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Life is tough. It’s really tough when you’re a kid. So many things you can’t do. You want to get out, be yourself, do…well, whatever it is that you want to do. But you just can’t. And sometimes there’s that great longing for something or someone to help you pass the time. If you’re lucky, you’ve got a sibling to beat on; or maybe two. But if you’re an only child, what are you going to do? Well, one option that’s always open is to invent an imaginary friend. It’s rare that they don’t do what you like, and rarer still when they don’t have time for you, right? Well, not if you’re Lucy. Her imaginary friend, Mr. Marmalade, doesn’t have a whole lot of time. He’s busy. Very busy. So busy, in fact, that he’s an imaginary person who has to have an imaginary assistant to help him out.

This largely is the premise of the play by Noah Haidle. Oh, and then there’s the very seriously warped adult humor layered on top of the whole thing. For instance, kids like to play doctor. Lucy (Lauren B. Smith) likes to play doctor and we see her do so early on with the little brother (Larry–played by Tom Kondilas) of the baby-sitter’s foul-mouthed boyfriend. But when playing doctor Mr. Marmalade (Wes Shofner) likes to do things like…oh, have his prostate examined. (For those of you unfamiliar with this exam, it requires going through the backdoor, as it were.) But there’s much more. Mr. Marmalade carries a suit case filled with porn, dildos, and has some bad habits, including alcoholism, a cocaine addiction, and a proclivity for physically abusing his assistant. As you might imagine, Mr. Marmalade is quite a lot to deal with. Mr. Marmalade would be a lot to deal with for a 40-year-old, let alone a 4-year-old.

Lucy, though, is pretty good at handling Mr. Marmalade–at least during the five minute increments he actually attends her. When he’s not around, Lucy has some other things to deal with: her mother, Sookie (Lucy Bredeson-Smith) who works all day and goes out with a variety of men at night; and then there’s her over-sexed babysitter, Emily (Teresa McDonough) who only stops watching the television when her hard-ass boyfriend (Geoffrey Hoffman) stops by for a little sugar. Fortunately for Lucy, when the boyfriend stops by he brings along his little brother, as mentioned above, Larry. Larry has issues, too: for instance, he’s five years old and wants to kill himself. Pretty extreme for one so small, right? He doesn’t like to be touched either and is pretty stiff and reserved. But Lucy does a good job of breaking him out of this and soon they’re playing doctor like nobody’s business.

Time expands in Lucy’s imaginary realm and while the events (we discover at the end) all take place over the course of one night, the imaginary reality spreads them over days. Lucy and Larry sleep after their round of doctor and, when they wake, Lucy kicks Larry out. Mr. Marmalade’s assistant comes in, shocked by the infidelity he sees, he panics, and soon after we see the real Mr. Marmalade melt down in a fit of jealous rage. Lucy, though, is saved by Larry–who runs Mr. Marmalade off.

We then get to see the “relationship” between Lucy and Larry develop along predictable lines. The honeymoon ends quickly, then Larry is bringing home his buddies to eat dinner (without consulting “the wife” first), and then there’s that unwanted pregnancy. Soon, Larry is out on his ass and Mr. Marmalade is back in the picture. Sober, polite, and ‘saved,’ Mr. Marmalade is the picture of courtesy and romance–and more importantly–he is fully attentive to Lucy. But, alas, as with Larry, things just will not stay heavenly for good, and soon the romantic get-away to Mexico ends with a crying baby and Mr. Marmalade in a wife-beater swilling canned beer and swearing like a sailor.

In the end, Mr. Marmalade can’t take it, Lucy kills the baby, and Mr. Marmalade leaves.

Back in real time, Lucy’s mom, Sookie, comes home with Mr. Next-in-Line and the evening ends with Sookie pissed about the ketchup all over her neglige (which Lucy is wearing). But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel; the next day, as Sookie leaves for work, Larry comes over to ask Lucy if she’ll go outside and play dodge ball. After years inside sweltering with Mr. Marmalade and Lucy in their oppressive relationship the promise of playing ball outside is a glory indeed.

Mr. Marmalade is a pretty searing and terrible examination of the twisted relationships that adults often have. Of course, extreme light shines best to make the shading bearable for those of us who have twisted relationships that don’t quite go as far as Lucy’s with Mr. Marmalade, but the point ends up being the same. The petty demands, the squabbling, and the dis-satisfaction are all too familiar. The use of children as the play’s vehicle is, of course, darkly comic and adds to the fun and outrageous tone of the play, but it does wear thin after a while. The piece definitely requires the willful suspension of disbelief, but there are some nice highlights: for instance, when Larry brings home his boisterous friends (a flower and a cactus), they interrupt a dinner consisting of chocolate milk, cookies, and cheesy poofs. The whole dinner ends in a chaos of a food fight.

Arthur Grothe does a good job of directing the piece and keeping things moving. Lauren Smith is to be congratulated for the strong work she puts out there as the four-year-old Lucy. And Kondilas’ Larry is hilarious. The intensely romantic re-union scene between Marmalade and Lucy has the highlight of both Stuart and Geoffrey Hoffman greased-up, shiny, and slim as flamingo-dancing waiters prancing about. Sade Wolfkitten does a great job with the set and stage management and all the others do what they do best to make a convergence production what we’ve come to expect.

Recently, on the Neohiopal listserve, an article was circulating, which, I’m sure, has made its way around everywhere else as well. The article, by Mike Daisey, is about “How Theater Failed America.”

First, I thought I would comment on it just because the language, the passion, the intensity of the article was so powerful and convincing that I was just impressed…overcome by it. Then, of course, the diatribe against the failure of regional theatres to serve the artists in the theatres, a reality with which I’m not so familiar (in terms of personal investment and time) but am seeing now first hand has convinced me to throw my own two cents into the mix.

First, as I mentioned, there is the writing: “I abandoned the garage theaters and local arts scene and friends and colleagues—because I was a coward;” or “We survive because we’re nimble, we break rules, and when simple dumb luck happens upon us, we’re ready for it.” There is no hedging in this piece. There is no tip-toeing around the subject. Daisey is angry, and so brutal. Blunt. “Their [actor–Equity, no less] reward is years of being paid as close to nothing as possible in a career with no job security whatsoever, performing for overwhelmingly wealthy audiences whose rounding errors exceed the weekly pittance that trickles down to them.”

Ouch. This is a pissed off fellow. And after reading his article a few times, I agree: he should be.

I guess the reason that this article moved me so much has to do with where I’m at now: working with a young, small theatre driven by a visionary artistic director who flatly wishes to have two things: a successful theatre; a troupe of actors, technicians, and playwrights who can make a living doing what they love. This is what regional theatres were supposed to do. According to Daisey “The movement that gave birth to [the theatres in Seattle] tried to establish theaters around the country to house repertory companies of artists, giving them job security, an honorable wage, and health insurance. In return, the theaters would receive the continuity of their work year after year—the building blocks of community. The regional theater movement tried to create great work and make a vibrant American theater tradition flourish.” But, as Daisey continues, “That dream is dead. The theaters endure, but the repertory companies they stood for have been long disbanded. When regional theaters need artists today, they outsource: They ship the actors, designers, and directors in from New York and slam them together to make the show.”

In Cleveland, I know from general conversations that the above matches what was happening at the Cleveland Play House. Conversations among actors always turned to the fact that they had post-office boxes in New York to handle their resumes because they got a response from auditions that way–that is to say, they got no response as actors from Cleveland: despite a mission statement dedicated to “our community.” I think this is less true of Cleveland Public Theatre–which is truly the theatre of Cleveland. The Play House may as well be on another planet. But the facts that Daisey outlines remain, the theatres stand, but the people (who make the theatres work) are constantly changing–and not out of choice.

I am also more acutely aware of the problem as I am switching from an MBA program to an MNO program (Master of Nonprofit Organization). This educational emphasis places me directly in line with the practices of modern regional theatres: namely, the professionalization of things unrelated to the activities of theatre itself: that is, putting up plays by company actors. Perhaps Daisey’s article is just this, a bemoaning of the professionalization of how theatres are run. Afterall, virtually all organizations today have undergone something similar to this: colleges and universities can’t run in old models, they’ve had to hire marketing departments and development departments and masses of people dedicated solely to making the school succeed in the community financially and socially. The same is true of hospitals, sports organizations, museums, and other non-profits. But does this make it right? Daisey writes, “Not everyone lost out with the removal of artists from the premises. Arts administrators flourished as the increasingly complex corporate infrastructure grew.” And this is precisely what I have described, and what I fear about my own role in modern theatre is–that is, beyond the playwriting I hope to do.’

The biggest reason the artists were removed was because it was best for the institution. I often have to remind myself that “institution” is a nice word for “nonprofit corporation,” and the primary goal of any corporation is to grow. The best way to grow a nonprofit corporation is to raise money, use the money to market for more donors, and to build bigger and bigger buildings and fill them with more staff.

One of the more troubling things that Daisey brings up (as if the whole thing isn’t troubling enough to begin with) for playwrights is the following: “Literary departments have blossomed over the last few decades, despite massive declines in the production of new work.” It is almost an off-hand comment. But the implication for playwrights is this: more workshops, more staged readings, less real productions. Further, works like “On Golden Pond” find “revivals” at the Play House, while new, vital work relevant to our time and our psyche right now (by vital new playwrights) is left out. As Daisey drolly points out, “It’s not such a bad time to start a career in the theater, provided you don’t want to actually make any theater.”

Daisey’s cynicism hits rock bottom when he writes, “Better to invest in another “educational” youth program, mashing up Shakespeare until it is a thin, lifeless paste that any reasonable person would reject as disgusting, but garners more grant money.” For me, there is a big NO SHIT here. How many “educational” and “youth programs” do you see now? But really, who is to blame for this? The arts organizations or the funders? My bitterness on this subject is acute, as a relatively new technology award program for which my university program just applied was rejected in favor of dozens of awards for “educational” and “youth programs.” What a sham. It’s hard to tell nowadays whether the organization’s started the programs to make money or made money because of the programs; but I think the reality is the former. And where does the cycle end?

Every time a regional theater produces Nickel and Dimed, the play based on Barbara Ehrenreich’s book about the working poor in America, I keep hoping the irony will reach up and bitch-slap the staff members as they put actors, the working poor they’re directly responsible for creating, in an agitprop shuck-and-jive dance about that very problem. I keep hoping it will pierce their mantle of smug invulnerability and their specious whining about how television, iPods, Reagan, the NEA, short attention spans, the folly of youth, and a million other things have destroyed American theater.

The solutions are somewhat obvious, though not easy: if a regional theatre appeals to and raises a good portion of its budget from “grey hairs” and appeals to and raises the rest of its money from children, the overtly apparent question is “what happens to all the people in the middle?” After all, a bell curve is a bell curve for a reason: the middle is where it’s at, not the ends. Strange that theatres uniformally run against logic. But, as Daisey points out, moving toward this middle means several things, the most daunting of which is change. No more hobknobbing with wealthy white greys or controllable drooling puppet-lovers. Further, you’ll actually have to work and think about what you put up: no more standard musicals, or “on golden ponds,” or “midsummer night dreaming.” Now you’ll have to move toward interactivity, multimedia, content that is aggressive and that challenges the audience. Theatres will have to enter the uncomfortable realm of questioning their communities, their society, their culture–and not just leeching off it. You’ll have to ditch the old standards and take risks, something that artistic directors beholden to boards and ticket sales are afraid to do–after all, look what happens in modern sports. Two bad seasons and you’re done.

There are clear steps theaters could take. For example, they could radically reduce ticket prices across the board. Most regional theaters make less than half of their budget from ticket sales—they have the power to make all their tickets 15 or 20 dollars if they were willing to cut staff and transition through a tight season. It would not be easy, but it is absolutely possible. Of course, that would also require making theater less of a “luxury” item—which raises secret fears that the oldest, whitest, richest donors will stop supporting the theater once the uncouth lower classes with less money and manners start coming through the door. These people might even demand different kinds of plays, which would be annoying and troublesome. The current audience, while small and shrinking, demands almost nothing—they’re practically comatose, which makes them docile and easy to handle.

Better to revive another August Wilson play and claim to be speaking about race right now. Better to do whatever was off Broadway 18 months ago and pretend that it’s relevant to this community at this time. Better to talk and wish for change, but when the rubber hits the road, sit on your hands and think about the security of your office, the pleasure of a small, constant paycheck, the relief of being cared for if you get sick: the things you will lose if you stop working at this corporation.

So what does this mean? It means that you need to support what is new, what is original, what is alive: not the lumbering death that is the proscenium stage and tired old plays. Don’t settle for what the corporate theatres dish out for you–seek out what is new, what is alive, vital. Find theatres like convergence-continuum and support them. Hold on to them for dear life. For as Daisey writes:

Corporations make shitty theater. This is because theater, the ineffable part of the experience that comes in rare and random bursts, is not a commodity, and corporations suck at understanding the noncommodifiable. Corporations don’t understand theater. Only people, real people, understand theater. Audiences, technicians, actors, playwrights, costumers, designers—all of them give their time and energy to this thing for a reason, and that dream is not quantifiable on any spreadsheet.