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The holidays are over. Take down your Christmas lights. No, don't wait five months, do it now. Yes, I'm sure it was a joyous time, but its over, in fact it's a new year entirely. Your cooperation is much appreciated. The lingering afterglow of your chasing lights, mock plastic Santas (circa 1950), and plastic re–creations of the baby Jesus (idolatry anyone?) are purging up an emotional vomit. The fact that we've been taunted with incessant holiday marketing since Halloween is nauseating (although, interesting to see these antithetical contexts in such close proximity.)
Being in Florida doesn't help much either. There is no winter wonderland or white Christmas to be had here. No snowball fights or making angels in the snow, no crystalline snow that sounds like Styrofoam as it compacts under your every step and no echo–y, blinding white invisibility of your surroundings. Peace. A simple ideal that cannot be molded out of plastic, bought and sold (although, political leaders may argue).
As well, we can now progress out of the holiday season of entertainment. Its similar to listening to religious music; there's not much mystery as to its message or theme. How many blockhead movies with Arnold or Tim Allen saving the day need there be? Just as Equity Theatres are bound to producing 'holiday' or 'seasonal' plays during certain times of the year, I wonder if this quota system applies to the film industry as well. How else can you explain the slop that the Hollywood machine deems worth millions?
Actual acts of charity and goodwill seem to be a rarity, and instead, ridiculous consumerist sprees represent the celebration of the birth of an ideal. But as with anything else, what's good in theory is not necessarily the case in practice. Peace and goodwill towards men? Ha! It is precisely our capitalist and consumerist lifestyle that has us at arms with hostile forces.
"Merry Christmas honey…"
"Oh my goodness, it's a brand new land rover! And you even put a WWJD sticker on the back bumper! I love you." (They kiss and break into song.)
Ahhh, the 'musical'. The whimsical, fantastic genre of unrealistic proportions, fares well with saddened populations in times of national crisis. Naturally, part of the allure is the escapist, happy-go-lucky, no–strings attached experience that emanates more often than not.
Despite my own distaste for the musical brand of theatre (the reason I am not talking about ohhh…Annie at GCP) I must say that I can appreciate intelligence and invention in any type of play. Two hours is a long time after all. It's an investment. It can be an emotional investment or a rational one, or both. Bottom line, there should always be returns, whether they be gains or losses. Make cents?
The Hippodrome's most recent musical 'Bat Boy' was an unexpected treat in the fact, that it wasn't just a campy, common-denominator, comedic musical. It strayed from the path with a tragically–hip ending. Bat Boy dies. This is interesting for two reasons. First off, it deliberately diminished preconceived notions, but even more importantly (and ironically) it shows how a society reacts to an unknown, or misinterpreted threat, based on a distorted reflection of the truth (enter blatent tabloid metaphor). Its almost like a parody of the current geo-political 'us' vs. 'them' mindset, the 'evil' vs. 'good' factions of the population and the dispersal of information intended to effect belief systems. Need I say more?
Then, we have Rebecca Gilman's "Spinning Into Butter" a play about race relations and political correctness, playing this month at the Constans Theatre, directed by Dr. David Young. The storyline follows a young dean at a university who must take action regarding a race incident on campus, and in the process confronts her own prejudices.
The name of the play actually comes from an old children's book "The Story Of Little Black Sambo," about a little black boy who is confronted with tigers who steal his new clothes and threaten to eat him. Little Sambo never gets eaten though, because the tigers get caught up in their own vainglory. They forget about their victim and instead play dress up in the clothes. A fight ensues over who looks best and they frantically chase each other around a tree and spin into melted butter.
Just like the tigers in the little Sambo story, the administration in Gilman's play, gets caught up in a whirlwind of giving politically correct lip service to the media and its public in the attempt to make reparations to their liberal arts image; and forgets all about little 'Sambo'. In fact, the victim of the hate crime is never once, seen on stage and as the title suggests, the play revolves around the ensuing 'spin'.
But without 'spinning' we don't get the butter. And the butter is the young dean, who is confronted with her own prejudices (leftover from childhood) resulting in an awakening. Director Dr. David Young stresses that the play is about 'decided change' and 'enlightenment', despite criticism that the play takes a light stance on racism and does not promote change.
But what exactly does that mean? 'Does not promote change'? What does? How can that even be measured? What promotes change? A happy ending? A politically correct sermon that preaches to the choir? Grave injustice? An irreverent elf shouting obscenities? What? And we're right back where we began… realism vs. idealism on the stage. But what is the ideal, and who calls it? Can it be that simple? Nothing is ever what it seems after all.
We're all searching for answers to questions, but they never seem to be cut and dry. It seems that the closer one gets to an answer, whole new inquiries of questions arise. This is the same idea with a play or a good movie; they leave you thinking. The end is merely the beginning.
The theatre is like a book, but better. It's better than a film in many ways and more refined. It is in the moment, it is action, not canned heat. And it is constantly evolving. It is a living creature fed by the audience, and this particular zoo encourages feeding. Food for thought, if you will.
Mmmm, food…