I’m just back from a 110-mile roundtrip drive to see a play that isn’t any good. I didn’t know in advance that it wasn’t going to be any good — and how could one know that? — but I discovered it almost as soon as it began. Almost nothing in it was believable; the dialogue was uninspired; two of the characters seemed dropped in from another play, largely for easy comic relief; and it isn’t clear whose story this play is, or what’s at stake.

I’ve seen bad plays before. In fact, after seeing hundreds, or perhaps thousands by this point, of plays before, I’ve seen plays far worse than this. I just wish this weren’t a bad play by a gifted playwright whose last play I so thoroughly enjoyed. I wish I weren’t writing about Rest by Samuel D. Hunter.

His last play at South Coast Repertory, The Whale (which I wrote about briefly here), left an indelible impression on me. Its portrayal of a morbidly obese man endlessly apologizing for his existence while trying to leave a legacy for his daughter was shocking in its depth of feeling and its piercing insights into that situation. Moreover, the play was filled with conflict and also with genuine humor that arose from the inner workings of the play. After seeing the play, which has stuck to me like a second skin, I decided that I wanted to see anything and everything by Samuel D. Hunter. Hence the 110-mile drive, through pouring rain and backed up freeways and construction: a three-hour commitment just to get there and back.

Do I wish the play had been better? Absolutely. Did I almost leave during intermission? You bet — I even texted two trusted theatre friends to say I was thinking about it. Instead, I stayed for act two — and thought it was even worse than the lifeless and meandering first act. Everything now seemed so arbitrary: characters in a nursing home that’s going out of business now eat in the main room ostensibly because the dining table suddenly has been packed up. Real reason? Because there’s a single unit set (i.e., one location, so we need to keep everything set in this main room). When the power goes out during a bitter snow storm, the remaining residents sleep in that same room — which is the entry way, with large glass doors and windows, and which would therefore be the coldest room. Why are they all sleeping individually there, with thin blankets, rather than in their rooms with full bedding? Again, it’s an excuse to keep them in that sole location. At another point, two people are theoretically captivated watching some reality TV, while another couple have an earnest heart-to-heart not five feet away. These are just three examples. When the underlying mechanics of a scene don’t work, it’s hard to invest in anything going on with the characters. Judging from both of his plays that I’ve seen, I would speculate that Mr. Hunter is kind-hearted. Based on just this new play, it might be good if he were more tough-minded.

And yet, despite all this, I’m glad this play got produced and I’m glad I went to see it. Why? Because good playwrights need productions. And because we need to support our artists — the playwrights and the actors and the directors, and all the rest of them. I don’t expect every work by anyone — playwright or novelist or musician or painter — to be great. Or even good. As much of an admirer as I am of Harold Pinter’s work, I can’t stand The Lover or No Man’s Land (I saw the latter years ago with Christopher Plummer and Jason Robards in it and even they couldn’t save it). I don’t expect all of Julian Barnes’ novels to be on the level of, say, “The Sense of an Ending,” but I’ll read whatever he writes. In supporting all of the work by an artist I admire, even the bad work, I’m supporting the factory that produces the good work too.

And playwrights need productions. Not just readings and workshops — productions. Plays are a performance vehicle. Until a playscript is produced, it’s just a script, not a play. I don’t begrudge a playwright for a misfire, and I don’t think less of him or her. I’m not even surprised any more. My theory is this: Sometimes you write a good play, and sometimes you don’t. It’s probably the same way with pro athletes — sometimes they’re at the top of their game, and sometimes they aren’t. I didn’t like Paul Auster’s last novel at all, but I’m still looking forward to the next one. Just as I’m looking forward to the next play by Samuel D. Hunter.

South Coast Rep just mailed me a postcard for the world premiere of Five Mile Lake by Rachel Bonds. Here’s the description:

“Jamie enjoys a quiet life in his small Pennsylvania town, fixing up his grandfather’s old lake house and pining after Mary, his troubled coworker. But when his brother comes back to town with a new girlfriend, Jamie’s peaceful world is turned upside down. A tender story about those who stay and those who go away — by one of the country’s hottest young writers.”

It’s a long drive down to Costa Mesa, although I’ve done it often enough when it was a play or playwright that interested me. This doesn’t sound like one of those times. But here’s what I find annoying: when they bill someone as “one of the country’s hottest young writers” — I’ve seen this before — as though young is an advantage of some sort. It’ll be better somehow because the playwright is young. (Which makes me wonder just why Shakespeare and Beckett are done so frequently, because they’re not only old, they’re also dead.) Now I’d like to see someone do the new play by, say, Sam Shepard and bill it as “by one of the country’s coolest old writers.”

Today I politely told four more people that my eight-week playwriting workshop, Words That Speak, is sold out. I take only 10 playwrights at a time, and then only five times a year (for a total of 40 weeks); the only time someone new gets in is when someone doesn’t renew. In the course of a year, five slots might open up.

I don’t enjoy turning people down. I really don’t. But I haven’t had extra room in this workshop for quite some time now, and I’m not going to add another workshop because that will cut into my own writing time. If someone doesn’t get in, I offer to put him or her onto the wait list; after which, if there is an opening at some point, I read sample pages and do a phone interview.

But in all the years (21 of them) that I’ve been leading this workshop, I’ve never gotten an entreaty like this one, which I got tonight in an email from someone I don’t know:

Dear Lee,
I want to get information on your play writing workshops. I am working on my first play and it means a lot to me since it has to do with my daughter’s suicide. I really have to make it happen.
Thank You so much.

My heart sank when I saw this; I can’t imagine the despair behind it. As politely as possible, I emailed back, and offered a slot on the wait list.

This.

Who said what, writer James Joyce or rapper Kool Keith? Take the test here.

At some point or other, almost every playwright finds himself in a development process. His (or her) play is being workshopped for a short run, possibly for consideration of future production; or he’s at a retreat working with actors and directors that will result in a reading of sorts; or he’s at a new play development conference for a public reading with feedback; or he’s working out some areas by having some actor friends get together and read scenes now and then.

I’ve been involved in many of these experiences myself, as a playwright or director or producer or respondent.

So, occasionally, I’m asked by a playwright for my advice on whether or not to bring an unfinished play into such a situation. Not a play that has a first draft and needs a rewrite, and not a play that is stuck and that the playwright needs to hear — a play that is being written but which is currently unfinished.

Here’s what I say:

I can’t say what you should do, but  I can tell you what I would not do:  I would not take an uncompleted play into a development situation, especially not a play-in-process that is working well.

1. Well, nobody said writing a play should be easy. But I’m still working on it.

(Leaving out, for obvious reasons, anything I worked on or that are still in development, including several honestly terrific plays I saw at The Great Plains Theatre Conference.)

Some years, I’ll see three or four plays a month — or more. In 2013, I saw only 15 (not counting the plays that Moving Arts was involved with, or, again, that I saw at GPTC, or that were workshops or staged readings.) What do I look for in a play? I don’t care about subject matter (although I’m adverse to plays that confuse neurotic couples arguing on their couch with drama, and one-person shows about how darn difficult it was growing up with parents who just didn’t understand), or form, or tone. I want to see things on stage that stick will stick with me because they’ve brought a new level of insight or inquiry; in other words, I want to be surprised and provoked. And entertained.

Putting it that way, two plays stood out above all others:

1. The Nether by Jennifer Haley, a Center Theatre Group production at the Kirk Douglas Theatre. In this dystopian not-so-distant future, people who can afford it escape their bleak day-to-day by living their meaningful lives in an area of the Internet called The Nether. In the Nether, people with horrifying thoughts and impulses are free to live out their fantasies — until the authorities deem even those fantasies illegal. The ramifications are far-reaching of investigating and prosecuting would-be pedophiles for their inclinations even while they are only virtually living out their fantasies. As all truly great drama does, The Nether pits strong arguments against each other — there are no straw men here — in a way that leaves one arguing about what is true and good and right. Starting from a powerhouse script, the production was flawlessly mounted and staged. I’m very glad that I read none of the reviews in advance (even the set held surprises) and instead just heeded trusted friends who implored me to see it. It’s a play that I won’t ever forget.
2. And now, a runner-up:  The Whale by Samuel D. Hunter. Although Hunter’s script piles up metaphors that aren’t fully explored or dramatically grounded, when the action centers around the enormously overweight central character, the play sings. Matthew Arkin’s devastating performance of a 600-pound man whose lungs and joints and legs and entire body are failing him will always weigh on me. Watching this obsessively unhappy man dig ferociously into a bucket of fried chicken was a sad spectacle — half the audience groaned audibly — but his determination to do right by his estranged daughter before he died elevated the character to a rare humanity.

I have a short play that’s being performed during Moving Arts’ holiday party this Saturday evening. It’s one of six plays that will be staged at various locations around a large house in the Hollywood Hills.

I invited a relative to join us for this on Saturday night. Every industry has its jargon; when you’re a practitioner in that industry, it’s easy to lose sight of what’s jargon and therefore what people won’t automatically understand. So when I invited her to join me for a holiday cocktail party “in a large house, with six brief environmentally staged plays,” she asked me, “What is an environmentally staged play?”

I explained that an “environmentally staged play” means it happens in different locations and is specific to those locations. (Mine is set in a bedroom, and is performed in a bedroom.)

She responded, “The plays sound interesting. We were thinking it meant the props were all from recycled materials.”

Which, of course, makes sense on the face of it. Especially given that I once produced a play called “Cockroach Nation” with set dressing largely drawn from trash….

I was sorry to learn just now of the death of Syd Field, a colleague of mine when I was teaching in the graduate writing program at the University of Southern California. Syd was a nice guy and a good teacher. And a bit influence:  just about everyone in Hollywood has read his book. Here’s the obit.

Also, I seem to have missed the passing of Marcia Wallace. Just over five years ago, Marcia was in a special performance of one of my plays — a one-night-only fundraising thing — and I have to say, she killed it. I knew the thing was funny (it had been done before), but she found all sorts of new things that made me seem like a comedy genius. She was very sweet to work with. I grew up watching her on The Bob Newhart Show, so getting to work with her, however briefly, felt like one of those situations where you ask yourself how you wound up this lucky in life. I’m sorry we’ll never get another chance. I hope that, somewhere in my “records” such as they are, I can find that photo we took together.