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I can’t claim to come from a family of thespians -- we certainly were not the Barrymores or the Redgraves -- but some of us have had our fifteen minutes of fame on stage. My sister, for example, always had the lead in school plays and when I was thirteen, I did a comic monologue as compensation for failing to garner a major part in my school’s annual production. I also sang in the high school choir, and never was anything more thrilling than participating in a chorus belting out Handel’s Messiah. In his college days, my husband performed notably in Shakespearean tragedies. And our daughter always secured a major role in school musicals, beginning with her acclaimed portrayal of Alice, in “Alice in Wonderland,” when she was a seventh grader. Recently, she starred in the independent film “Mutual Appreciation,” a movie that captured several impressive awards internationally.
So I guess you could say that theater is in our blood, as wannabes and as dedicated spectators. (I should remember that when applications ask that annoying question about hobbies.) We love nothing better than a live performance, whether it’s music, dance, opera or theater. Along with travel, the performing arts are our extravagance in life. We almost never miss a chance to see a good play and we’ve been known to blitz New York, catching three performances in two days. We visit the Berkshires every summer and the Shaw Festival in Canada is one of our favorite venues.
I still remember seeing Rudolf Nureyev and Margo Fontaine dance “Romeo and Juliet” in New York in the 1960s, and I won’t forget Barbara Streisand in “Funny Girl” or Zero Mostel in “Fiddler on the Roof” then either. The soundtrack from “Les Miserables” still makes me weep, just as a performance of “La Traviata” does.
I was reminded how much I love good theater, and how deeply enriching a good play can be, when I saw Kristin Scott Thomas recently in the acclaimed Chekov play, “The Seagull.” Some time back I was mesmerized by Kevin Spacey and Eve Best in Eugene O’Neill’s fine play, “Moon for the Misbegotten.” Both of these plays were imported to Broadway from London, famed for its West End and Old Vic theaters. Chekov’s story is about aging, vanity, and relationships. O’Neill’s tale is a simpler one, really, a sad story of unrealized love and human limitation, and it knocks your socks off. How amazing the effect upon us when carefully crafted words are delivered by extraordinary actors who understand the emotion behind a script and who are deeply committed to uttering the playwright’s words as he or she intended.
There’s a reason that the plays of Shakespeare, Chekov and Shaw as well as other greats survive, and that their works continue to be performed along with newer playwrights like Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller and August Wilson, to name a few. It’s because they have captured and conveyed to us the ageless and universal truths of humanity. They hold up a mirror through which we can contemplate our own lives. They understand, profoundly, the experience of love, loss, pain, pleasure, power. They find the pathos in our daily existence, tease out its humorous moments, extend a hand that says “You are not alone.”
Virginia Woolf once wrote, “The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.” That quote reminds me of the theatrical symbol we all recognize: the two intertwined faces of tragedy and comedy. Woolf’s statement speaks to the mission of all the arts, I think, for whether it is dance or drama, a symphony or a satire, the arts bring us closer to our own humanity. Our foibles are revealed and our fantasies tapped. We are touched because the protagonist or the anti-hero or the mistress and the martyr are the people we know and love. Their lives, their challenges and victories, their longings and laughter belong to us too. Theater’s gift is to reveal all of that to us in just two or three hours.
I would never forfeit the chance to look that gift horse in the eye.
