Category Archives: Theatre

Keith Huff’s “A Steady Rain”: Redefining American Masculinity

In addition to being (among other things) a cop story, an examination of subjective truth and a thesis on how we control the narrative of our memories, I believe Keith Huff’s play A Steady Rain (recently produced at Marin Theatre) can be read as an allegory depicting the redefining of American Masculinity.

Huff presents us with contrasting versions of masculinity in the two main characters, the Alpha dog Denny (Khris Lewin) and his Beta sidekick Joey (Kevin Rolston). They are two Chicago cops, friends since childhood, who vow to always have each other’s back. But it’s clear from the outset that trouble is brewing between them. Denny, who has always been in charge, is starting to take things too far in his pursuit of the local criminal who shot out his family’s front window. While Joey, who usually relinquishes control to accommodate his more dominant half is starting to question things. We know that it can’t continue like this for long before disaster eventually strikes. One must survive and the other fall. And so the stage is set for a battle between Denny’s old–school version of what it means to be a man and Joey’s new and still evolving model.

How will we know which man wins? Huff has made that very clear for us. The well being of Denny’s family will determine which approach best serves society. If Denny’s wife Connie is happy and their children are healthy then we will know the right type of man is calling the shots.  This is not the state of affairs at the beginning of the play. When we first drop into their world we see that Connie is suffering and their little boy is in the hospital battling for his life. The world is out of balance and the rain is relentlessly coming down, as one character puts it, “like a sign of the end days”.  Most of the trouble can be traced back to Denny’s increasingly extreme behavior.

Huff has loaded Denny with a plethora of disturbing male stereotypes. He is a hot-headed, racial epithet spouting, physically abusive and overly aggressive man. He cheats on his wife with prostitutes, drinks too much, and abuses women while ironically seeing himself as their savior. He also embraces a set of old world values about manhood. He bases his self worth on being the provider for his family. If he fails at this he fails at being a man. He won’t accept help either. He must do it himself. There’s no way he’d let his wife work. He attempts to solve his problems by physically forcing his will onto others and his wild-west individualism makes dealing with authority close to impossible.

These are methods that might have worked for Clint Eastwood’s rogue cop Harry Callahan, but we are living in different times now. Huff is making it very clear that such behavior doesn’t succeed in today’s world. It doesn’t get Denny promoted, it doesn’t get his son to the hospital in time, nor does it keep his family safe. Denny’s approach is nothing but destructive and self-defeating.  The days of the primal, Neanderthal man are long gone. His brand of masculinity is no longer needed for our survival.

Huff has taken all the undesirable qualities of this archaic definition of manhood, which we wish to evolve beyond, bundled them together and strapped them to the back of Denny, our sacrificial Goat. At the end of the play Denny realizes what we have known all along, that he is in fact the cause of all the misery around him, and that in order for the world to become right again, he must go. He leads himself to the sacrificial altar in the sacred temple of domesticity and in one grand act of selflessness, takes his own life, thereby freeing the world of his barbarism.

When the sacrifice has been made, a new day arrives. The rain stops and our 21st century man emerges to take Denny’s place. This new man, Joey, has evolved past his bigotry (through racial sensitivity training) has overcome his addictions (alcohol), and most importantly he understands that his strength comes, not from his physical dominance nor aggressiveness, but rather, as Joey himself says, his power, his spine comes from Connie. He acknowledges womankind as the true source of power and strength in his life. The world slips wonderfully back into balance once Joey has taken up his rightful place in the family. Connie is once again happy, their little son has fully recovered, and Joey finally gets his long sought after promotion. The transformation is complete, the battle is won, and a new world order is established.

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Experiencing the Artist’s Inspiration Part 2

Perhaps gestural abstract painting, as Still refers to his own work, is much closer to performance than other forms of painting. When we see his work we can imagine the motions of the process and we empathize with these imagined gestures and experience them ourselves, in effect re-experiencing the act of creation as if we were seeing it live, which then conveys to us the inner experience, or psychic state of the performer.

 I wonder how this idea applies to theatre. I think the equivalent of my experience with Still’s work would be when the audience is able to viscerally experience the creative state of the performer. Does this get us into the realm of seeing the artist as a medium conveying their heightened psychic state through performance? Or maybe I don’t need to go that far. Perhaps we always experience the theatre artist’s process because we are witnessing the act of creation each evening when they perform live. We commune with their process through the faculty of empathy. We empathize with the actions they perform because we experience the corresponding actions within our own brains as if we were doing the action ourselves. It’s a documented ability we possess because of the existence of “mirror neurons” in our brain. You can find a short video by Jeremy Rifkin discussing “mirror neurons” here at TED.com.

 But must the performer be having a “psychic” experience for there to be something to be conveyed to the audience, or can the performer just go through the motions, just do what the character does, just execute the moves and the audience will fill in the inner world and have the experience on behalf of the actor?

 Jumping back to the paintings of Still’s, I wonder if I was fooling myself then. Perhaps what I imagined to be his feelings as he painted were not at all what he actually felt when he made the piece. Did he even have true moments of inspiration or was it a mechanical process? Or perhaps it was an experience completely different from what I had imagined. It’s more likely that what I imagined was merely my own creation, my own psychic reaction to going through the imagined motions of the dance.  I should remember that I didn’t actually watch Stills paint, I imagined myself going through what I perceived to be his gestures. So the performance took place only in my mind. Like looking at footprints on the stage and imagining the dance that had left them.

 The point of this inquiry is to try to better understand what makes effective theatre, and specifically how the actor’s conscious state during performance is or isn’t experienced by the audience. Need the audience only imagine it as I did the work of Still? Must just enough clues be left to allow the audience to fill in the rest? Do I even go to the theatre to experience the creative inspiration of the actors?  Or does the performer’s inner psychic state make a difference? Can we pick up on in it, empathize with it, as we do the actions we can see? I happen to believe we can. Yet how that translates into a process that is adaptable to the wide range of theatrical styles and circumstances one encounters, is something I’m still working on.

 

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Experiencing the Artist’s Inspiration Part 1

I was in SFMOMA a few weeks ago, casually strolling through the rooms and spending some time in front of works that grabbed my attention. I tried to give each of them some time to work on me. Let myself take it in, see what I could see, feel what I could feel.

I came upon a room dedicated to a set of paintings by Clyfford Still. These were huge canvases with jagged edged fields of color layered on thick. I did my usual standing some 15 feet away in respectful observation. I wasn’t getting much out of it so I walked up close, really close, about a foot away. All I could see was the small area of canvas directly in front of me. And I realized, oh, I’m standing were the artist must have stood. As if I were compelled to experience the painting not from the vantage point of an “audience” but from the point of view of the artist when they were in the midst of creating the work. So I started to try and figure out how he painted it. Where on the canvas he had started, how the painting might have evolved. I imagined how he must have moved when applying the paint. But instead of making it an intellectual examination of the work, being the actor that I am, I put myself in Mr. Still’s shoes and tried to recreate for myself his dance with the canvass, the sensation of his process, the mental state that might have given rise to this expression. And the painting opened up to me. I was able to experience the work in way that I couldn’t even come close to when I stood back and tried to take it in as a whole.

I started wondering if for some works of art the final piece, the artifact left behind, which we encounter and interact with, is merely meant to be a clue or set of clues. Not a final destination but rather a map of the artistic process, which we must uncover and experience for ourselves. An argument could be made that this is true for all pieces. But I can imagine many paintings where I don’t concern myself with the method of applying the paint to the canvass but rather allow the visual image to impact me. So Still’s paintings communicated his “inner psychic state” by showing me his process, by leaving clues to his moments of inspiration, which I could then enter into.

 I wonder how this idea of experiencing the artist’s process applies to other forms of art, particularly theatre………..

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