I want to set the scene for the writing of this entry,
because I will probably have a much better time writing it than you will reading
it. I am lounging in a reclining beach chair atop my 360 degree view private
rooftop balcony above my condo a couple of blocks from the beach in
breathtakingly beautiful Puerto Vallarta. I have a delicious ice cold hibiscus
infused water sitting by my side and I am watching the first hint of one of
those glorious Pacific sunsets. For the first time all day, there is a hint of
a breeze cutting through the oppressive heat and humidity that is the small
price one pays to enjoy this paradise out of the craziness of the high season.
If I turned around, my view would be the jungle mountains rising up from the bay
and the regular as clockwork evening rainstorm approaching in the form of
ominous, heavy clouds seeming to scramble over the mountains as they prepare to
unleash a downpour to cool the day and flood the streets before the crystal
clear night brings stars and waning moon to the Mexican sky.
The small bar in my hotel’s courtyard is packed with locals
enjoying the one day off in the six day work week. The jukebox tells me it’s
the locals because it is all traditional Mexican music. And even on a workday
it would mainly be locals because I am in the other Puerto Vallarta. This is
not the Vallarta of the Love Boat or the huge hotels, but the recently renamed
Romantic Zone. For years it was Los Muertos (the death) named after the beach
I’m facing, sight of a pirate battle back in the days when pirates battled in
the Pacific. Somebody high up must have decided Romantic Zone sounded less
ominous, but I prefer Los Muertos, for that’s what I learned to call it when I
first discovered this area several years ago when a storm caused my hotel to
nearly collapse in a flooding river and I had to find other lodging
quick.
Being the off season, the number of American tourists is low
and the area feels like an overgrown but very charming old fishing village. The
tourist trade is present, but Wal-Mart, Outback and Starbucks are miles away and
English isn’t the first language spoken. The guide books say that of the major
beach resorts, Puerto Vallarta most retains its Mexican flavor. And here in the
Romantic Zone and in neighboring Old Town, I suspect this is true. The rest I
have never ventured to except to get to the airport. And wait….the neighbor’s
donkey is braying. And I wake up every morning to the sound of a
rooster.
I adore Vallarta. I’m not so much a beach person, but I find
I do my best writing at the beach. I
relax, focus and find little to distract me save from the walk each day out to
find extraordinary food and to hunt for some perfect piece of Mexican folk art
to add to my rapidly expanding collection. It was Puerto Vallarta that first
made me fall in love with Mexico and although I continue to travel and if I ever
achieve my goal of living in this so alive country I would base myself in Mexico
City, Puerto Vallarta is a kind of paradise I can’t imagine not visiting every
year.
In fact, in the midst of this past, difficult year of
challenges, loss and too many friends facing too many unfair situations, I often
found myself closing my eyes and fantasizing about landing at the airport,
getting a taxi and entering the loud, pulsing, chaotic streets of this glorious
town. It was my own little meditation that kept me sane. And since arriving
last Wednesday I have felt the tension of the past year disappear as I have
thrown myself into a couple of writing projects I have to finish and one that I
am treating myself to as a way to experiment with a different kind of
writing.
But today I haven’t been writing, spending the day instead
lost inside Tennessee Williams’ Memoirs. Usually when I am preparing to
direct a Williams’ play I go to a more trustworthy biography, but since this
time I am
directing THE GLASS MENAGERIE, a play that contains just enough fact to
fool you into assuming it is auto-biography, I decided that the dubious veracity
of Memoirs was the perfect choice to reacquaint myself with
Williams.
It seems a perfect choice for Vallarta. Although Vallarta
wasn’t one of Williams’ Mexican haunts, the city is forever connected to THE
NIGHT OF THE IGUANA. John Huston chose Vallarta as the location for the film
and the international attention given to the area by the arrival of Richard
Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, Ava Gardner, Sue Lyons and the rest of the celebrities
associated with the making of that movie put Vallarta on the map. Houston had a
home nearby, as did Burton and Taylor. Their two houses were connected by a
pink love bridge that still spans a street in Gringo Gulch. And I came to
Vallarta for the first time to throw myself into the world of IGUANA. The
ruins of the movie set can still be seen at Mismaloya and iguanas crawl silently
in the trees above the Rio Cuale.
I’ve read Williams Memoirs several times. I remember
being appalled by them the first time I read them. They are the product of man
on the bitter downslide at the end of a fading career, they are brutally honest
even when not honest at all, they focus more on his sexual life and medical
problems than on his work, they are often embarrassing, too candid and frank and
they are always suspect.
This time through, I found myself less appalled than
heartbroken. There is something so tragic in Williams’ downfall. This tragedy
has captivated me this time through the book. Williams talks about Inge’s
suicide in the book. I have always believed that Inge may have committed
suicide but that if there was any justice in theatrical world the real blame for
his death would be placed on the critics. I believe the cruelty of the critics
as they turned against his work killed William Inge. In fact, there is one
critic in particular who I think should have been charged with murder.
Going back through Memoirs, I believe the same can be
said for Williams. The nastiness of the critics, the delight attacking him, the
homicidal insistence that he not be allowed to experiment destroyed an American
genius and deprived the theater of the great work he might have been capable of
in his later life.
So many of the early plays are indeed masterpieces. But I
hope time will prove that much of the later work, so brutally dismissed by the
shortsighted critics who prove the adage “those who do write, those who can’t
criticize,” deserve re-exploration. I adore KINGDOM OF EARTH and think there
is a great play in THE TWO CHARACTER PLAY. OUTCRY is a piece I would love to
direct and I suspect that a great staging of CLOTHES FOR A SUMMER HOTEL would
uncover something powerful.
But the critics were ready to pounce on everything Williams
did. They began to delight in his downfall, eagerly anticipating an opportunity
to draw blood. I suppose that is unfortunately the role of too many American
theater critics, and perhaps it is only because I make theater myself that I
find it so appalling.
But I do find it appalling and heartbreaking. Like Williams,
I find myself questioning the role of critics. I think there is a disconnect
between what too many critics think is their job and what art needs to improve.
Constructive criticism is a rarity, practiced only by a very few.
North Carolina was fortunate to have a wonderful critic,
Julie York Coppens, at The Charlotte Observer. Some may suggest I think
she was wonderful because she often praised Triad Stage, but I have always
believed she was a great critic because of a very mixed, slightly painful and
extremely constructive review she gave of our production of THE LITTLE FOXES. I
have rarely read a piece of criticism that was so spot on, so fair, so demanding
that I do better. I will always be grateful for that review. It isn’t praise
that artists want, but penetrating astute criticism that can disagree, but that
does so constructively and helps the artist to grow and the work to
mature.
I have received a decided mix of good and bad reviews. The
New Haven Advocate once called my staging of a Pinter play “stylized to
the point of stultification.” At the time it hurt, but I must admit, in
hindsight, they were right. This Week In Texas, a gay state-wide weekly,
(and at the risk of being accused of homophobia-- why is it that so many gay
critics seem to be particularly bitchy, petty and so enamored with their own
cleverness?) took me to task for a play I had directed about the Antarctic
because they had hoped a play about six men trapped in a cave might have a bit
of sex, and how dare I make them all so unattractive and the play so serious. I
was luckier in Dallas to have the great Lawson Taitte, who gave me some
gloriously kind words and some rather brutal knocks, but always in a spirit of
actually debating the work and improving the work.
Perhaps there is an unbridgeable divide between what artists
long for in criticism and what critics believe is their job. Many critics feel
their job is to prove how devastatingly witty they can be in attacking work.
Others feel they need to be” the man on the street.” Others feel a review needs
to only describe their own personal
response to the work. Artists, I think, long for discussion, deeper criticism
than this was good/this was bad. They long for perceptive critics who can
approach the work and address it on its own terms. Perhaps because I have
experience as a director, dramaturg, actor and producer working on new plays, I
realize the value of trying to address the work in a way that can improve the
work—that wrestles with the work on its own ground and not as a personal affront
to the preferred theatrical style of the critic.
Many critics feel their job is to serve as a kind of consumer
advocate, seeing their job as simply to inform the public whether the critic
believes they will like it or not. I despise this kind of criticism, because it
is too subjective. When a critic has the kind of power that the lead critic for
The New York Times has, the American theater begins to reflect his or her
prejudices and plays that deserve a chance to be seen (such as this season’s
brilliant ENRON) will close after a savage, unthinking review while star studded
remakes of mindless movies will flourish. Let’s face it, if I had been The
New York Times critic, A CHORUS LINE, WEST SIDE STORY, ANNIE and almost
everything Arthur Miller ever wrote would have closed in weeks. I just don’t
like them. That’s a personal statement. But I also know that if I remove my
own prejudice, I can talk about the work how it succeeds, where it might fail.
I can be much more intelligent and constructive in discussing THE CRUCIBLE than
to simply say it is my least favorite American work considered to be a classic.
Personally, I would rather poke my eyes out than to ever have to sit through
another production of this play that grates on my nerves like no other (OK,
maybe INHERIT THE WIND and ROMEO AND JULIET are up there as
well.)
But that is a purely personal reaction to the work. I have a
great many friends who adore all three of those plays. I am much more
interested in discussing the work with them than telling them not to go see it.
I have to say, I’m always surprised when I meet someone who loves THE CRUCIBLE,
but I have had some fantastic discussions about the play with people who
disagree with me completely about its dramatic worth. And I also realize that
what Arthur Miller was trying to do in THE CRUCIBLE was not what I wanted him to
try to do. But thankfully, all artists don’t share my worldview, they don’t all
write the play I wish they would write. And the American theater is richer
because of it.
Working on OLEANNA was
a great experience for me. I despise the play. I think it is one-sided. I
think it is not conservative as some critics maintain, but infused with a
simpering and wishy-washy liberal humanism that skews the play so far to the
side of the professor that there is nothing that can be done to balance the
argument. But the argument got people talking. Forcing myself to confront a
play that I dislike made me a better artist. And it made me realize that the
dramatic worth of a piece has less to do with my own personal reaction to it
than to its power to spark dialogue.
The state of arts journalism in the US is in serious
decline. There is so little arts coverage in Greensboro right now that I feel
our mainstream media is doing a disservice to an important sector of our economy
and an essential part of our community’s soul.
But, back to Williams and the bloodthirsty cruelty of the
critics. It is important to remember that even the acknowledged masterpieces
were not met with universal critical acclaim. THE GLASS MENAGERIE, even in its
less radical original staging, was seen as too experimental by some. And later
work was viewed as mere repetition of early themes. But as Williams matured as
an artist and started to try other ways of expressing himself, the critics
attacked him for having lost his way.
In fact, every artist who has tried to experiment with form
and move the theater forward has faced more than his fair share of destructive
criticism from those who see their job as protecting the prevailing form.
Fortunately, they also have had enough variety of critics that there were those
who encouraged advancement in the drama. In our current climate too few cities
have more than one (if any) theater critics. As a result, the power of that one
critic has the ability to prevent new work, new styles, new
voices.
I often wonder if there had been perceptive critics who
recognized the new directions Williams and Inge were headed if some of their
latter work would have found an audience and been judged worthy of being
included with their great realistic successes. And if they had indeed found
that audience and been encouraged, provoked, constructively criticized,
developed and nurtured if they might not have lived longer, happier, more
productive lives.
Williams states in Memoirs, “all true work of an
artist must be personal, whether directly or obliquely, it must and it does
reflect the emotional climates of its creator.” I often wonder how much of this
deep truth critics take into account as they try to score their points, prove
their intelligence, silence new forms. Some have suggested that many people are
envious of artists because they get to follow their passion in life and, if
lucky, earn a living from doing what they most enjoy. Looking back at the
reviews Williams received for much of his later work, one senses a kind of
outrage— how dare he ruin my evening by confronting me with something I can’t
understand or don’t immediately like or that threatens my vision of what theater
should be. The outrage is palpable and almost pathetic in its demand that
Williams silence his vision and his voice. The thing I find unconscionable is
that there were actually demands for him to stop writing. Where would we be as a
culture if the voices of small minded critics had silenced Picasso or Ibsen or
Shakespeare or Einstein? And how many great works have been lost because of the
myopia of critics. How many artists have been destroyed?
I suppose the artists’ revenge is that names of critics and
their clever put-downs are seldom remembered over time while the art sometimes
goes on to a life beyond the artist. In a hundred years, I’d wager, the
nastiness of some of our nation’s leading critics will be completely forgotten
and many of the plays they attacked will be enjoyed by audiences. I know I hope
to stage KINGDOM OF EARTH in the near future at Triad Stage and believe that it
will delight and captivate audiences and the critics that hounded Williams can
spin in their graves for all I care.
I guess I’m pretty passionate about this. It’s a subject
that is near and dear to my heart. I believe so strongly in the importance of
art as a part of nation’s identity that I am thrown into dismay by the cavalier
and shoddy critical response that is too often the norm. Art deserves dialogue,
not petty one-liners, mock outrage and closed-minded clinging to tired forms—or
at least critics who can be honest about their prejudices and their view of
their role in criticizing a work. I know of few artists that consider their
work to be less than flawed. I know I am haunted by my failure to achieve the
dream of a play as a director or a writer every time I set to work. I long for
critical dialogue as I know Williams and Inge longed for that dialogue.
And I suppose I’m passionate because I have fallen in love
with Williams all over again as I re-read Memoirs and as I prepare for
THE GLASS MENAGERIE. I am outraged at the injustice that was done to him by our
leading critics and the cruelty of their attempts to silence his artistic
voice. That attempt to silence to me is censorship and censorship is the most unforgivable artistic sin.
Well, the sun has set and the rain still no more than a
threat hanging just above the jungle. My hibiscus water is empty and I am
forced to ask myself my favorite Puerto Vallarta question: “What would
Tennessee do?” I’m sure it involves going down to the pool and ordering a
Paloma—a perfect summer cocktail made from tequila, salt, lime juice and
grapefruit soda that I learned to drink from an actor in Guadalajara last winter
in a little cantina where an old couple danced endlessly to sad love songs on
the jukebox.
I think you should join me. Don’t believe what CNN tells
you. Mexico is safe. While there are areas of the country that should be
avoided, I have never felt at risk in Mexico City, Vallarta, Guadalajara or any
of the areas I have visited besides the border cities. Mexico is filled with
such life, such art, such music, such beautiful scenery, such history. It is a
country inhabited by some of the kindest and most generous people I have ever
met. It is a country that deserves so much more than the yellow journalism
coverage it has received recently. Come on down.
