Month: October 2022

Photo mine.

On July 18th, 2020, I sent a characteristically overwrought email to some of my dearest friends. This email would change my life. Of course, because of the pandemic, all of my theater related activities were put on hold or in the case of my spring musical, permanently cancelled. Oddly enough, one of my most significant projects sprung out of this aforementioned void,  caused by a sudden and very lonely influx in free time. 

 

I had recently discovered a play adaptation of one of my most rewatched comfort films, the endlessly quotable Clue. It had pulled me in from a young age with its surprisingly stacked cast, witty irreverence, and bouncy slapstick charm. It was a perfect melding of all my sensibilities, past and present, and when I first saw it, it only deepened my already intense love for murder mysteries. I was delighted by the simple elegance of its premise:

“Based on the… 1985 Paramount movie which was inspired by the classic Hasbro board game…The tale begins at a remote mansion, where six mysterious guests assemble for an unusual dinner party where murder and blackmail are on the menu. When their host turns up dead, they all become suspects. Led by Wadsworth – the butler, Miss Scarlett, Professor Plum, Mrs. White, Mr. Green, Mrs. Peacock and Colonel Mustard race to find the killer as the body count stacks up. Clue is the comedy whodunit that will leave both cult-fans and newcomers in stitches as they try to figure out…WHO did it, WHERE, and with WHAT!”

 

I was able to develop my dream cast in less than five minutes and was then fortunate enough to get them to agree. Given that I can’t resist a good cheesy pun and some light assonance and alliteration, I colloquially dubbed them The Clue Crew. Looking back on it in retrospect, I am keenly aware that I was spiritless during this time, and was seeking a way to interact with my buddies. I was subconsciously aware that major changes were happening in the lives of my companions and how hard it is to maintain friendships in times of transition. The performance, which I originally thought would be seen only by myself and my cast, was not only one of my most joyful experiences ever, it gave me a sense of purpose. 

 

I could not have imagined the scale of what would happen next. The virtual licensing rights were made available just a week after we finished shooting over Zoom, and what followed were hours of painstaking editing, publicizing, legal complications, and funding issues. However, our bonds were stronger, and against all odds, the curtain on my directorial debut rose on January 2nd, 2021. 

 

After months of false starts. It meant everything and more, my small pandemic-formed production company is now a legal entity and will hopefully be seeing many more curtain rises in the future, hoping to spread community joy, engagement, and continue to strengthen the ties of the family that we find and make along the way. 

 

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I would never say the words ”I hate theatre.”, even facetiously, though I relate to a character who speaks them perhaps more than any other, and the parallels between us are more than a little on-the-nose. The speaker is the narrator of the 2006 Broadway meta-musical The Drowsy Chaperone. The reason for this is quite simple and very sentimental. Theatre means too much to me.

I have been participating in theatre since I was 5 years old, and as a person who has been living with cerebral palsy since birth, uses a wheelchair for mobility, and also struggles with anxiety and mental health, the impact of theatre on my life cannot be overstated. Despite being anything but asocial and far from agoraphobic, I am sometimes, as Man in Chair puts it: “A little anxious for no particular reason, a little sad that I should feel anxious at this age, you know, a little self-conscious anxiety resulting in non-specific sadness: a state that I call “blue”. Like the Man in Chair, I also cope by listening to music, particularly cast recordings of beloved Broadway shows.

Theatre has given me opportunities that I would never have had without it. It has contributed to my social, intellectual, and emotional development, helped me to be more empathetic, enabled me to take on leadership roles, and develop skills that will be useful for the rest of my life. The bonds I have made in theatre are extremely important to me. It has been a refuge in good times and bad, and has allowed me to truly and fully embrace being my most authentic self, though it will never be easy. 

What I’m able to contribute in theatre doesn’t take away from my limitations and daily challenges. Theatre has inspired me to face these challenges head on, because it is where my contributions are at their most meaningful.

Theatre has more often than not been a warm, welcoming and inclusive space, but I have faced many challenges from outright refusal, casting discrimination, and helping individuals to understand the full impact of my disability, as well as how to find solutions. This can often feel lonely, overwhelming and exhausting.

Whenever I am feeling “blue”, or isolated like Man in Chair, I often think of The Drowsy Chaperone, and that by putting on the record of his favorite show, he is able to “go back” to 1928, and, therefore, the show comes to life before our very eyes. He puts it this way: “It does what a musical is supposed to do: it takes you to another world. And it gives you a little tune to carry within your head, you know? A little something to help you escape from the dreary horrors of the real world. A little something for when you’re feeling blue. You know?”

In every production of the Drowsy Chaperone I’ve ever seen, a moment that I would argue forms part of the emotional core of the show, always produces a thoughtful hush. During this scene, the Chaperone has a piece of dialogue which is obscured by the noise of one of the actors dropping a cane, making it unclear whether she is saying to “love” or “live” “while you can”. This huants Man in Chair, and has haunted me as well, but I think I’ve come to a conclusion. Based on the ultimately sincere tone of the show, I think she’s saying “love” but the Man’s cynicism prevents him from being sure. Either way, to truly love you must live and to truly live you must love, no matter the pain it may cause. 

However, the final moments have stuck with me the most. The flow of the record, and thus, the show has been ruined by a blackout, one note before it was supposed to end. Despite the power being on again, the Man is determined not to start it over, or pick up from where he left off. Instead, in desperation, he sings one of the show’s most important musical numbers, As We Stumble Along, which starts the show as a self aware gag about the absurdity of a Broadway diva singing an arousing anthem concerning alcoholism. It’s completely recontextualized, however, within Man in Chair’s situation and manage to become profound. The number perfectly captures the show’s themes of determinedly moving through life with joy and hope, regardless of your circumstances, and the cast acknowledges him and joins in singing the show’s final number. This moment means a lot, because it encapsulates exactly what theatre has been for me, in harmony, for moments of ephemeral beauty, moving an audience with some of the best friends and colleagues that I have ever known. Is there anything better to be found on this material plane? If there is, I have yet to discover it.

 

Representation matters.  Not only that, but the quality of the representation as well. “Today, people with disabilities are 34% more likely than the general population to feel there isn’t enough inclusion of their identity group in media, and more than half say the portrayals they see inaccurately represent their individual identity groups. For perspective, 26% of the U.S. population is living with disabilities.” I know that for me, such a percentage sometimes feels meaningless even if it is trying to add perspective. Put another way, a little more than one of every four people you know are living with some kind of disability. It is also worth noting that this study is recent, coming out in July 2022.

 

This issue is particularly salient as it applies to children’s media, because more than any other group, media influences the way in which children perceive the world, and people in it, especially minorities.  As a young child, although there were some notable exceptions, I do not remember many characters with a disability, where it was not their defining or perhaps only trait.  They would appear for an occasional “very special episode” or the occasional guest appearance, and then disappear as quickly as they had come, leaving me alone as my life continued.  

 

Naturally, therefore, I was thrilled when a family friend reached out to me, asking if I would like to be a consultant for a show called, “Alma’s Way.”  A co-production between Fred Rogers Productions and PBS Kids. The show follows a Puerto Rican girl from the Bronx, and is based on the life experiences of Sonia Manzano, known for playing Maria on Sesame Street.  The show follows six year old Alma, as she thinks her way through interpersonal conflicts, learning to be more empathetic, “while making mistakes and finding solutions along the way. “  Getting to provide input for a revolutionary character like Eddie, Alma’s older “primo-amigo,” was a joy.  

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Eddie has cerebral palsy, like me, although he uses crutches and braces for mobility, instead of a wheelchair.  I was able to watch clips, and provide input on what I felt was realistic based on experiences in my community.  The quality about Eddie that stuck out to me most, other than the representation of his disability and Afro-Latino heritage, is that Eddie was given a three-dimensional personality, with likes, dislikes and is a passionate musician, as well as somebody that Alma aspires to emulate.  He is given emotional conflicts with other characters and agency in his actions. 

 

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 Eddie felt more like me and other people I have known, than any other character in a children’s show ever had before.  Even if it is not in context to representation of a specific part of your identity, I’m sure we’ve all had a moment where we’ve connected with a fictional character on a deeper level than we’ve expected. Though his disability is explained and discussed frankly as important, it is never the sole focus or defining characteristic, and he is one of the main recurring characters.  I feel beyond grateful to have been a small part of this amazing project and to have had this opportunity. 

 Here is to even more characters like Eddie, who can represent the depth and breadth of their communities, while also being their own unique individuals, and may every child be able to see each and every part of their experiences represented in the shows that they love.  

 

 

 

Note: Gather round…. Wait, what should I even call you guys? oh, I got it, you’re my community. My plans for this week’s Passion Post were totally derailed by the fact that the long-awaited movie companion to Community was announced a mirror a few days ago, and will be premiering on Peacock in 2023, and this post is partially the result of that excitement. It also makes a nice companion to the Ted Lasso essay, unintentionally. It seems rather appropriate to be winging it today, as we will be talking about Joel McHale’s Jeff Winger. My senior year of high school, I related to him quite a lot.

 

 Initially, this puzzled me, despite the fact that the cult, (in all of the senses of that word) favorite sitcom Community is my favorite show of all time. (I mean, just listen to that theme song.)  I have occasionally related to the wisecracking ex-lawyer before, but this time felt different and more intense.   You know what they say, for everything there is a season.

 

The series follows 7 eccentric students, at the even more eccentric Greendale Community College, who initially come together to form a study group, and end up becoming something more.  

 

Although Community is an ensemble show, Jeff is clearly the main character of season one, because he is perhaps the most dysfunctional of all of the very dysfunctional characters within the series.  This makes him a little more complicated than any of the others that we have covered in this series thus far, but important nonetheless. A narcissistic former lawyer who faked his degree and is attending the college because he was caught, Jeff is charismatic, manipulative, and can convince almost anyone to do anything. One of his establishing moments in the pilot is a wonderful example of this, and yes, that is John Oliver as the neurotic Professor Duncan. Under all this bluster and bombast is a deeply emotionally insecure man yearning for love and connection. He softens around the edges due to  his fellow study group members and friends.

 

When my identification with Jeff in season six began, I wondered why Jeff, in particular, and not Abed, a film student who  uses references to pop culture to connect with people and to understand the world around him, or driven, high-strung academic Annie? It has to do with how I have learned to handle change.

 

Jeff returns to Greendale and reluctantly agrees to become a teacher.  Known for making  stirring speeches he says this in season 6, episode 11: “We self-destruct like this because we’d rather be heroes and villains than just kind of sucky people that need to work a lot at getting less sucky.,” further reinforcing  the idea that the characters are all just broken people attempting to help each other make it through.  Immediately after becoming a teacher in season 5, episode 1 he says: “Look, if you feel there’s more work to be done on yourselves, then as crappy as this place is, it’s a place  that you can do it.”  However, in season 6 episode 2,  he says this to Greendale’s wacky Dean:” I’m never going to get out of here, am I?” His response: “I haven’t met many that do.”  Jeff further progresses in his arc and  is at his most relatable to me  in season 6, episode 8 titled Intro to Recycled Cinema, when Abed begins to make a movie for Greendale and it doesn’t go Jeff’s way, the root of the problem is revealed as Jeff says this: “Every one of you is going to leave here except for me. So we force you to make the crappiest movie of all time, and then we force you to make it even crappier. We watch it and it’s still not even that bad. The part that I accidentally got the most excited about are the 7 minutes we can cut. Do you know what that means? I finally know in my heart, then I will literally be the last one of us here.” 

 

 This was immensely relatable to me, as somebody who’s closest friends are a year older,  I felt left behind and isolated my last year of high school, especially due to the pandemic.  After rewatching this episode, I finally realized why I related to Jeff so much. I guess you could say this episode about filmmaking gave me a new lens through which to look at my situation.

 

This arc reaches its conclusion, after Jeff learns that most of his friends are moving on from Greendale, and he is upset and says, ” I don’t want to be fine,” but he realizes he has to let them go.  This is one of the most significant things that Community has taught me, to embrace change, and you have to let people go, no matter how upsetting it is. 

 Greendale’s motto is, “You’re already accepted.”  Not only is this a humorous dig at the college’s lack of academic standards, it also underscores the series’s attitudes about people, accepting one another as they are, with all their flaws and virtues.  This motto has been a great comfort to me, and it has become one of mine as well.

We will be back to format next week, pending no earth shattering news about my favorite pieces of pop culture! If the news is this good, I’m not going to complain.

Huh, I just realized that if I had a nickel for every time I had an emotional realization about myself from the emotionally stunted and jokey main male character of a lighthearted American sitcom from the last 10 years, and blogged about it here, I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice in a row. Such is life, I guess.