One week ago, Dean and I were apparently drafting our downtown theatre fantasy football leagues. Because in an otherwise unrelated conversation, Dean exclaimed, “We need to get Mac Rogers to work with that guy from Silence: The Musical!â€
We did nothing of the sort. But Dean’s wishes are coming true nonetheless, as Jeff Hiller will appear in Mac’s Fringe Festival musical Air Guitar!
Awesome.
Orange Lemon Egg Canary, a work by Ruby Sunrise playwright Rinne Groff, will have a New York run at P.S. 122 July 12–30.
Not to be confused with Craig Wright’s Orange Flower Water.
Not to be confused with Doug Wright.
Or Craig Lucas.
What other nonsense orange play titles are out there?
Longtime readers may assume that I’ve taken the advice of Quarterflash and hardened my heart—is there nothing that can satisfy me theatrically? Just look at this list of playwrights who have disappointed me in the year 2006 alone:
Mr. Letts emerges as the only survivor after I saw a very well-crafted production of Killer Joe by Philadelphia’s Theatre Exile in May. My favorite part of the production was the incessant television noise. Few scenes went without the ambience of wrestling commentary or the sound of letters lighting up on the Wheel of Fortune board. It was maddeningly distracting, but it fit the characters, fit the situation, and made for an excellent production design.
But what about the playwriting? There wasn’t anything very new or unexpected about Killer Joe. In fact, when Letts played the incest card I groaned out loud. But the play worked; it held my interest! Maybe that’s not a ringing endorsement, but it doesn’t get him crossed off the list.
Another playwright who avoids condemnation is the author of the latest Steppenblog entry: playwright Marisa Wegrzyn, my favorite Wu-Tang member. Her play The Butcher of Baraboo will be staged by Steppenwolf later this summer.
Through classified channels I had the opportunity to read one of Wegrzyn’s plays a few years back. It was breathlessly plotted; every five minutes brought another dreadful twist that all but begged for a horror-movie, “DON’T GO INTO THE BASEMENT!†type of audience. But these shocks were lost to nonsense; from the beginning Wegrzyn was pulling audacious, unusual stunts that shredded her play of any meaning.
But did Tracy Letts give me any meaning? I couldn’t say—the TV was on. I will say that anyone that is willing to be as daring a playwright as Wegrzyn doesn’t get crossed off the list.
Bonus Procrastination! You can see a snippet of the Egypt Play in the picture above. How many pages have I written in the month and a half since that photo was taken? Seven. And they’re small pages….