It’s World Theatre Day.  It’s a much-celebrated annual fête for the theatre community, created in part by UNESCO. It’s also the 50th year the day has been celebrated worldwide.

Let’s be honest, though: if you know about World Theatre Day, or have even heard of it, it’s because you’re a Theatre Person, you are sleeping with a Theatre Person (aside: this is a highly recommended activity) or you are stalking a Theatre Person.

It’s amusing that a UN-sponsored day that’s existed for half a century is so little-known outside the medium for which the day was created; on the other hand, the fact that this is true is not surprising for a medium that subsists on nihilistic cannibalism and self-flagellation.

If you’re a Theatre Person (or are sleeping with one or are stalking one), you probably know the old joke: how many actors does it take to change a light bulb? One to do the job, and fifty more to say they could have done it better.

Two theatre stories have garnered national and international attention in the past few months (though the true scope of one of them is somewhat arguable): the death of the Vancouver Playhouse theatre company, and the outrage over Mike Daisey’s truth-fudging in his monologue-cum-journalism piece, “The Agony and Ecstasy of Steve Jobs“. The former created a firestorm of blame and finger-pointing at everything from arts funding cuts, artist unions, artistic choices, and even theatre critics; the latter created a firestorm of blame and finger-pointing at Mike Daisey.

And so it goes: the artistic community has an addiction to looking inward and backward for blame, instead of outward and forward for inspiration, even when events like the ones outlined above inadvertently draw attention from outside our sphere. And so it goes: most World Theatre Day celebrations consist of Theatre People patting themselves on the back and then complaining that there is no respect for the power and relevance and impact of their craft. And so it goes: theatre companies worldwide continue to promote World Theatre Day by creating events marketed to their existing audiences and existing communities, instead of reaching out to new ones.

I’m painting an awful lot of people with a single, big, ugly brush. It’s an easy rhetorical trick. In all honesty, these are not universal attitudes, but they are common ones… and they have always rubbed me the wrong way. So: I’ve decided to tip my hat to World Theatre Day by accentuating a few positive outcomes related to the two recent stories I’ve mentoned.

The loss of the Vancouver Playhouse is tragic and has created ripples that have impacted theatres across Canada, but it also creates a void that will be filled by something new. The outpouring of love and support from the national arts community will result in the creation of something exciting and vibrant for Vancouver, whether it is a phoenix-like rebirth of some form of the Playhouse Theatre Company, or the freeing up of resources and funding that can be used by other arts groups in the region. The Vancouver Playhouse was as old as Canada’s theatrical tradition; like an old-growth forest, a little fire and tragedy actually serves to fertilize the soil and allows new life to take root. The Vancouver Playhouse closure drew intense media attention (read: beyond the arts section of the national media outlets) to the plight of BC’s fragile arts environment, and it galvanized a community of artists who have since vowed to move the spirit of the Playhouse forward. You can’t buy publicity like that. We grieve, we breathe, we are inspired, and we move forward with renewed vigor.

The excerpts of Mike Daisey’s monologue that were broadcast on the most-downloaded podcast episode of “This American Life” ever (!), followed by the full-hour retraction and follow-up episode (!!), have created a much-needed and very healthy discourse about Apple, about consumption culture, about the high cost of apparently-magical and affordable gadgetry; about the state of modern journalism, about integrity, and about theatre. It has reverberated around North America and many other parts of the world, and as I write this, the story continues to echo. I am reminded of the controversy over James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” and Oprah’s chastisement of that author: the effect of the work has not been called into question; just the method by which that effect was created. Since Mr Daisey’s piece blew up beyond its original black-box borders, “Foxconn” has entered the English lexicon, Apple has begun to scrutinize its manufacturing contractors more deeply, and the effect of ubiquitous gadgetry on globalized labour markets has been brought into high relief. Say what you will about the damning effect of a piece of theatre being mistaken for a piece of investigative journalism: Daisey was (and remains) passionate about the issue, and in spite of what can only mildly be called a gaffe, he has had a tectonic impact. It has not come without a cost, but it’s clear that Mr Daisey has gotten terrific bang for his buck.  Doubtless he feels the loss is more than outweighed by the gain. “Return on investment”, indeed.

These two recent events have done more for the visibility and impact of theatrical practice than the current form of World Theatre Day can muster. My hope for World Theatre Day is that it we will use it to take note of the impact of these events, and that it will not take another 50 years before World Theatre Day is recognized outside the realm of theatre practitioners. Declarations of the transformative potential of art and theatre should be made by people outside our circle: politicians, business people, and leaders of all stripes who have felt the touch of our work. It should be sung by the workers at Foxconn whose labour conditions have improved; by the restaurant owners who thrive in the shadow of the local regional theatre’s crowds; by marginalized communities whose voices are finally being heard. That is how the circle gets bigger; that’s how society benefits.

So: happy World Theatre Day to everyone who’s never been to the theatre. We have had an effect on you; you just don’t know it. Sorry about that.

I am mostly resting at home these days, as ordered by my surgeon and as reinforced by a scolding from a nurse.  It’s important for my recovery, since the surgery I had was not insignificant.  Some folks on Facebook know I’ve been recovering, but most people don’t know what I’m recovering from. I haven’t been terribly open about it.  This irritates me, but the truth is that I’m afraid of being judged by people who don’t know my background, or who don’t understand my decision or reasoning.

So I’ll just take the irritation and embarrassment out of the equation with this disclosure:  on February 29, 2012, I had a tummy tuck.  I prefer the term “abdominoplasty”, because “tummy tuck” sounds like unnecessary surgery that vapid, vain people get to avoid the hard work of making themselves lean… but a tummy tuck is what it was.  And the surgery was a reward for my work — not a substitute.

me, 240-ish, with HAIR

People who’ve known me for a long time know that I used to be quite a bit bigger.  At 5’10″, my weight has been stable near 170 pounds for a couple of years now, and I’ve been a six-day-a-week gym rat for a couple of years beyond that… but three years into my undergrad degree I peaked at a weight of 270 pounds.  I fought for the better part of a decade to get that down to 260, then 240 (which was about my weight when the pic at left was taken), then 220, then 200, then 185.  The loss was slow and gradual with numerous plateaus.  In the past couple of years I’ve added some decent muscle and even managed a visible four-pack — but those last two abs were never going to show, because I also have some loose skin that is simply not going away in spite of about two years of maintenance at a very healthy body weight.

People who were once obese and have fought back from it know the body-image stigma that comes as part of the package.  I fear that I am slightly dysmorphic — never muscly enough, never thin enough, never “finished” — and I can blame a million things for it (my career, gay culture, masculine ideals, self-esteem, The Media…).  In spite of the fact that I’m in the best shape of my life (and probably better shape than 80% of men my age), I would look in the mirror every morning, see the “skin curtain” at my waist, and instantly feel 270 pounds all over again.  In spite of an otherwise gorgeous upper body (girls said so, so it must be true), I was still completely ashamed to take my shirt off.  And while making love, the skin on my tummy hung down like a sort of udder, perplexing anyone who didn’t know about my past.  All of this lead to depressive and obsessive behaviour, and last Spring I finally decided that it was time to have the loose skin dealt with.

Given the excellent overall state of my health and weight, I had two options.  I could start seeing a therapist and begin to embrace the body I had, in spite of its imperfection (and “the udder” in particular)…. or get “the udder” cut off and pray to God that “the udder” wasn’t just an outward symbol of a deeper issue that requires therapy.  I opted for the latter, with a promise to commit to the former if my sense of body image doesn’t improve.  As a result of surgery last week, I have now traded “the udder” for a scar along my hip, and the SLOW recovery process is underway.

The journey until now has been interesting, and I’ll write a bit more about it in the next few weeks.  Only about 5% of tummy tuck surgeries are performed on men, so I’d like to share some of my experience.  And since I was scolded by the post-op nurse today for having the audacity to (very slowly) walk (shuffle?) three blocks only a week after my surgery, I expect I’ll need to do some writing to keep from going quietly bonkers in the apartment.

Disclaimer: if you are not a member of Canadian Actors’ Equity Association (CAEA) or someone who has been paying attention to the ongoing plight of independent theatre creators in Canada, this post may not be of much interest to you. Further, the views expressed here are my own and have not been sanctioned or solicited by anyone.

At CAEA’s 2012 National Annual General Meeting this past Monday, the following member’s resolution was tabled from the floor:

WHEREAS Equity Member/Creators have demanded action on indie theatre issues for the last three years, expressed in the form of member resolutions at previous National AGMs, which resolutions passed 96-1 in February 2009, and 42-4 in October 2009;

AND WHEREAS the Independent Theatre Review Committee (ITRC) was formed in response to the demand for action on indie theatre issues and completed its work in September 2011;

AND WHEREAS the suggested policy changes resulting from the ITRC’s work on indie theatre issues have been debated and will soon be put in place by Council;

BE IT RESOLVED that Council require the Executive Director to deliver a plan that will directly address indie issues to CAEA members that will finally address indie theatre issues no later than October 31, 2012.

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that should the Executive Director fail to deliver a new indie plan to CAEA members by October 31 2012, then until such time as this new indie plan is delivered, that Council enact policy to enable members to work under any currently existing CAEA agreement, policy or guideline (with the exception of engagements governed by a negotiated agreement) as such individual member deems appropriate including the Festival Policy, the Guest Artist Policy, the “Indie” Policy, the Small Scale Theatre Addendum or Co-op Guidelines, without CAEA staff approval and without CAEA penalty or repercussion.

When I read this motion on the AGM agenda, I shook with anger.  When it was debated at the AGM, I bit my tongue and resisted the urge to speak. “Let the members debate it themselves,” a Council colleague urged.  When the vote on the motion was taken, I proudly held my “NO” vote high. But the motion passed by a ratio of about two-thirds to one.

I am offended by this motion and by those who tabled it, and I am disgusted that the motion was passed by members. Here is why.

First: it is a slap in the face to all of the work that has been done on this issue since 2009.

I have served as Councillor for the Eastern Ontario / Outaouais Region since 2009 (and I’ve just resigned from that post due to my move to Edmonton). I became a member of Equity in no small part to my own independent theatre production efforts.  I, too, have been frustrated by the lack of flexible engagement options for Equity artists in the world of independent and self-created theatre.

In the fall of 2009, I volunteered to chair the national Independent Theatre Review Committee (ITRC) as a response to the member resolutions posed that year.  In 2010 I and two other Council colleagues assembled a volunteer committee of thirteen people from across Canada to investigate the issue for Council.  The committee was made up of a diverse and respected group of theatre practitioners — there were no Equity staff (though we did have a staff liaison working with us); the committee was composed passionate members, many of whom who have been highly critical of Equity’s small-scale theatre policies. It included someone who serves on TAPA’s Indie Caucus, which created the proposed “Indie Artist’s Agreement” that served as one of the committee’s key inputs. One vital member’s theatrical self-production career was conveniently paired with a master’s degree in statistics.

The “lack” of staff participation on the committee was intentional.  Members wanted other members to do the work on this problem.  Moreover, staff wanted members to do the work, in part because staff simply have no time to take on additional responsibilities, and in part because there is a perception that staff do not listen to members anyway.  The second statement is patently false, but a small portion of the membership will never be convinced otherwise.

The ITRC worked for almost 18 months on its investigation into the state of small-scale theatre engagement in Canada. The committee painstakingly developed three large-scale, nationally-scoped surveys that were aimed at members, engagers, and staff.  This effort incorporated existing work performed by TAPA’s Indie Caucus and reports from town-hall meetings that had already been held in Toronto, Montreal, Ottawa, and Winnipeg.  The surveys and supporting documents generated thousands of pages of comments and feedback from stakeholders, almost all of which had to be processed and interpreted by hand.  Due to the logistics of completing the onerous work — performed by a national committee of volunteer members who also have full-time theatre careers — our deadline was extended past February 2011, to June and finally to September, 2012.

When the ITRC’s final report was tabled in September, it contained a list of 10 policy recommendations for Council consideration.  The 36-page report was backed by ten appendices, totalling another 200+ pages. It summarized and interpreted the views of 918 members, 75 engagers, and 8 staff.  The report was immediately accepted by Council, and the discussion and implementation of its recommendations was a focal point of every subsequent Council meeting until policy changes were finalized and passed at the Council meeting on February 26 and 27, 2012.

People outside the process have accused Equity of continuing to stall needlessly on this issue, and I bristle at the suggestion.  I have provided details of the committee’s background and process, here, because I think ignorance and mistrust have too often clouded this issue for members.  I and twelve other Equity members gave a year and a half of our lives to investigating this issue on behalf of all of us. Many of us worked incalculable hours, with minimal financial support and no individual compensation, to bring the committee’s work to fruition.

Despite this workload, progress on the issue was still made by office staff.  Equity’s Executive Director was essentially instructed to wait until the Independent Theatre Review Committee had finished its work before beginning to put together new indie alternatives, but she was still able to forge ahead with the joint PACT-Equity Tangerine Project (used to facilitate 50 projects; their successes and failures will certainly form a basis for new ways at looking at indie and small-scale theatre) and the implementation of the new Festival Policy (which was used to facilitate 1,501 weeks of work for members in 2011).  She also created a report on the progress to address issues concerning options to engage Equity artists, which was released in December, 2010. Despite this work, there is a segment of the membership who seem to feel that Equity Council and staff have been sitting idly and ignoring the plight of indie and small-scale theatre creators.  Those people are grossly misinformed; in fact, the proper word is “ignorant”.

Two: the motion was essentially a vote of non-confidence in our Executive Director.

A week ago — before I resigned as Councillor for my region — I might have gotten in trouble for speaking out this way.  But I am now able to speak as a general member, just like those who brought this motion forward.  I do not owe any fealty to staff; I speak as a member who has regularly produced small-scale theatre since joining the Association in 2005, and who has had the added benefit of serving on Council for a few short years.

In all my years as an adult — including close to a decade spent working as an engineer for the now-defunct Nortel Networks — I have rarely come across an individual as passionate, tireless, effective, wise, articulate, and sensitive as Equity’s current Executive Director, Arden Ryshpan.  She manages 23 staff.  These heroes collectively process about 13,000 contracts per year, manage 14 collective bargaining agreements, steward unique and sustainable retirement and insurance plans, participate in the national arts advocacy scene, and more.  All of this is done on behalf of less than 6,000 Equity members across Canada, for the total cost of about $3 million per year.  By comparison, ACTRA (the Canadian film and television actors’ union, of which I am also a proud member) boasts 22,000 members, manages 10 collective bargaining agreements, and operates on a budget of about $7 million in the Toronto region alone.

When the ITRC report was tabled in October 2011, staff alarm bells began to ring almost immediately.  They knew that the release of the report would put pressure on them to come up with the Final Solution to indie and small-scale theatre issues in Canada. This pressure was not unexpected; in fact, staff were originally anticipating the ITRC report in February of 2012, and time had already been tentatively set aside for implementation of the ITRC-inspired policy changes.  The problem is that ITRC the report was late — eight months late, in fact, for all the reasons noted above.  With final policy recommendations adopted only a week ago, Arden’s 2012 task list now includes the creation of new indie agreement(s) on top of the negotiation of three collective bargaining agreements (including the cornerstone Canadian Theatre Agreement, which single-handedly accounts for almost 40% of the total work members do each year).  These negotiations are additional work for her and her staff, who (as you now know) already dedicate full-time hours to the processing of 13,000 contracts per year, and the management all of the benefits and protections associated with those contracts.  In spite of this workload and the deficit position of the Association, our “idle, stalling” Executive Director thinks she can find time for a national consultation tour in the summer of this year, followed by the creation of a new framework for indie and small-scale theatre engagement by the fall of this year.

The member’s resolution presented at this year’s AGM is ignorant of all of this, and it suggests that our Executive Director is somehow unable or is incapable of managing her own priorities and workload for the best possible benefit to members.  It says “we, who do not do your job, and who do not understand its fullness or complexity, have the right to dictate your priorities and agenda with ten minutes of discussion, no input from you, and a brief show of hands”.  It flies in the face of sensible governance. It is an insult.

The resolutions put forward by the motion merely emphasize initiatives that are already in play, and therefore the resolution is unnecessary.  Furthermore, the resolutions enforce an artificial and arbitrary deadline by proposing consequences that undermine the fundamental role and function of the Canadian Actors’ Equity Association.

In conclusion: This motion was an utterly unnecessary attempt at a pissing contest, orchestrated by a few members who simply feel that being a member of an Association means they have the right to dictate what is best for that Association’s close-to-6000 members, and what is best for its own employee.

The final paragraph of Equity’s definition of “Rights and Responsibilities” of members is as follows:

As artists we are concerned with our individual careers, our lives and our need to work. As members of Equity we are concerned with the careers of others, their lives and their need to work.

I would never accuse Equity staff of forgetting this statement.  Some members, however, ought to be reminded.

For eighteen months, I chaired the Independent Theatre Review Committee for the Canadian Actors’ Equity Association (CAEA). I and my committee were tasked with studying the state of independent and small-scale theatre engagement for Equity members in Canada, and with crafting a series of policy recommendations for improving opportunities for members.

The committee’s report is available online and I strongly encourage all of CAEA’s members to read it. The fallout of the committee’s work — policy changes and the eventual launch of new means with which members can create and be engaged to create small-scale and independent theatre — is in progress, but I have some personal reflections that I’ve been itching to share and discuss.

My background as an independent theatre creator, small-scale producer, and lover of all-things-Fringe will be evident to anyone who sees fit to look back on the ten years of writing I have done on this blog, so let me just state that, on top of having piloted 18 months of discussion that has included the detailed review of thousands of pages of input from hundreds upon hundreds of Equity members and interested engagers, I know my shit.

Further, I want to stress that these are my opinions, and not necessarily those of Council, the committee, committee members, Equity staff, or anyone else.

The first of my reflections is simple and is founded on a simple example. It is as follows: there is no such thing as a one person show, and therefore there is no such thing as “no paperwork required”.

The rhetoric used by some independent theatre creators has occasionally boiled down to a simple example: “if I’m hiring myself to create a one-person show, why must I sign contracts and get permission and deal with red tape and administration?” While many theatre creators generate incredible “solo” works, the flaw in this example is that the “lone artist” case actually does not exist. No opening night of any professional piece of theatre is arrived at alone; no artist premieres a one-person play without the involvement either a director or a stage manager. It’s possible that multiple functions are executed by the same person, but there is always more than one person. I saw a production last week where the actor on stage controlled his own lights and sound from his chair… but that actor still had a director for his show. I mention stage management and directing roles because they fall directly within Equity’s jurisdiction, but many theatre creators also employ the services of dramaturges, designers, technicians, marketers, publicists, and more.

The involvement of more than one person in an act of creation means that an explicit agreement must be made. The road to hell is paved with the scripts of plays whose inciting incident is the assumption of an agreement between people. If you are your own producer, you can decide what kinds of concessions you want to make for yourself, but you do not have the right — even (and especially) as a member of the Canadian Actors’ Equity Association — to make those decisions unilaterally on behalf of other members. At minimum, two people must agree in writing that they’re undertaking a project with no safety net, almost no rules, and no guarantee of payment (the current Festival Waiver essentially reflects this, and requires little more than a signature at the bottom of a single sheet of paper). The key word is “agree”, which means that there needs to be a conversation; and a signed agreement demonstrates that such a conversation has taken place. The wrinkle that comes with being a member of an Association is that the Association would like to have a copy of that agreement so that it can provide protection and support for its members. It’s not “red tape”; it’s reasonable and it’s sensible.

I just filed my 2010 taxes. I know I’m REALLY late, but I’ve been busy. And I promise not to fall behind again.

Anyway, in the interest of full disclosure, I want you to know that my net income for 2010 was $17,580. My work that year included the National Arts Centre’s production of Mother Courage And Her Children — a play that hadn’t been done in Canada for 25 years, and which toured to Winnipeg for a month after several weeks of performance in Ottawa; three months working on an award-nominated production of Macbeth, the world premiere of a play about the Israeli-Palestine conflict at the Great Canadian Theatre Company, a sold-out run of a site-specific and multi-award-nominated Turn of The Screw, several background film gigs at union rates, and a smattering of teaching. Non-paying gigs included my final year of work on the Prix Rideau Awards as its steering committee chair, my work as chair of the national Independent Theatre Review Committee for Canadian Actors’ Equity Association (CAEA), my elected role as CAEA Councillor for Eastern Ontario, and many, many auditions that didn’t result in work. I count 2010 as a very good year for work and for artistic achievement, and in spite of it all I came away with less than half the average income for residents of Ontario in 2010. If you assume I worked “full time” — which is a deeply conservative assumption, given my workload — I pulled in $8.45 per hour. Minimum wage in Ontario (which is the highest in the country, I’ll warrant) is $10.25.

I’m not looking for pity. I love my work. In light of my status as a relatively well-established and regularly-working actor, I think there’s value in being honest about the level of income people can expect in this field when they’re as busy as I am; that’s why I decided to write this post. I’d love for my career to earn me a bit more, and I hope to continue to improve my annual take… but I’m getting by in spite of it all, and the total value I take from my work is actually not measurable. If my income level was my chief concern I could switch to a higher-paying career on the back of my engineering degree (yeah, I have one of those). But it’s not my chief concern.

So… I’m either deeply driven and passionate, or in need of an intervention.

Ottawa theatre audiences can take in two verse plays that are running right now: David Whiteley’s fresh adaptation of Cyrano de Bergerac, playing at the Gladstone Theatre; and Peter Anderson’s take on part of the York cycle of Biblical mystery plays, Creation, which is on at the National Arts Centre Studio. I’ve seen the former and I’m in the latter.

In a survey of reviews of both productions, I count no less than four that include praising mentions that the verse is presented “conversationally”, “naturally”, or “invisibly”. This makes me cringe. I count this kind of praise as a failure of the critic, the actor, the director, or some combination of all three.

In modern times, the decision to write or present a play in verse is conscious and deliberate. Verse is not natural or realistic, and the end goal is not to make it sound that way. To think otherwise is naïve. Why would anyone bother to perform a verse play if the aim is to make it sound like it’s not in verse? It’s like performing a play in German and trying to make it sound like English. It is a silly and inefficient way of working. We’ve all seen verse plays done badly, and so we know how unbearable they can be… but in the hands of strong artists, the use of verse does far more than drive ideas and action powerfully forward. It sings, and audiences (if properly invited) soon tune to the rhythm as naturally as they do to any well-loved piece of music.

Verse is “hard to understand”. It’s “not how we talk”. It asks a little more of the audience, and requires more care and attention on the part of actors and directors. It is structured and mysterious. It occasionally rhymes, and delights in its own use of wordplay and poetic devices. Despite this, the highest praise that actors seem to get from critics and audience members is (can you guess?) “it didn’t sound like verse at all!“. As a result of this kind of stigma (and our culture’s obsession with “realism”, thanks to film and television), inexperienced actors slave over the question: “how do I make this terrifying stuff sound natural?” They fear the text, so they fight the text; and ultimately they do much more harm than good.

What I think an audience member means when they say they find a verse play difficult and exhausting to watch is that they are unable to stay focused on its sense and intention. This is not their fault. Unintelligibility is not the fault of the text, either. I generally blame one of two things: actors are too conscious of the structure of the verse, or actors are working very hard to hide the fact that the text is in verse. Usually it’s the latter. I think that verse actors are like hair transplants: you only notice the bad ones. Further, I think there are far more bad verse actors than good ones.

Animating verse is specific skill, and developing the skill takes effort. When actors are introduced to verse as part of their training, two broad approaches are employed. The first is a thorough dedication to observing the rhythm, meter, and form of the text: this results in performance that demonstrates the structure of the language but leaves an audience (and the actor, typically) with no understanding of what’s actually being said. The second method is focused on ensuring the actor understands the sense of what is being said, while completely ignoring the form in which the thoughts are written. Facility with verse speaking is not achieved until both approaches have been understood and integrated into a rigorous practice. I think the biggest bang for the buck lies in teaching “sense” as a foundation, before “structure”… but structure absolutely cannot be ignored.

Delivering verse is difficult. I’ve been at it for years and I know that I’m still learning. I may never master it. While in rehearsals for Creation, I was regularly reminded of how I was not “lifting” the text enough, or not paying enough heed to my line endings. Well-written verse provides a framework for the actor that actually helps with understanding: the rhythm suggests how words should be emphasized; the last word of the line is often the most important and drives ideas forward; the use of rhyme and rhetorical devices provide insight into clarity of thought and use of tactic. These clues should all be explored in rehearsal so that the actor can make choices about delivery. Verse is a servant, not a master. Rather than trying to make verse sound like prose, better questions for the actor are: “how does the structure of this text help emphasize the point I’m trying to make? How does it drive the action forward? How does it effect change in someone else?”

More often than not, I hear actors try to treat verse like prose. After all, brilliant actors look like they’re “doing nothing”, and the modern acting teacher’s mantra is “stop acting!” Actors are told that they do more by doing less, and so when it comes to “classical” or verse acting, they barrel through line endings, ignore rhymes, and treat rhythm as a wrinkle that must be ironed flat. Sure, it sounds “modern”… but it’s incomplete, limp, and risks lifelessness. An audience does not have to take a master class in verse-speaking to feel, intuitively, that a performance’s rhythm is “off” or that a pace feels labored or that the characters lack passion or that the actors lack pleasure. The drive to make verse sound like not-verse (or “conversational” or “natural” or “invisible”) is a deadly affront to theatre, and critics are wrong to praise it. Virtuosity is achieved when an actor maintains drive, intention, and precision AND bathes the audience in the orchestral presence of heightened, structured language.

 In 12 days, I’ll be moving out of Ottawa. New love has called me to Edmonton, and I’m following the call.

It’s no secret to many friends of mine that I’ve been wanting to leave Ottawa for some time now.  I had imagined making a home of Toronto or Vancouver, but Edmonton’s healthy theatre community (and its proximity to Calgary’s healthy theatre community) is still a very welcome change.

Let me set the “love” thing aside for a moment — acknowledging that it is a terrific and worthy reason to move half way across the third-largest country on Earth, just as it was a terrific reason to stay in Ottawa years ago — to address one of the reasons why this change is so important to me.

Five months of last year were spent as part of the Banff/Citadel Professional Theatre Program (which, as an aside, is currently underway again — check out the Citadel’s YouTube channel for daily video blogs and updates). When I left Edmonton at the end of May, I was in a dazed stupor of positivity and inspiration. I had spent five months with a group of selflessly-supportive fellow actors, being mentored by a group of faculty who went out of their way to help us improve. It wasn’t easy work; much was asked of us, and it took a toll on us, but all of it was constructive.  In the days before I left, I was feeling galvanized and energetic.

Shortly before my return flight home, I got a call from my agent asking if I could be ready for a film audition on the morning after I came back. It was of the sort that we often get in Ottawa — the one-line “actor” role used to supplement a cast brought in from Toronto and elsewhere — but I was excited about it anyway.  The potential payoff is small, but so is the investment: it doesn’t “cost” much to put on a nice shirt, prep a one-line audition, and give up 10 minutes of my time.

When I showed up at the audition location the next morning, all of the energy and optimism of the previous five months was stripped away instantaneously. The room was full of local actors who were complaining about the waste of time, the stupid parts they were asked to audition for, the unfair casting practices, the lack of work, the state of the city, the complacency of the community, and so on and so on.  It was a self-sustaining vortex of negativity, aiming desperately to pull all and sundry into a black hole of self-pity and despair.  I was shocked by it, and I left that audition wondering if this was something new, or just something I was noticing because I had been away from it for almost half a year. I think it was the latter.

Criticism is healthy, for the most part. It depends on how the criticism is intended. When it comes out of a genuine desire to see an improvement in others, it provides drive and improvement. But when it is sourced in insecurity and competitiveness, it is toxic. I believe the Ottawa theatre community, in particular, is embroiled in a period of toxicity. And it’s a big reason why I know it’s time to move on.

The obstacles that the Ottawa theatre community faces are similar to those faced in other regions in Canada and elsewhere: established theatre companies relying on risk-averse work; lack of work opportunities for artists; lack of money with which to do anything; frustration with the tendency to cut corners in order to “just put on the show”, at the cost of quality; lack of space; lack of audience; lack of invention; lack of change; lack of evolution; lack lack lack.  What sets Ottawa apart — in a fashion typical of this community in general — is a tendency to let all of these things spiral into an environment that seeks to tear everyone down at the same time that it is unable to look critically and constructively at itself. “If I had YOUR budget I could do what YOU do”. “If YOU didn’t always get the grants, I could do the world-shattering play I want to do.” “If the paper/radio/TV would just review us we wouldn’t have to fight for audiences”. “If your stupid UNION would just get out of my way and let me do what I want, my work would be brilliant.” “If I had TIME to help someone else I would, but I’m SO busy trying to make my own show work.” “OMG that company’s show was so BAD. I wouldn’t say anything about it, though, except to YOU, ‘cuz I want that company to hire me.”

There are many people in Ottawa who have worked for years to improve things here for others, and who have refused to give up in spite of significant personal sacrifice and burnout (as an exercise in self-assessment: do you count yourself as one of those people?).  I don’t want to paint everyone with the toxic, lead-based muck that I’m talking about.  But — as they say — it only takes a few rotten apples to spoil the barrel. Right now, the balance is off.

Ultimately, I think that what Ottawa theatre needs is some fresh blood. Just as my move to Edmonton gives me an incredible opportunity to meet and network and work with a new community of artists, it leaves a smallish void in Ottawa that I hope a new person will fill with a viral sense of what’s possible. I’m optimistic and excited about what Ottawa will produce in my absence.

We opened Creation (my last show in Ottawa for the foreseeable future!) on Thursday night, but in many ways the evening was a non-event.

Most opening nights are.

I used to do all of the traditional Opening-night actor-things: cards, opening night gifts, dressing up for the opening night party, opening night food-binge…. but I think I’ve let all of that go. With this production I consciously observed that I’ve abandoned most of those practices. I could argue that it’s laziness, I suppose, but I think it’s ultimately because an opening night is just another chance to do the play I’m working on: no different from working in front of any audience on any other night.  I now feel that loading an opening night performance with having to write a bunch of cards to the cast and crew, and buy a new shirt, and Be Awesome For The Newspaper Reviewer just puts unnecessary pressure on me. Since I’m the kind of actor who tends to stiffen and “lock” under stress, it’s a series of traditions that are simply not helpful.

From the actor’s perspective, not much changes on an opening night. The rehearsal period is over and the show is “set”, but that’s about it. Opening nights used to carry the stigma of being the night when critics got to weigh in, but let’s be honest: in this day and age, when newspaper critics are no more vocal or respected than bloggers and tweeters and Facebook friends who can and do come on any other night (including previews), the pressure to please “accredited journalists”, in particular, is off.  

Within its finalized framework, The show still develops and gels and breathes after opening; the “work” doesn’t end until the show has closed.  ”Opening” has all of the monumental significance of “Wednesday”: it’s just a label.  The final stage of animating a script begins with the first preview, but doesn’t end until closing night.

Opening night audiences are artificial.  They are generally made up of theatre community friends, interspersed with critics. With apologies to the theatre community, the opening night audience does not reflect the general audience for any show.  In interacting with audience members (something Creation allows us to do before every performance) I have discovered that most don’t care whether they’re the first audience or the opening night audience or the day-after-the-day-off audience: they simply know that they’ve paid to be part of something, and they’re hoping it’s going to be terrific. 

I’m not belittling the work I have to do as a performer.  The truth, in fact, is completely opposite: on any performance day, my job is to be prepared and present so that I can do the best work possible.

Oliver is up and running, and my body is very angry at me.  
There should be a “musical theatre boot camp weight loss program”. The amount of physical effort and stamina required to run a musical from top to bottom is unlike anything in almost any kind of theatre (swashbuckling swordplay epics notwithstanding). And since I’m also the kind of masochist who would insist on going to the gym six days a week even if the apocalypse is raging, I am putting my body through a great deal these days. 
 
The first act of Oliver is a marathon: I play an orphan, Mr Sowerberry, a gentleman, a muffin seller, one of Fagin’s boys and a Bow Street Runner. That means six costumes, and five costume changes. Four of those five costume changes are quick-changes (generally under a minute; two are less than 35 seconds) and two of them must be done while I’m singing. I participate in eight musical numbers in the first act alone, and often have to lift or haul heavy tables or stair units. I and many others in the cast come off stage at the end of act one drenched in sweat from the effort of it all. I’m not complaining, though: there’s a sense of pride in the way we all rise to the occasion of putting so much work in to the show every night. And the second act is a quite a bit easier for me, so I have lots of time to recover while other cast members run their own marathons. 
 
We’ve been warned about the need to look after ourselves, since running a show such as this one is strenuous. I’d like to think I’ve taken it to heart… but that would be dishonest. I’ve been doing a great deal of stretching, taking Epsom baths as often as possible, and resting whenever I can. I should also be going for a massage at least once a week, but I have yet to do that. Every week I say “on my day off I’m going to get a massage”, and every week I find some ridiculous excuse not to go. I think my current favorite excuse is “but it’s my day off“. 
 
As the run of the show goes on and the physical “routine” of it becomes something to which I’ve adapted, I’ve been lulled into thinking everything is fine… but my body is definitely tired, and wants a little care. After only three shows so far this week, my body already feels like it did after finishing eight shows last week. I wake up in the mornings feeling like rigor mortis has set in, and I fear my body will soon go on strike. So this post is, in part, an attempt to publicly shame myself into seeing a massage therapist this weekend. Even if it is on my day off.

Today is our final day in the rehearsal hall for the National Arts Centre English Theatre production of Oliver. Tomorrow we move to the stage and begin the process of adding all of the technical elements to the show. As I write this, most of the run is sold out, an extension has been announced… and we don’t even have our first audience for another six days. 
As I talk to people about the show, I sense that almost everyone has a personal connection to Oliver. It seems like everyone’s been in it at some point — at school or in a community theatre production. Everyone talks about wanting to bring their kids or their grandchildren to see it. They’re a little excited about it. And since it’s being presented at Christmas, there is an unspoken expectation (as there is with almost everything at this time of year) that this is light family entertainment.
 
I don’t know why, but there are some interesting assumptions about the kind of show Oliver ”should be”. First, it has kids in it, so it must be a kids’ show with nothing to say to adults. Second, it’s a musical, so it must be frivolous. Third, since people remember having a lot of fun when they played The Artful Dodger at age eight, it must be all about fun.
 
There are elements of truth to all of these things, of course, but the complete picture gives us more. People forget that Charles Dickens was an outspoken activist in his time, angry at the immense inequality in English society and even more angry at the abuses of children.  Oliver was intended to chastise the Poor Law, critique a culture whose industrial revolution and pursuit of profit was driven by workhouse slave labour, and shine light on the injustices of a society that seemed hell-bent on keeping teeming masses of desperately poor citizens under the heel of a few wealthy people. Perhaps this sounds familiar. This is why choosing Oliver as holiday programming is about more than picking material that sells tickets.
 
It is a musical, but people who don’t know the form well also don’t know that musicals can be powerfully dramatic. It is about children, but the children in our production are all played by adults. It does have moments of happiness and fun and joy and playfulness, but it is also our duty to make sure that — true to Dickens’ source material — the orphans in the first scene are so hungry that they fear they’ll kill and eat each other; that Nancy is an indentured sex worker who is in a deeply abusive relationship; that there is no cut and dry moral judgement about street kids who steal from rich people so that they can survive; that all of these people were trapped in existences where death and murder were regular occurrences.
 
Great musical theatre writing is exquisite when experienced, and I think that Oliver is as popular as it is because of the moments it does beautifully. If we’ve done our jobs correctly, we’ll be offering something more like a fine dinner than a fast food combo meal. I think Dickens would have a lot to say about the culture in which we currently find ourselves, and I hope that folks who come to see us will be open to hearing it.