It’s actually the silver screen
that brings my attention back to plays today. As I flipped through articles
about Tony Scott’s apparent suicide a few days ago, I came across other, lesser
Hollywood news about Gary Ross, director of the sublime Pleasantville, now perhaps better known for directing the Katniss movie. It was announced that instead of helming the next Hunger Games movie, Ross’s next film project will be Disney’s Peter and the Starcatchers, based on the
series of tween novels that were previously adapted into, yes, the greatest
play I’ve ever seen.
* * *
A little background . . .
In my youth, I fancied myself
clever for quipping that plays had been superseded by movies. My Shakespeare
ardor morphed into a kind of revisionist fantasy as I pontificated to my fellow
groundlings, “If Shakespeare were alive today, he’d be making movies, not
plays.” I had seen engrossing, artful film adaptations of Shakespeare
(Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet,
Branagh’s Othello, the Ethan Hawke Hamlet made some joy out of a play I
never cottoned to), and if they were already pretty good, imagine what the Bard
himself could have done.
It’s not that I don’t like plays.
I can’t remember ever coming out of a play or a musical thinking ill of the
experience. But I have many reasons for thinking that the movie is the superior
form of thespian entertainment.
First of all, movies can do so
much more than plays can. The combination of computer technology and a nearly
unlimited range of physical spaces for shooting seems to shame the relatively
limited stage into submission.
Beyond this, when you examine
those shows that have both stage and screen versions, I’ve never known the
screen version to suffer in comparison. Watching the stage adaptation of The Lion King, I was mildly amused at
the mechanical masks that the principal actors wore, as well as the novel way that,
say, a giraffe neck was integrated into a human actor’s costume. These are
technical achievements to be sure, but there was nothing in the stage show that
suggested that it had accomplished something the movie could not have, aside
from a few gimmicks, like “animals” roaming down the audience aisles (and
perhaps The Lion King 3D rerelease successfully
challenges this advantage). The difference was costuming versus animation;
otherwise, the show played out just like the movie, and ended up feeling unnecessary.
To go the other direction, when The Phantom of the Opera was adapted
into a film in 2004, under the guidance and production of Andrew Lloyd Webber
himself, the look was beautiful and the music just as thrilling, but if
anything, you could say that the filmmakers didn’t do as much with the technology
as they could have. As with The Lion King,
the two versions just looked a little different, but it’s the movie versions
that would seem to have more potential. The
Lion King on stage looked like a static version of the film. Phantom, having originated in a more
static medium, felt a bit uncomfortable on the screen, if only because we are
accustomed to seeing constant, sweeping movement on a movie screen.
I’ve already mentioned
Shakespeare, but even looking at the plays in themselves, I have rarely felt
that the staging and performance were necessary. I’m sure I’m not the only
person who gets more out of reading the plays than seeing them live. The most
necessary Shakespeare production I’ve seen was Two Gentlemen of Verona at the Chicago Shakespeare Theater, and
that’s because it was set in the 1920s and had an original ragtime piano score
and songs. It seemed to make more out of the source material, and thus made it
worth putting down the book and buying a ticket.
And that brings me to another
crucial reason for preferring the cinema. Given the bourgeois nature of the
stage versus the more democratic playing field of a movie theater, it’s hard to
sympathize with what the dramatists are peddling. I just paid $20 to see The Dark Knight Rises on the IMAX, and I
considered this a gross extravagance. Until I reminded myself that $20 would
not have gotten me a seat of any kind at most of the playhouses in town. And
no, most theaters don’t actually welcome groundlings.
At the Las Vegas production of Phantom at The Venetian, the overture is
accompanied by a fine special effect that you couldn’t experience in any movie –
the epic vision of a gargantuan chandelier above the audience, breaking apart
and swaying with spectral malice above our heads. Neat trick, I thought. But
then when I considered that I had paid $85 to watch a giant chandelier sway
about, I didn’t think it was so neat anymore.
One of my local multiplexes is at
a shopping mall next to Ruby’s Diner, which is a mid-range hamburger chain that
offers movie ticket discounts if you show your dinner receipt at the theater. Now,
I never heard of anyone offering discounted tickets to see Desire Under the Elms with the purchase of a hamburger. And for
that matter, isn’t it strange that it’s virtually mandatory to treat your date
to some kind of swanky Waldorf salad and duck confit bistro for dinner before
heading to a performance of Hedda Gabbler,
even though all you can afford after buying the tickets is McDonald’s?
The difference between plays and
movies is the difference between theaters that are named after some hoity-toity
personality (Goodman, Ethel Barrymore, Brooks Atkinson), and theaters that are
named after the number (and sometimes size) of their screens (AMC 20, Edwards
18 IMAX).
It’s the difference between
“theatre” and “theater.”
* * *
So much for plays, then. After
all, what could possibly redeem this bastion of privilege and obsolescence?
In February 2009, the La Jolla Playhouse premiered Peter and the Starcatchers, a play written by Rick Elice, and directed by Alex Timbers
and Roger Rees (yes, that British guy with the recurring role on Cheers, and a small role in The Prestige). It was adapted from the
series of novels written by Dave Barry, the humorist, and Ridley Pearson, and
published by a Disney subsidiary firm. The story is billed as a prequel to J.
M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, which was
originally a play before Barrie himself turned it into a novel called Peter and Wendy, and before Disney
rendered it as its fourteenth “animated classic” in 1953.
Three years later, I don’t
remember many of the details or plot points (another black mark against plays –
where’s the commemorative DVD?), but I do recall being impressed at how Peter and the Starcatchers succeeds as
creation myth behind the already well-known Peter Pan myth. We learn how
Captain Hook (or the Black Stache, as he is known) lost his hand. We watch as
Tinker Bell comes into being. We see Peter earn his “Pan,” and are treated to
one interpretation of the name.
But what I remember most was what
took the play beyond the boundaries of any movie – the conceit of having the
actors play not just characters, but also props and sound effects. The most
memorable special effect was the simplest and most frequent – the actors would
transition seamlessly from playing orphan boys and pirates to playing doors. One
actor would literally swing another actor open as though he were a door.
This and other flourishes, such
as having actors play parts of a ship, or becoming a chorus of dripping water
sounds, relied on the sharpest acting, and the cast was more than capable. The
effect was somehow elegant and rustic at the same time, like the rude
mechanicals from A Midsummer Night’s
Dream, or perhaps something like Cirque du Soleil as performed by Monty
Python.
This effect, actors playing
props, is not unprecedented, but the execution was so smooth and realistic that
it erased the barriers between actors and objects. It also created an exciting
fluidity and enforced the expectation that anything could happen, any actor
could potentially be anything on stage at any time, so there was no waiting for
the lights to go down so that black-shirted stagehands could rush in and whisk
away a table and bring in a park bench or something.
The play successfully erases the
barrier that I’ve always felt existed between the stage and the audience, so
that nothing compromises the illusion of being in Peter’s world.
* * *
Writing about the play now feels
like being in that scene in The Prestige,
when Hugh Jackman watches Christian Bale perform The Transported Man for the
first time. The magic trick isn’t even shown on screen, but you see Jackman’s
reaction and the life-long obsession it engenders in him – “the greatest magic trick I’ve ever seen.” Likewise, you may feel like my story is missing
something, namely – the trick. Can no-tech effects and virtuosic acting really
explain what happened on that stage that enraptured me and separated it from
other plays? Wasn’t it just more expensive gimmickry?
It may seem counterintuitive, but
for me, movies have a monopoly on verisimilitude. Immersion is more natural at
the movies; I feel like the movie is really happening in the moment, whereas
plays seem, frankly, as staged as the moon landing.
Peter and the Starcatchers was the first time I ever went to a play
and forgot for a moment that it was a stage. It’s as if they invited me in,
told me that the story was to be a simple one that I had heard before, told me the
stage was just wood and steel, and yet when they started performing, they still
somehow got me to believe in it. Transforming the inherent fakeness of the stage
into something real is the magic – the kind that every play aspires to conjure,
but which I had heretofore found almost exclusively in the movies.
Indeed, the play has much of the
vaunted Disney magic that seems increasingly rare in Disney’s animated pictures
these days. (And please don’t bring up Pixar. Their movies are enjoyable, but
Pixar specializes in high craftsmanship and cleverness, not magic – floating house
notwithstanding.)
Though I’ve experienced more
capacity for transport in the movies than in plays, it doesn’t mean that it
happens often. But high-concept magic guided the modernized morality of Gary
Ross’s Pleasantville, and Ross also
wrote the screenplay for Big, the seminal
magic movie for boys growing up in the 1980s, so perhaps he and his team can summon
some of that classic magic for Peter and the
Starcatchers as well.
* * *
My experience with Peter and the Starcatchers doesn’t
change my belief that movies can do so many things that the stage just can’t.
But at the same time, the stage is capable of things that movies wouldn’t dare
to attempt.
But having said
that, there is one final damning trait exhibited by even the finest play; in
fact, it is especially the finest plays that are most beleaguered by this
trait.
The greatest play I’ve ever seen
is one that you will never see, unless you and I attended the same show. I’m being a bit dramatic, for even if we
attended different performances, you probably saw more or less what I saw. But
as the production moves from place to place, as the cast gets jiggered, and the
staging is updated, and sets reconstructed, and lines rewritten, and concepts
reconceived, and even the title tweaked (by the time it hit Broadway and
started winning Tony Awards, it was called Peter and the Starcatcher), eventually, though you may see the play, it will be a
different experience.
And I think it’s this unbearably
ephemeral nature of a great play that tears me up inside and makes me want to
do away with the theater entirely.
I am reminded of these lines in
Carl Sandburg’s poem, “Languages”:
Sing – and singing – remember
Your song dies and changes
And is not here to-morrow
Any more than the wind
Blowing ten thousand years ago.
* * *
So I ask myself that question
now: what would Shakespeare do today, plays or movies? I’m not sure. Maybe a
little of each. But surely, what with juggling both stage and screen, he
wouldn’t bother writing sonnets. Right?
1 comment:
Instead of The Lion King, can we get a stage adaptation of Pocahontas? I always thought that movie had way better songs. And I can already picture all the red-painted savages and tree-face old lady dancing around the aisles.
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