It’s well into April, which means that the off-season is rapidly drawing to a close. In a few short weeks, I’ll be back at the museum, giving brewery tours and teaching people about history through theatre. I can tell we’re getting close, because a reptilian part of my brain is stirring.
“Hey,” it whispers. “Hey, you know what’s cool? Theories of theatre in education. Knowledge is power. Let’s learn some theories now. Let’s get ready to test them.”
Which explains the following stack of books:
And you know what? I love it. I know the season doesn’t start for a few weeks, but I love sitting in my garret, absorbing all of these theories. It reminds me of the year spent trying to get this drama program launched in the first place. Because the brewery is totally my supervillain lair, I spent hours on my barstool stomping terms and discourse and case studies and arguments into my brain.
It’s another side of my creative life. And what I’ve learned over the last few years is this: I’m not just keen on museum theatre because it’s theatre. I’m keen on it because it’s museum theatre. Shockingly, I like teaching in non-traditional settings. The particular challenge of museum theatre is that it has to be good history, it has to teach effectively, and it still has to work as a piece of art in itself.
Or, as I eventually summarized for myself:
- Sound pedagogy
- Responsible history
- Artistic merit
That’s a lot of points to hit. Sometimes it’s tricky to manage them all. But it’s precisely that paradox and challenge that keeps me engaged.
And I know, I know. My unabashed enthusiasm and general nerdiness about the whole thing leads to a lot of rolled eyes. Not everyone wants to hear about how the actor-teacher is really a hybrid role—or how Theatre in Education isn’t just “didactic theatre” or “education with tinsel,” it’s really an altogether different form of stagecraft—and Freeman Tilden’s Six Principles of Interpretation totally apply to museum theatre—and oh man, when you take evolving technologies into account, especially social media, the opportunities for what you can do just explode, and—
See? Rolled eyes.
But I think two things:
- This is an evolving art form. Who wouldn’t want to explore uncharted territory?
- It’s a way to genuinely reach people, to help them learn about history. I think that’s important.
I guess that’s another thing that fascinates me about museum theatre: the sense that it’s doing real, important work. It’s not just doing the same old, same old. It’s learning about what other people have done, synthesizing all that into theories, and then testing those theories over and over again. It’s developing new theories. It’s carving out a new spot in the scholarship.
That’s all well and good. It’s nice to feel like a trailblazer. But for me—the compulsive drive comes from why we do this. I see no reason why theatre and museums should be odd bedfellows. In the end, they seek to forge connections between people. They foster understanding; they encourage empathy. They ask you to step beyond yourself, to take on the role, perspectives, shoes of another. Done well, they offer multiple meanings, multiple voices, create a safe place for debate and conflict.
Done well, both museums and theatre remind us what it means to be human, and to share human experiences.
Naïveté? Maybe. Youthful idealism? Perhaps.
Nerdy? Of course.
But this is my other love. This is my passion, alongside writing about dark fairy tales and magic worlds and cannibal ice zombies. So I go back to my books, back to my theories and thoughts—and I wait for the audiences and the testing and the warm summer sun.
Excitement and joy and love. Sure, it may be nerdy, but you take these things where you can find them, don’t you? 😉
What I’m Listening to This Week
Apparently I wasn’t doing enough this year. A new novel is whispering to me. And I know it’s serious, because it has a theme song. All my novels have theme songs—all the ones that survive, anyway. Hapax had “I am the Day,” Heartstealer had “Mari’s Wedding,” and Sing to the Bones has “Lord of the Dance.”
This novel is too new and delicate to discuss much right now. Instead, here’s the song that’s driving it:
I am just back from a night seeing The Phantom of the Opera with my mother. Like many sensitive and creative angst-ridden teenagers, I went through an intense Phantom phase when I was fifteen. I’ve read the original 1910 novel by Gaston Leroux. I’ve seen every film version from Lon Chaney in 1925, to Phantom of the Paradise (1974), to the abysmal adaptation of the stage musical (2005). The stage musical itself…well, I won’t admit to how many times I’ve seen that. Mostly because I’ve lost count, so I can admit nothing! Ha ha!
Basically, I know my Phantom.
The version my mom and I saw tonight was a new production of the 1986 Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. Same music, same costumes; new set, new director. My opinions on this production could be an essay in itself. For now, suffice it to say that I wholeheartedly agreed with two decisions; liked 2-3 in principle, but wish they’d been better executed; and mostly disagreed with the rest.
It’s still a good show, though. Of course it is. It’s the musical equivalent of Grandma’s chicken soup. Grew up with it. Loved it for years. Not the most sophisticated thing, but it’s what I turn to. Though I prefer the 1986 staging on the whole, this production gave me a lot to think about.
Let’s start with the Phantom himself. When I was 15, the Phantom was the hero. No question. Sure, he murdered a few people along the way, but he was misunderstood. He was sensitive. To quote Gaston Leroux…
…with an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the entire empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to content himself with a cellar.
You see why the Phantom appealed to a creative-but-socially-anxious teenager.
Watching as a young adult, I’m more struck by the muse-artist relationship. Different actors give you different angles. Honestly, in this production, it was hard to tell which came first: the Phantom’s love for Christine, or his love for her voice. I think particularly of the few lines following the title song.
I have brought you
For one purpose and one alone
Since the moment I first heard you sing
I have needed you with me, to serve me, to sing
For my music…
They stood out more this time. Look – he’s not saying he fell in love with her at that first encounter. He’s saying that he heard that voice and said, “I need that.” Which begs the question – does he love Christine for her, or for what she can do for his art?
Here’s the thing: as artists, we’re constantly drinking in the world around us. Anything has the potential to inspire, to become art through us. This concept of muse is a sticky question, and yes, it’s one that makes me deeply uncomfortable. There is something wonderful about collaboration. There is something wonderful about someone who is very good at their art igniting in you the passion for your own.
Muses are different. If you’ve not read Christina Rossetti’s poem In the Artist’s Studio, take a break and do that now. So yeah, that’s part of it—that’s why, I suspect, Christine spent half of this performance looking like a deer in the headlights. She’s the Phantom’s idée fixe: she doesn’t get much of a chance to be Christine, a character in her own right. If they spent more time exploring her grief and father issues, that would help, but alas. Phantom fails the Bechdel Test hard. Some of that is source material, some of that is adaptation. But there’s something else, something the Phantom runs into…
You alone could make my song take flight,
It’s over now, the Music of the Night!
How sad is that? A brilliant composer—done. No more art. No more beauty. No more Music of the Night. It scares me. This notion of becoming so dependent on another person that in a sense, your art isn’t your own anymore. If everything you create is for them, to them, then really, it belongs to them. When they leave, you lose yourself.
It scares me because I can see how it might happen.
Teenage Me raged against the injustices wrought on the Phantom. He could have loved, and loved well, if only he’d been given the chance. But he wasn’t, and look at him now. It wasn’t fair. I felt his pain.
Adult Me smiles nervously. Yes, I can empathize—the creative figure behind the scenes, isolated by something that can’t be helped, something that is strange and different. I’m not a Christine: not in the spotlight, not terribly interested in it. I lurk in the basement, write the stuff, pull the strings.
But there’s a darkness and possessiveness to the Phantom. He’s better than Edward Cullen, but it’s a difference of degree rather than kind. Which is obviously problematic for multiple reasons, but we’re talking about art and muses. Muse relationships work best, I think, when there is some distance. You’re creating art partly to fill in that gap, but once you get too close, the art doesn’t work anymore, and neither does the relationship. It’s the Icarus Paradox.
So the Phantom tried to touch the sun. Should he be faulted for that? Not that, I don’t think. Murdering, yes. Threatening, yes. Blackmailing, stalking, keeping people against their will. None of that is good.
But reaching for just a little more? Falling in love?
I don’t think so. In the end, I still consider The Phantom of the Opera a tragedy. If Christine had felt the same; if he’d stuck to giving music lessons and writing avant-garde operas and learned to love her in an artistic, mentor-like way; if there’d been someone else; if, if, if…
For me, the saddest part of the musical comes just before the end of Act I. The Phantom emerges on the empty rooftop, after seeing Raoul and Christine’s makeout session.
“I gave you my music,” he whispers. “I made your song take wing.”
He gave the most important, deepest, and truest part of himself: his art. And she couldn’t—through no fault of Christine’s, it doesn’t work out. Sometimes life is like that.
It’s still awfully sad.
What I’m Listening to This Week
I just saw an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. Obviously, I’ll be singing it for days. Even the baritone parts. Especially the baritone parts.
I couldn’t pick between “The Phantom of the Opera” and “The Music of the Night,” so here they both are. This is the original London cast, with Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman. The 25th Anniversary cast runs a close second, but these two are still my favourites. Michael Crawford has the perfect voice for the Phantom: something just a little…different. And unlike Phantoms who simply stalk and shout, he actually shows us the Phantom’s whole emotional range: from grief to amused irony. Also, his high notes in “The Music of the Night”? Divine.
(Also, this version of “The Music of the Night” comes with an 80s-tastic music video!)
And Sarah Brightman…well, the role was written for her. Enough said.
Last night was the first time I got to hear scenes from East o’ the Sun and West o’ the Moon performed by the kids.
“Uh, so I’m a really late addition,” I told the ticket-takers. “I hope I have tickets? Katie Bryski?”
One rifled through envelopes. “Who’s your chorister?”
“Oh, um, I don’t…” I awkwardly pointed to the giant sign a few metres away. “I wrote that.”
Thank goodness I made it out in the end. My synthesized score gives some idea of the music, but really, it has nothing on the human voice.
The piano thrummed the opening chords. I heard Norbert’s winds, the beautiful, aching yearning that characterizes this opera. I clutched my companion’s hand as the kids took their collective breaths, opened their mouths…
Those were my words. Those were my words, brought to life right in front of me. I’d been joking all evening about feeling like this:
Except it wasn’t just me. That’s the beautiful thing about writing for theatre. It’s never just you. We made this. My collaborator, Norbert Palej, is a stunningly talented composer. From a gorgeous wind motif, to witty (and biting) musical jokes, to incredibly complex duets and trios, I hear something new every time I listen to it.
And the kids. Man, those kids. They did it. They nailed it. Sure, this was only a few excerpts—but they got it. With accompaniment, with Norbert’s music, with the kids’ voices…it actually sounded like a real opera. Because somehow, it wasn’t real yet before. Not when I was tapping out meters on my desk while eating Jamaican patties. My own words hit me in a totally different way than they ever have before.
I haven’t even seen staging, set, or costumes yet, and each of those things represents another talent. Plus there’s the direction. Plus there’s the chamber orchestra.
So many different aspects, so many different people putting their work and creativity. Theatre is greater than the sum of its parts—its magic comes from this synthesis. And for me, experiencing my words brought to life—whether through a straight play, a podcast, an opera—is a high unlike any other. Even…and I almost hesitate to say this…even a book launch, or seeing my stories in anthologies or magazines isn’t the same.
Theatre lives. Theatre breathes. Theatre does different things than printed words, unlocks and punches a different part of my brain.
Yes, I write novels and short stories. Those will likely comprise the bulk of my writing. But as long as that magic remains in the theatre, I suspect that I shall always write for the stage in some way. There’s so much strength, potency, and love in collaboration; how could I not?
Now to prepare myself for that opening night energy. Just under three weeks until premiere.
Cool Thing of the Week
Obviously, this bear. This is one of 100 polar bears made by the CCOC. He is the polar bear from East o’ the Sun and West o’ the Moon, and he’s wearing a t-shirt with the CCOC logo.
And he sings music from the opera. The kids recorded a short segment that plays when you squeeze his paw.
Let me say that again.
This bear freaking sings words that I wrote!
This is one of the coolest things I have ever seen. I’m still in shock, actually.
Oh man, oh man, oh man…