“When Equus leaves – if he leaves at all – it will be with your intestines in his teeth.”

In the same way that there are some people who don’t like to ride roller coasters, there must be people who won’t enjoy art that’s likely to grab at your throat and give you a rush.  Yes, there’s always a time and place for mindless or bubblegum entertainment – Lord knows, there were whole months when I watched Telemundo without knowing any Spanish – but everyone should allow themselves at least an occasional opportunity to see something potentially transcendent.

That’s why I love Equus.  I read the script back in college and it completely transformed my perspective.  Because of this power, it has survived for more than 35 years and become a modern classic.  What must it be like to try and play roles made famous in part by Anthony Hopkins and Daniel Radcliffe?  How much fun must it be to strap on a mask and become one of the six on-stage horses?  What’s it like to wake up in the morning and realize that tonight – and tomorrow night – you’re going to be completely naked in front of a roomful of strangers?

In this Theatre Downtown production, Tim Childers delivers in almost every scene as a disturbingly intense and rapt teenager; his Alan Strang is every bit the modern kin to Malcolm McDowell’s Alex in A Clockwork Orange.  Ginny S. Loggins is excellent as the concerned magistrate and gives her character a clear inside-warm and outside-tough.  Mel Christian provides several first-rate moments as Alan’s mother, using both her infectious laughter and her sincere, overwrought motherhood.  David Phipps and Christina Guthrie are also notably well-cast as Alan’s father and (human) love-interest.  Full credit to the director, J.J. Marrs, for realizing his own vision of this difficult piece.

Equus is an experience, and I could write about it for pages and pages.  Instead, I’ll just tell a quick story.  I remember seeing a Rhodes College production of Equus back when I lived in Memphis and there were three cute coeds sitting in front of me for that performance.  I talked to them at intermission, of course.  (Another great reason for guys to go see plays.)  But I was so disappointed when they told me they were just there for extra credit.  In fact, they were shocked that I might want to be there for any other reason.  And some people won’t ever appreciate roller coasters, I guess.

I’d like to encourage other organizations around Birmingham to follow Theatre Downtown’s example and offer something like a Thursday “Hobo Night” – where you’re allowed to pay what you can afford.  This practice encourages students and non-corporate types to come out to the show, which may help build a citywide love of the arts.  But if you think hobnobbing with students and non-corporate types will make you smell funny, you can just come on regular nights.

Finally, if you see Equus – and I absolutely recommend it – be aware that it earns its R-rating for nakedness, sexuality, and violence.  Don’t say that no one warned you.  Although it’s always fun to witness firsthand the dropped jaws and shocked gasps from those in the audience who weren’t forewarned.

“I can hear the creature’s voice.  It’s calling me out of the black cave of the Psyche.  I shove in my dim little torch, and there he stands – waiting for me.  He raises his matted head.  He opens his great square teeth, and says – Why? . . . Why Me? . . . Why – ultimately – Me? . . . Do you really imagine you can account for Me?  Totally, infallibly, inevitably account for Me?”

Thanks to Billy Ray Brewton, J.J. Marrs, and Scarlett Bradford for welcoming me to their show.

After our beautiful snow, I went and saw Theatre UAB’s production of Joe Turner’s Come and Gone.  I’m not sure I loved the play, but Crystal Lee was often a standout as (a female version of) Bynum Walker.  It may have been worth it just for her monologue about the incredible depth of women.  Also, I think pretty much the whole audience recognized the incredible cuteness and charisma of young Colby Holman as Reuben Mercer.  Another plus, Theatre UAB is consistently masterful with their set designs.

The play is hugely funny in places and in a lot of different ways.  It’s jokey funny and weird funny and shockingly uncomfortably funny.  And UAB productions always draw a diverse crowd, so it’s really fun to listen to those diverse reactions.

I laughed at stuff that no one else did.  Other times, people around me laughed and I had no idea why.  We even changed from the floor to the balcony between acts in part to get to listen to some different people.  (When you go to live performances, I reiterate my belief that the crowd is a big part of the show…)  Was I just not looking in the right place at the right time?  Was I focused on a different part of the stage?  Not paying enough attention?  Do I have a different (or unusual) sense of humor?

Benoit Johnson and Crystal Lee

One of my favorite things about theatre is inappropriate or unexpected laughter from the crowd.  Many things happen in Joe Turner that are strange left turns.  Lots of sudden and unexpected sexual innuendo and overtures.  Someone will blurt out, “Oh my goodness.”  Someone will gasp.  Someone will chortle.  And sometimes I agree – you’ve just got to let it all out.

My theory on this – partly – is that theatre lets you look at whatever you want.  With a big stage, your focus will be wandering to the left when the action is to the right and, sometimes, you’ll be rewarded with a laugh.  Sometimes you’ll be watching what everybody else is, and sometimes you won’t.  Actors: there’s no time to relax.

The back half of my theory is that our diverse backgrounds nurture and grow different kinds of humor.  (Which may be a curious problem, since the first thing on most people’s list of good things in a mate is inevitably “sense of humor” – whatever that might mean to them.)  Some people can’t appreciate broad, slapstick humor.  Some can’t appreciate technical wordplay.  Some people won’t laugh at subtle glances or sarcastic facial expressions.  And I think some actors tend towards one end or the other of this spectrum – good for some parts and groups, bad for others.

In related news, congratulations to Daniel Martin, Emily Parks, and the other UAB students who did well at their regional competition.

Thanks again to Melissa Christian and Shannon Thomason for letting me barter admission to the show.

We are all word-borrowers.

It’s why I’ve had conversations with men – more than once – that involved pretty much nothing but Caddyshack jokes.  It’s why I was recently asked which movies I could quote all the way through.  It’s why everybody understands what’s going on when you make somebody “an offer he can’t refuse.” It’s also why we often struggle with words in new situations or after significant events.

How’d you know what to say when your best friend got engaged?  When you found out she was uh-oh pregnant?  What about when your Mom’s Mom died?

We don’t typically make it up on the spot.  Chances are, you mostly borrow, pattern, and patch together your conversations out of other things you’ve seen and heard in similar situations.  You are what you eat.  Although the human storytelling impulse goes back ages, it’s fairly easy to imagine a time when you would have been forced to draw only on personal experience.

But a primary function of the dramatic arts is to gift us with borrowable words.  Homer provided the Odyssey, which allowed us to compare events in our own lives to events in a hero’s journey.  Teenagers toss out Romeo and Juliet to express and understand new feelings like “parting is such sweet sorrow.” And anybody with the skills to read this blog has probably already heard or used “Candy Mountain, Charlie…  We’re going to Candy Mountain” in a conversation.

Unprecedented events can leave us speechless.  I remember watching Tom Hanks reunited with Helen Hunt, his wife in Cast Away, after spending years alone on a tiny island and – although I can’t remember whether they said it in the movie or I said it out loud at the time – saying that those kind of moments simply have no script.  We’ve all had that thought: what do I say here?

Who had any idea what to say in the days and weeks following 9/11 – until someone told us it was okay to be in heavy boots?

Likewise, no one in Laramie, Wyoming – or the rest of the country – knew what to say about the murder of Matthew Shepard.  What do you say if you’re a resident of Laramie or Wyoming or America?  If you’re heterosexual or gay or lesbian?  If you’re a student or teacher – parent or child?  If you’re Catholic or Mormon or Protestant or Atheist?  If you’re Republican or Democrat?

There were no coherent words.  Even Rulon Stacey, the otherwise rational hospital spokesman who announced Shepard’s death – the first public attempt at searching for the right words – was moved to tears and “lost it” on national television.

That’s one reason The Laramie Project is important.  Following that event, there was a search for the right reaction, the right feelings, and the right things to say.  Along with a crush of media, a small group of East Coast dramatists travelled to Laramie to collect information and interviews about the area, the murder, and the aftermath while it was all still fresh and evolving.  Their play is a chronological, honest, and multifaceted retelling of that group’s experiences.  It’s an unusual piece, in that it transparently shows its work, and shows us the process of how we collectively find and create our responses to unprecedented situations.

For a play about a hate crime, this Magic City Actors Theatre production is highly engaging, entertaining, and not oppressively dark.  This whole cast is remarkably good: Beth Ashton, Jill Casey, Howard Green, Amy E. Johnson, Stephen Mangina, Franklin Slaton, B.J. Underwood, and Hannah Wilkerson.  I also credit the Directors: Michael Stephens and Tawny Stephens.  I highly recommend it.

My only complaint would be small and not particular to this show.  When a play ends, there’s a responsibility to signal to your audience – clearly and unmistakably – that it’s over.  We like your show.  We want to show you.  We are ready.  A curtain should snap shut or the lights should fall, quickly and completely, so that our energy and enthusiasm can be fully released as applause.  For every unclear moment we wonder, “Is it over?  Is there more?” that energy gets diverted.  Unless there’s a reason to blur the lines between the real and slumber’d worlds, end confidently; allow your performers and audience their fullest possible ovation.

Thanks to Hannah Wilkerson and Leah Faulkner for letting me see the show.