I’m a tennis player from way back, though I admit I’m not particularly good.  I just like running around in the sun (or under the lights) and hitting the ball back and forth with someone I like.  In every city I’ve lived in, all the way back to college at Auburn, I’ve found someone who eventually became a regular tennis partner.  Since I’ve moved back to Birmingham, though, I haven’t befriended any tennis players.  So I’m more than a little out of practice.

After talking about it and planning (for a longer-than-longish while), a good friend of mine and I agreed to go play.  And we also agreed not to laugh at each other.  We thought we’d just run around until one of us clods inevitably got hurt.  I admit to lots of embarrassing misses, mis-hits, and weak shots into the bottom of the net.

I’ll also admit, though, that much of the fun of a tennis court is the opportunity to share a conversation over the net.  I almost can’t help but talk while I play.  There’s something about the rhythms of tennis (or ping pong) that makes it conducive to expansive dialogue.  The rhythms go something like: hit, recover, move, watch, move, think, hit, recover, move, watch, move, think, mis-hit, curse, laugh, discuss.  On the level I play at, a satisfying rally can occasionally become pleasingly regular and metronomic.

But when played at an advanced level, the pacing rarely gets too even.  Expert players vary the ball’s speed, their own rhythms, and where they stand to take the ball.  Subtle interplay develops in timings and tempos.  Things vary.

The same is true with over-the-net dialogue.  When people speak to each other, it’s rarely in a straightforward cadence, especially if they know each other well.  People often talk over each other.  Sometimes, they think before they respond.  Occasionally, there are…

…

…long pauses.  These natural patterns are echoed in good theatre.  Not just the Atari pong-ness of line, line, line, line, line, line, line, line.

The Virginia Samford Theatre is currently presenting Tennessee Williams’ play, The Glass Menagerie.  Alyssa Crisswell as Laura Wingfield is easily the best piece of the production.  She improves every scrap of dialogue and every bit of action she’s involved in.  If you go, listen for her perfect reading of: “I don’t suppose you remember me at all.”  Simply put, the other actors are elevated when Laura is involved.  Crisswell is also in a pretty good pig-lovin’ band (Sue Scrofa) (also here).

The rest, however, is too often just the rest.  A principal conceit may lie in the director casting his real-life son as Tom Wingfield (for the second time, apparently) and then casting himself as an older, narrating Tom (a part not written or intended by Tennessee Williams).  Here, the director admits in his own printed notes that he’d always wanted to put Tom on his own resume, even though he’s now too old to credibly play him.  Then he cavalierly explains his decision to change a classic play with a “Why not?” and attempts to re-brand it as a “concept production”.  I don’t mind creative changes, but if you’re going to mess around with acknowledged greatness, it had better work.

Theatre Commandment XI-or-so: Thou shalt not cast thyself or thy family in the play.

Also relevant is Kurt Vonnegut’s rule number 2 for creative writing: “Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.”  Characters – often even those who have to say and do despicable things – must be personable, likable, and charismatic.  An audience needs to connect.  It’s a special tragedy that the mother, Amanda, is presented as more annoying than repetitively charming, but other characters are equally shrifted.  For example, the questionable choice to divide Tom’s lines between two actors robs the young Tom of a lot of his sympathetic moments.

As always, the technical professionals at the Virginia Samford Theatre should be commended for a beautiful, somnambulant set and quality in all other respects.  Sincere thanks to Lucas Pepke and the Virginia Samford Theatre for allowing me to see this production.