question would be recorded for posterity (for better or for worse). This was initially meant to be an online-only tactic, but I realized it’s a great way to approach conferences in general. When faced with a long menu of sessions, why not select those that might offer you an opportunity to participate? It’s certainly a lot better than hearing a raft of papers on a topic you thought might be interesting but soon realize is anything but. It also allows me to pull some of what I’m learning back to the classroom. In the “re: PERFORMATIVE” session, for example, I asked the panelists and other attendees, many of us involved in the #PerformativeX special section of the Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism, how we can teach students about the many flexible powers of performance and “performativity.” It was a tall order, to be sure, but it also made for a great talk that will help me develop my own plans to teach performance more effectively.

Speaking of online conferences, it seems like keeping conferences virtual or at least hybrid is a no-brainer going forward. Yes, there are practical considerations to bear in mind, including contracts, and there is always something special about being there, at least for me. But keeping hybrid and virtual options on the table goes some way to expanding accessibility, and I’m hardly the first one to point this out. Not only does it open the conference up to people who may be unable to travel for a variety of reasons, it makes a number of tools – closed captioning, slides and documents, chat functions, etc. – available at the touch of a button. Assuming recording is set up, it also ensures that some amount of the work is housed for later use like a Netflix for real theatre nerds. Granted, Zoom fatigue is always a factor to consider (I certainly did not attend all the sessions I planned to) and there is no real substitute for the impromptu conversation or hastily arranged coffee chat after a panel. But for all their social benefits, conferences should ultimately be about sharing knowledge, and there’s no reason to limit that capacity by refusing to make online engagement available to attendees. Over to you, American Society for Theatre Research and other organizations looking to the future..

The Other National Theatre, and Other Musings

This handy stamp can be found at The National Theatre Archives, along with tons of programs, photographs, and files documenting the long history of this enduring institution.

Last April, I completed a study guide for the touring production of The Last Ship, a musical composed by Sting – yes, that Sting – as part of my work with the Teens Behind the Scenes program at The National Theatre in Washington, D.C. Ordinarily, the guide would have gone out to student groups in the D.C. area ahead of their free trip to see the show and participate in a discussion with some of the performers (there were no promises that we would get to talk to Sting, who was playing a supporting role, but I held out hope). Obviously, neither Sting and Company nor the students were able to come. Thankfully, The National honored their commitment and paid me for my work. Not only that, they set me up with a new project to help keep the program going: creating a series of websites documenting the history of the institution and showcasing The National Theatre Archives. I’ve been working on them off and on ever since, generously supported by de facto editors Olivia Tritschler and Emily Schmid, not to mention the support of Executive Director David Kitto.

Each site has reached some stage of completion throughout the course of the year, but now, finally, we are preparing to offer them up to schools in the hopes of integrating them into curricula. For now, my work is effectively done, although there will probably be cause to return at some point. Until then, I find myself reflecting on what I’ve learned about The National and its unique place in Washington, D.C. Since its establishment in 1835, The National has often had to play second fiddle in a variety of ways. In fact, every time I talk or write about The National, I have to mentally check that I’m not referring to the National Theatre in United Kingdom, which not only has a greater global reputation but also operates very differently, right down to how the title of “National” is understood. In the U.K., their National Theatre receives public funding, complete with certain national programming demands, and has a powerful symbolic role as a generator of “state-of-the-nation” theatre. It also produces new and classical works in-house, often with some of the country’s leading talents. This National Theatre in D.C., on the other hand, is a largely private institution that operates primarily as a touring house for productions passing to and from Broadway, while periodically hosting other major performances and events. Make no mistake, this one has its own pedigree as well.

Washington’s own National Theatre grew out of a desire among the capital’s elite to have a high-class institution that would help the city compete with more established cultural centers like Philadelphia and New York. It opened in 1835 under the leadership of the same manager who oversaw the Chestnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia, one of the most respected in the country, and enjoyed some elite bookings for its first few seasons. Being in the national capital, it also enjoyed some high profile visits, particularly from the Presidents but also from a delegate of Native chiefs who came to Washington to “negotiate” land cessions in the northern United States. Despite enjoying elite patronage and drawing some of the country’s top stars, The National rarely enjoyed the status of the nation’s other great metropolitan theatres. On top of that, its first few decades were marked by mismanagement and disaster. Fire, a common enemy to theatres all over the country, was a constant menace. Thankfully, The National also has a knack for bouncing back, often with a big occasion, like the visit of legendary songstress Jenny Lind, known as “The Swedish Nightingale.” Her two concerts in 1850 helped validate the resurrection of The National as a major touring house, and set the stage for future visits from the likes of Sarah Bernhardt and Washington’s own Helen Hayes.

Sitting on what is now part Pennsylvania Avenue kept The National Theatre close to national politics, for better and worse. For much of its life, The National could depend on the favor of presidents. Andrew Jackson is believed to have been at the opening, James K. Polk had his inaugural ball there, Lyndon B. Johnson enjoyed applause at a performance of the all-Black Hello, Dolly! thanks to the quick thinking of star Pearl Bailey, Ronald Reagan helped christen the theatre’s reopening in 1984, and FDR and JFK were steady fixtures. Yet even here, The National can be seen playing a secondary role. For starters, much of the elite talent of politics and performing arts now gravitates to the Kennedy Center, which briefly oversaw The National’s bookings in the 1970s until an obvious gap in the quality of engagements drove it to declare independence. The National even plays a supporting role when it comes to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. President Lincoln was an avid theatre-goer who enjoyed several evenings at The National, where his assassin John Wilkes Booth had also appeared in Booth family favorite Richard III. In fact, Lincoln could have been there on that fateful night of April 14th, 1865; instead, he and his wife Mary Todd went to Ford’s, while their son Tad attended a production of Aladdin at The National. After the assassination, the public’s anger turned on Ford’s, which very nearly burned to the ground; The National’s management, meanwhile, breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t them. Now, however, Ford’s Theatre thrives with the help of major funders and embraces its unique role in history with exhibits and programming. Like a lot of theatres around the country, The National was also involved in the upheavals that greeted social progress in the mid-20th century. It was slow to integrate, and even converted to a cinema in 1948 under pressure from a coalition of activists and artists. By the time it reopened as a playhouse in 1952, Arena Stage, soon to become sort of national theatre in its own right, had arrived on the scene as an integrated institution.

While The National has always played host to traveling productions coming from presumably more established lands, it has also helped send great work in the opposite direction. In fact, one thing The National leadership and I really wanted to showcase was its record as a pre-Broadway tryout spot. Many Broadway-bound shows, especially large-scale musicals, premiere in a major city in order to test audience reception and make any last changes prior to their Broadway bow. The National has played this role for many successful and critically acclaimed productions, including West Side Story, Fiddler on the Roof, and M. Butterfly, not to mention contemporary hits like Mean Girls and Beetlejuice. It’s also hosted its fair share of duds, one of the most famous of which, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, has been a low-key obsession of mine since I first discovered it. Some shows, like West Side Storywhich received the full website treatment as part of this project, complete with interview with Chita Rivera – underwent relatively few changes on their way to Broadway. Some, like Fiddler on the Roof, swapped out numbers and tried new material. Others, like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, underwent major surgery – unsuccessfully, in that case. Working with these shows was a special treat for me, not least because they forced me to wrestle with the complex legacies of some shows while acknowledging their enduring appeal. They also drew my attention to the vital changes that can happen in a pre-Broadway tryout locale, an important but seemingly understudied stop on the road to Broadway. Ultimately, all of them went on to their true destination in New York, thankful for their opportunity to test the capital’s waters but always hopeful to make it to that much bigger port of call.

As an institution, The National has been through numerous trials and tribulations, all while constantly dealing with its “other” status. Nevertheless, it has persisted on the very same patch of ground where it was first built and remained prime real estate for major producers. Today its programming is operated by the New York-based Nederlander Organization, which is currently (and somewhat appropriately) enjoying its second stint in charge. It might seem like playing second fiddle in so many ways is to its detriment, but for me it has become a subject of fascination, maybe even something to be proud of. Few theatres have operated, in some form or another, on the same patch of land for nearly 200 years, and few have connected such disparate streams of political power and artistic success. In a way, though it is not “national” in the same sense as its U.K. namesake, this National Theatre is a very American institution. It grew out of a desire for prestige, it shepherded some of the great stars of the stage to and from New York, and it has been entangled with some of the best and worst in American politics. It is the kind of theatre that probably deserves a little more artistic and scholarly credit than it gets, in part because its position is that much more unique, its story that much more complex than its famous counterpart across the Atlantic.

Other Musings

The First of Many Musings on Ted Lasso. As an American with a longtime love of soccer, the success of TV’s Ted Lasso is enormously validating – if a little surprising. Years ago, practically everyone I know sought me out to share Ted Lasso’s first appearances, which came in a series of comical ads marking NBC’s acquisition of the American broadcasting rights for the English Premier League. Jason Sudeikis’s ignorant blowhard of a coach made for a great fish-out-of-water bit when he went off to coach “the Tottenham Hotspurs,” and to think, that shtick made the jump to an Emmy-winning TV show. Of course, it’s not just that shtick: it’s a much more finely observed take on self-belief, masculinity, and community, all of it enabled by some adjustments to Ted Lasso himself, not to mention the addition of a stellar supporting cast. As James Poniewozik wrote in a recent piece analyzing American television comedy’s gradual change in tone over the past two decades, Ted Lasso is the epitome of sincerity. That doesn’t mean it lacks layers, though. Gender politics, particularly with regard to how men understand and present themselves in the macho (but sometimes metro) world of elite soccer, are a major feature of the show that I hope to dig into more later. For now, it’s worth pointing out that Ted Lasso also arrives at a unique moment in soccer’s relationship with the United States. The Women’s National Team (say a prayer for them after their Olympic loss to Canada) reached new heights as icons in 2019, male players like Christian Pulisic are making inroads at major European clubs, and MLS expansions have recently come to Los Angeles, Austin, and Miami. Meanwhile, the money in the game is circulating in and around the United States more than ever, giving us the good, the bad, and the bizarre. The (hopefully) good: elite women athletes and leaders buying into the National Women’s Soccer League. The (hilariously) bad: the European Super League debacle – featuring my club, American-owned Manchester United, – being blamed on the Americanization of the sport. The weird: Ryan Reynolds and Rob McIlhenney (you know, from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) buying a Welsh club called Wrexham(?!). Which brings me to the Etihad group, the Abu Dhabi-based entity that owns Manchester City in England, New York City FC in America, and eight other clubs around the world. Manchester City are a constant fixture in the background of Ted Lasso: they’re the team douchebag striker Jamie Tartt shifts back and forth from, the big dogs who knock Richmond down into the Championship at the end of the first season. They’re also a major fixture in the media thanks to documentaries on Amazon Prime, which has also produced a number of other programs highlighting major clubs and celebrating the Beautiful Game for its American – but really global – audience. Which all leads me to this question: what is Ted Lasso‘s role in the growing Americanization (broadly conceived) of the global game? Is it a symptom of that development or a key player? Or am I making more of this than it is? Expect a full-length blog post to come out of this at some point in the future.

The Second Person in Interior Chinatown. This has a been a bumper year of for-fun reading – I’ve even juggled up to three books at a time at points! As usual, some have stood out more than others, and the one-two punch of Brit Bennett’s The Vanishing Half, soon to be a series under the stewardship of Issa Rae, and Charles Yu’s Interior Chinatown was an especially good mini-streak. In fact, Interior Chinatown came along just as I was wondering about the merits of one particular, uncommon technique. First, some background. Yu’s novel takes place in a sort of Hollywood fantasy version of a Chinatown, where the main character, Willis Wu, is struggling to work his way up from playing a variety of Generic Asian Men to his holy grail: Kung Fu Guy. Throughout the book, Willis fights to assert himself in the midst of a cop show called Black and White, starring a ripped Black man and a tough but sympathetic White woman, all while caring for an ailing father and struggling to maintain a relationship with his girlfriend. The book shifts periodically from the novel form to screenplay, forcing Willis to enact some of the racist stereotypes that constrain him. It’s a great way to look incisively at issues of race and representation, as well as the economic situation of people perpetually marked as “immigrants.” Yu, who’s found a lot of success on meta storytelling as a writer for Westworld, also has some fun spoofing tired narrative tropes. Beyond all that, the book is also disarming at times because it’s written in the second person, meaning the person Yu is writing about, Willis Wu, is You. Perhaps there’s some wordplay at work there – Charles Yu writing to You – but there’s almost certainly an effort to make you feel the binds that trap Willis in these boxes and keep him struggling through dead-end pursuits. It guarantees that some readers will have very different experiences of this book. As a White reader, there’s a certain disconnect in being addressed as a Generic Asian Man with aspirations of becoming Kung Fu Guy, in part because in representational terms, my options have never been so limited. An Asian reader, particularly an Asian male reader, would probably experience this book very differently. It’s great to see a book with such a distinctive mode of address: it speaks clearly to those who recognize themselves in it, and dissonantly (in a good way) to those who don’t.

Mission Statements. I recently completed the mentorship program at TheatreWashington and had a fantastic time. My mentor, Round House Theatre’s Naysan Mojgani, was thoughtful, insightful, and genuinely interested in my work, which is always nice. We got a lot out of watching streaming theatre together and picking through major developments in theatre at large, but the exercise that will have a truly lasting impression on me was writing a mission statement. Naysan offered it as a way to help me find the connecting threads that join my many disparate projects together, something I often struggle with. While drafting it was a bit of a challenge (it’s hard not to be grandiose in these kind of documents), it did help me zero in on some of the values that undergird what I do. It still needs a bit of work, though. As Naysan argued, mission statements tend to be more practical than artist’s statements, which can lean toward the broad and thematic. Getting specific about how I do what I do will only help me better articulate what I bring to the field, assuming I’m able to stay in it to some degree. For now, it might be worth my time to revisit some of the projects I’m most proud of. Looking back at my plays tends to illuminate whatever big ideas and dramatic forms preoccupy me; maybe doing the same for dramaturgy, scholarship, teaching, etc. will do likewise.

On the Ethics of Sports Spectatorship, and Other Musings

A collage (with credits) of the life and death matters tied up in sporting mega-events. Clockwise from top left: Danish players guard their fallen teammate, Christian Eriksen, as he receives treatment for a cardiac arrest (photo by Friedemann Vogel). Protestors speak out against the 2020 Olympics in Tokyo (photo by Yuichi Yamazaki). A World Cup stadium under construction in Qatar (photo by K. Abou Mehri).

On the Ethics of Sports Spectatorship

This summer, sports are going back in time. The Tokyo Olympics, still known as the “2020 Olympics,” are slated to go ahead despite widespread resistance across Japan. Much of that resistance is driven by fears of a rise in COVID-19 cases, which could be a big problem for a country with a very low vaccination rate. Unfortunately for them, only the International Olympic Committee has the right to cancel the Games. That’s right: contractually speaking, a sovereign nation does not have the right to cancel the Olympics happening within its own borders. Meanwhile, soccer’s European Championships, “EURO 2020,” has continued with its original pan-continental setup, with matches taking place in eleven cities as far apart as Seville, Spain and Baku, Azerbaijan. In addition to putting teams through a thicket of contradictory health and safety measures, many of the host nations have welcomed fans back to their stadiums. While some, such as Denmark, had some justification thanks to good numbers, even they have seen some fans contract the new Delta variant. Scotland, meanwhile, has tied nearly 2,000 new cases to fans who traveled to matches, mostly at Wembley Stadium; many of those fans went against government warnings and traveled to London despite not even having tickets. Then there’s the Copa America, South America’s continental soccer championship, which pulled out of Colombia and Argentina at the last minute and moved instead to Brazil, one of the worst-hit countries in the world, despite criticism from the host nation’s own much-beloved team. This is the same country that hosted a World Cup (2014) and Olympic Games (2016) back to back, which required enormous financial investments in stadiums and facilities that are largely unused. It’s also currently under the rule of President Jair Bolsonaro, who, like Hungary’s Viktor Orban, is implementing a vehemently right-wing agenda.

Unfortunately, authoritarian politics and high costs for host countries, in addition to the militarization of public space and widespread labor abuses – looking at you, World Cup 2022 in Qatar – are standard practices for these sporting mega-events. Once again, the old adage that “sports aren’t political” is demonstrably false. (Even my going to two sporting events in D.C., a welcome if tentative return to “normalcy,” is made possible by a myriad of political decisions regarding land, economics, and vaccination distribution.) With all that in mind, I have been asking myself how I can be an ethical spectator of these mega-events, knowing the dangers involved in staging them. Can I, as a performance studies scholar, truly critique these events through my cheers? I would like to think the answer is yes, which is why I decided the least I could do was try to hold the beautiful and the ugly in tension, mostly by spending way too much time on Twitter alternating between commenting on EURO 2020 games and posting coverage on the COVID-19 and political shenanigans behind the scenes. Despite my low follower count and suspicions about Twitter activism, I decided the exercise would at least attune me to a kind of critical spectatorship that could prove useful to my dissertation and act as a platform for further action ahead of Qatar 2022.

Of course, there remains a strong argument that the only way to ethically engage in any exploitative practice is to not engage at all. The problem there is that tuning out is easier said than done, especially when, no matter what individual choices we make, elite sport will play on no matter the circumstances. This was made very apparent when Christian Eriksen, the star of the Danish national team, suffered a cardiac arrest while on the pitch in Denmark’s opening EURO 2020 match against Finland. In an astounding scene, Eriksen’s teammates stood in a circle around their fallen friend as the medical team fought to revive him, many of them struggling to remain calm through the tears. Some broke away at one point to intercept Eriksen’s distraught partner when she rushed to the sidelines. Throughout it all, fans in the stadium stood on in silent horror, while the commentators calling the match did their best to maintain composure, offering grave reminders that “football is just a game.” That same refrain was repeated over and over again throughout the day: “football is just a game.” When the match was finally suspended and ESPN’s coverage turned back to the studio, it was all the pundits could say: “football is just a game.” I know all this happened because despite the Danish team’s efforts to protect Eriksen’s privacy and despite the calls from some the commentators to cut away, the camera stayed on. I know it stayed on because I stayed in my seat, watching and waiting to see what would happen next. Call it shock, call it grim fascination, call it marveling at the solidarity shown by the team and supporters – whatever it was, I did not turn away.

Fortunately, Eriksen survived and received treatment at the Copenhagen hospital conveniently overlooking the stadium. Unfortunately, despite the evident trauma of the event, the Danish players were forced to make a choice: pick up the match that day and play on as if nothing had happened or pick it up the following day and play on as if nothing had happened. Fearing the shear exhaustion of waiting and wondering, the players apparently decided to continue that day, and ended up losing to tournament debutants Finland. Thankfully for the Danes, that was not the end of their journey: with Eriksen watching in recovery, they bounced back from another loss to Belgium by thrashing Russia in the last group game and thrashing Wales in the second round. Maybe they’re taking out their anger on UEFA, the European game’s governing body, by going all the way in the most peculiar circumstances, just like they did when Yugoslavia’s collapse in 1992 had UEFA calling them up to take their place.

Whatever happens next, Denmark’s situation accentuates one thing: that the sports-industrial complex, the vast network of political, economic, scientific, and cultural powers that enable massive governing bodies like UEFA and the IOC, will always play on. At some level, maybe I wanted to keep watching so I could confirm that for myself. But then, I already knew that would happen, didn’t I? It was proven before the match, before the tournament, even started. For all the reminders that it is “just a game,” football continues on in the face of mortal danger, not just for the love of the game but for the love of the money guaranteed by lucrative sponsorship and broadcast contracts. That’s why the camera stays on and that’s why the pundits have to fill their time with half-hearted reminders that it’s all “just a game,” even though they know the game will go on after a very close, very public brush with death.

Sports have a peculiar relationship with reality. They get cast as war, as art, as a matter of life and death, right up until real life and death matters encroach on their terrain. Then they’re just games. But life and death are always going on behind the scenes, too. A ball hasn’t even been kicked in Qatar and thousands of migrant workers have already lost their lives since the country was awarded the World Cup. Nevertheless, it will play on, just like EURO 2020, the Tokyo Olympics, the Copa America, and all the rest. And many of us, myself included, will continue to watch, so long as we are given the platform to do so. Christian Eriksen’s heart attack helped me prove that to myself this summer. What I actually do with that witness is a work in progress.

Other Musings

More Like PTC’s The Wolves, Please. Last month, I published a Theatre Journal review of Sarah DeLappe’s The Wolves as staged by Philadelphia Theatre Company. Originally slated for an in-person production, this story of a girls’ indoor soccer team navigating a challenging, not to mention the thickets of young adulthood, made a surprisingly smooth transition to the virtual realm. In fact, by putting a play that normally depends on an abundance of space into Brady Bunch Zoom boxes, PTC’s production illustrated how a shift into the virtual realm can refresh our understanding of plays we think we already know. Rather than watch from a voyeuristic remove while the girls practiced in an arena, as I did at the Goodman Theatre in 2018, I was instead consumed by DeLappe’s rush of teenage chatter gushing out of a wall of unfamiliar faces. It was overwhelming and isolating, just like it must have been for #46, the new girl in the group. I came to realize that as much as the play is about a shared spaced, it is also about a struggle to connect, a fact brilliantly accentuated by the Zoom boxes and the photographic backgrounds that never quite matched up with their neighbors’. In short, PTC’s production illuminated a play I thought I already knew fairly well. This is one of the many reasons why I hope virtual theatre – or just “theatre” as some prefer to call it – will stick around in some form or fashion. Apart from expanding access, virtual productions have the ability to stimulate audiences in very different ways. Some of that comes from advances in technology that blur the lines between realities, some of it from highlighting the limitations of digital connectivity. If nothing else, the voices of PTC’s superb cast have been living rent-free in my mind as I write my dissertation. Thank heavens I was able to watch them workout more than once.

The (Un)Realities of In the Heights. The onscreen arrival of Lin-Manuel Miranda and Quiara Alegria Hudes’s In the Heights is the kind of thing most theatre-folk have to take note of. Though I came in unfamiliar with the show, there are a couple of things that jumped out to me about the film and the resulting discourse around it. The first is the way director John Chu and his team embraced magical realism in many of the numbers. While not all instances are particularly good – the wig mannequins turning their heads in “No Me Diga” had major haunted house vibes – and while there was not much internal consistency in how reality got warped, I appreciated that the film leaned into the way musicals already flaunt realistic conventions. Why not send massive banners over the tops of the neighborhood in “It Won’t Be Long Now” or dance up the walls in “When the Sun Goes Down” if it accentuates how the characters feel? Ironically, a lack of reality has been a sticking point in criticism of the film, particularly in regard to the dearth of Afro-Latinx performers, which is notable for a story set in the predominately Black neighborhood of Washington Heights. This, in addition to changes in the script that eliminated confrontations of anti-Black racism, has placed the film into a broader discourse on how colorism touches the many groups that make up Latinidad. As Miranda himself acknowledged, these are criticisms worth listening to, though it it is also worth being wary of the weight of expectation placed on films touted as feats of Representation-with-a-capital-R. Bearing in mind that I speak from a position of astounding privilege when it comes to representation, it should go without saying that no single Hollywood film can truly capture all the shades and nuances of any people group, let alone serve as an accurate barometer for true political empowerment. As others have pointed out, the reaction to the film is as much an indictment of a cultural landscape where Latinx stories are scarce as it is anything else. Nevertheless, it is also worth remembering that levels of reality hit differently depending on who is in the story and how it gets told. Audiences are often happy to go along with the magic of movies, but they are just as likely to call out one that makes a disputable claim to a reality the audience knows very well.

Building a Syllabus with the Students. This Fall, I’ll be teaching Texts and Contexts in Western Theatre, a course that introduces students to dramaturgy and script analysis while exposing them to a wide range of Western theatre styles throughout history. There’s a lot to cover, which means tough choices have to be made when it comes to drawing up a syllabus. To help me make those choices, I’ve decided to have the students help me fill in our reading list. A lot of that will involve them simply weighing in on what plays they’ve already read from the different “slots.” If most of them have already read Macbeth, for example, then that leaves me room to do Twelfth Night instead. This will help me ensure students are covering the important material without retreading terrain that’s too familiar. It also clues them in to other opportunities within each of these slots. A slot on the absurd and surreal might include Beckett and Ionesco, but it might also include Kennedy and Churchill. I’ll also give the students an opportunity to weigh in on our “wild card” play. Do they want to do an adaptation of a play we’ve already ready? Do they want to do an understudied period or genre, like Roman comedies or the work of Hrotsvitha von Gandersheim? Do they want to do a solo show a la Anna Deavere Smith or John Leguizamo? Apart from our reading materials, I also plan to collaborate with students to set up class policies regarding discussions and assignments. Ideally, the more students have a stake in how the class is structured, the more they will learn. These efforts, combined with experiments in grading and some other pedagogical tools I picked up last Fall, should (hopefully) make for an experience that’s at least as educational for me as it is for them.